Once again, Google unlocks a mystery of my childhood. I remembered seeing this weird-as-fuck Christmas special when I was a kid and after a little Googling, I found the title: The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus. I mainly remembered that creepy "IMMORTALITY, IMMORTALITY" chant that the immortal tribal whatever council continually intoned in that faux-Gregorian chant style, but Jesus Christ, read the fucking plot synopsis of this thing. This council of immortal tribal whatevers has to decide whether Santa Claus should die or be granted eternal life (WTF THIS IS A KIDS SHOW ENOUGH WITH THE EXISTENTIAL DILEMMAS KIERKEGAARD). In the course of explaining this, they show that Santa was initially an abandoned child (his parents murdered by Cossacks before his very eyes, no doubt) raised by a lioness and a fairy (why was Donald Wildmon asleep on the job here?). Santa Claus is motivated to become a giver of toys when one of the immortals shows him (AND THE TELEVISED AUDIENCE) all the miseries and hardship of the world. (Hey kids, people are dying all over the world! Why, your president is sanctioning bloodshed in Central America even as we speak! Little children your age only wish for a end to the unendurable suffering of their lives! Merry Christmas, and back after a word about Mattel's new GI Joe Battle Command Center!) And yes, this ends with a huge battle between the good and evil immortals in which SANTA KILLS HIS ENEMIES. (That explains why Santa's always dressed in red; his clothes were soaked with the blood of the massacred heathen horde. "Ho ho ho, kids, I've got a taste for blood now!") I think the good side won in the end, but the damage to countless childrens' psyches was already done well before that moment. (Also, another site about this special informs me that this thing featured a scene where two puppets make out. WHAT THE FUCK, RANKIN-BASS)

I realize that this is an adaptation of an L. Frank Baum novel, but I can only imagine that this project was spearheaded by some deeply depressed tv executive desperately trying to lash out at a world whose darkness and cruelty mocks and frustrates him. "I know," said the wasted shell of a man. "Let's make an animated Christmas special that spews venom into the sweet, syrupy face of Christmas cheer! A special that mocks everything people hold dear about the holiday season and exposes the sick, morbid core at the heart of our rituals! A special that will warp the fragile young minds of every young child who happens to view it!" And he succeeded. I don't think it's a coincidence that depression, SSRI prescriptions and gothic death fixations spiked exponentially among the youth of America after the broadcast of The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus. And even though the special has been banished to the far reaches of basic cable and 4:00 am UHF broadcasts, its horrific legacy continues to this very day. Thanks, Rankin-Bass. Yukon Cornelius weeps in bitter, stop-motion shame from his grave.

My ten favorite albums this year. (Please note that I'm not counting Brian Wilson's Smile, because it was essentially a 1967 album reconfigured and completed in 2004. But slot it in at #3 if this explanation isn't satisfactory.)

10. RJD2, Since We Last Spoke
In which an entire cutout bin's worth of decades-old musical effluvia is reconfigured into some wonderful musical utopia where stadium rawk, new wave pop, cop show theme music and hip-hop backbeats all coexist in perfect harmony.

9. Comets on Fire, Blue Cathedral
Comets on Fire distill the heavier-than-heavy riffage of early Black Sabbath and Blue Cheer, the free jazz stabs of the Stooges' Fun House and the screaming of early grunge pioneers like Mudhoney's Mark Arm into stoner rock par excellence. Ridiculously loud, overwrought, heavy and ass-kickin'.

8. American Music Club, Love Songs for Patriots
Mark Eitzel's best set of songs in eleven years was an unfortunately appropriate soundtrack to America's continued descent into theocratic fundamentalism.

7. Espers
One of the best of this year's wave of psychedelic folk albums, full of gorgeously entrancing harmonies and instrumentation and a hauntingly dark and lonesome edge.

6. Ghostface, The Pretty Toney Album
The officially released version was good enough, but program out the skits and plug in some of best of Ghostface's unclearable mixtape songs and you have one nonstop barrage of classic soul samples and Ghostface's inimitable, shove-six-minutes-of-rhymes-into-three cadence.

5. Oneida, Secret Wars
Oneida draws from the psychkrautgarage well without sounding chained to their influences, investing repetitive drones like "Caesar's Column" and the one-chord bashfest "The Winter Shaker" with hypnotic power. And the epic "Changes in the City" works over one riff to dizzying effect, subtly reshifting a simple theme for over 14 minutes.

4. Destroyer, Your Blues
This, on paper, should not work - a set of songs that sound like the score of a regional theatre musical, built sonically around the fakest synthesized orchestra imaginable and Dan Bejar's quavery nasal voice. But it's a sweepingly grand (and grandiose) work filled with insistently memorable songs and oddly moving performances.

3. Madvillain, Madvillainy
My favorite of the ultraprolific MF Doom's three releases in 2004 - Doom's offhanded brilliance combined with Madlib's endlessly flowing soul/jazz beats and the overall late night/low budget feel made for an endlessly addictive listen.

2. Animal Collective, Sung Tongs
At first, this sounds like a field recording of some back-to-nature hippie cult sect's tribal rituals. It takes a few listens before you realize how ingeniously the songs here are constructed and how insidiously catchy these songs are at their core. A perfect balance of insane inspiration and compositional strength.

1. Fiery Furnaces, Blueberry Boat
I have annoyed everyone I know this year with my unconditional love of this album, so here's one more rave before I let it go already. The mini-epics contained here throw out a dizzying array of melodic ideas spiraling on top of each other and delivered with the enthusiasm and lack of patience of a bunch of ADD-addled kids. There are more brilliant hooks, choruses and throwaway lines here than most bands or performers manage in their entire careers. And despite the rambling nature of these songs, they're brilliantly constructed with hardly a wasted minute or gesture in the entire set. Rock music is too full of bands with modest aspirations that actively eschew pretensions; the fact that the Fiery Furnaces set out to create a big classic album and actually succeeded is worthy of all the applause that a humble, little-read weblog can create.

Other albums I liked almost as much: Dizzee Rascal - Showtime, Mission of Burma - ONoffON, Panda Bear - Young Prayer, TV on the Radio - Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes, controller.controller - History EP.

A response to William Carlos Williams' "This Is Just To Say":

I put my
name on
those damn
plums

first my
ben and jerry's
now this
enough already

You're a doctor
for god's sake
stop mooching
my produce

Business law terminology that doubles as sexual innuendo:

- "2-for-1 stock split"
- "Joint tenancy"
- "Respondeat superior"
- "Issuing a dividend"
- "Attachment of the security interest"
- "Piercing the corporate veil"
- "Hardcore boning"

OK, let's try this again. New blog rules from this point forward:

- No personal guilt about updating this thing. If I come up with something, great. If not, whatevs.
- No filler entries to update for the sake of updating.
- MP3s only when I can find something rare/unique/weird that isn't covered by one of the eleventy billion MP3 blogs out there.
- No more boring meta-entries like this one that no one could possibly care about.
- No more lists of stupid personal resolutions I have no intention of keeping.

Blogger was down most of today, which is probably a good thing in my case as it spared the world another embittered liberal rantfest. (My 3,000 word essay, "The Voters of Missouri: Slackjawed Clinically Retarded Morons or Scabies-Riddled Pigfelching Degenerates?" will have to go unread.)

So, anyway, any of our overseas readers in need of a manservant? A poolboy? Someone to do errands and sleep in a corner of your storage closet? I'm not in a position to be picky here, people.

Special election eve MP3 - "Youth of America" by the Wipers. An appropriate soundtrack for America Chooses 2004: Dystopian Nightmare or Slightly More Promising Future.

OBLIGATORY ELECTION POST

I'm voting for Kerry. (Yes, this is the long awaited endorsement that will send that influential swing voter group, the "confused googlers," directly into the Kerry camp.) And I'm not just voting for Kerry because I hate Bush (although, god, do I hate Bush so very very much), but because I think he'll provide the combination of pragmatism and the ability to hire people not completely blinded by ideology and hubris. This will likely be a cleanup administration rather than an activist administration given the incredibly fucked up mess that is America 2004, and Kerry will at least be willing to address the problems that the Bush adminstration would rather ignore. And I'm pretty confident that he won't start unprovoked wars just to increase his popularity. I don't expect miracles from Kerry, just an end to the high-school-kids-hopped-up-on-tequila-crashing-Dad's-station-wagon style of governance of the past few years.

I had to break the posting hiatus to post something about the Jandek live show at Instal in Scotland earlier in October. (Yeah, I know this was a couple of weeks ago, and the blogosphere has moved on by now. The Vitamin B Glandular Show: closing barn doors after the horses have escaped for almost two years!) Hearing the news that Jandek played a live show (!) in Scotland (!!) produced one of those indescribably cool moments when everything you once thought you knew about the way the world works is instantly turned on its head. Once one of the most notoriously reclusive cultural figures ever broke his veil of anonymity for one unannounced show halfway across the globe, everything seemed possible.

But enough of the loner/recluse image, what about the actual quality of the show? It sounded much like Jandek's electric albums, but with a heavier guitar sound and a more forceful vocal style. (Jandek actually sounds like Nick Cave or a more nasally, drawling Tom Waits in spaces live.) The rhythm section (if it could be termed that) was content to lay in the background, punctuating with arrhythmic cymbal crashes and bass interjections at seemingly random times. One of the most riveting qualities of Jandek's music is its intensely private and solitary nature; at times it's like overhearing something you weren't intended to hear and soul bearing to the point of inspiring discomfort in the listener. To hear Jandek being taken out of hothouse isolation and into a live crowd situation is a weirdly moving and riveting listening experience. Once you get past that, however, the concert environment takes away one of the things that make Jandek so unique - the idiosyncratic, almost alien nature of the music. Jandek on record sounds at times like something otherworldly, like what a reticuli gray might play if you forcefed him Jimmie Rodgers and Skip James albums; Jandek live sounds like a weird avant-garde rock band playing mutant blues. But at least this debunks the Chusid-style presentation of Jandek as some detuned, mentally ill freak clanging away purposelessly on a detuned thrift store guitar - the man isn't just an idiot savant, he clearly has a musical vision to carry out.

Obviously, Jandek's not for everyone, or even many people, but it's the type of thing that will inspire cultlike devotion in a small amount of people. Jandek's performances and recorded works are more about spilling out raw emotion and conjuring an intensely concentrated mood of sadness, loneliness or anger; traditional songcraft or musicianship is neglected in the quest to create as undiluted a meditation as possible. And despite the fact that Jandek's image as the invisible unknown loner has now evaporated somewhat in the wake of this live performance, it doesn't dim the fascination with his work: there's resonance in Jandek's search for absolution that goes far beyond the outsider mystique.

This blog is on temporary hiatus while the author undergoes a one-third life crisis. I hope to resurrect this thing eventually for our devoted readership (OK, a handful of people googling for "paris hilton saddam video"), but for now it'll have to slide into dormancy while some shit gets straightened out. Thanks to anyone who took the time to read any of the 45, 018 words (wow, has it really been that many? only felt like 35,000 or so) I have spewed out into the ether in the past year and a half.

(SCENE: SHOT OF ACTOR WALKING THROUGH WAR-TORN, POVERTY-STRICKEN VILLAGE)
ACTOR: Hi, I'm Denzel Washington. Here in the poorest villages of southern Zambia, conditions are rough. Food is scarce, medicine is in short supply, and the basic living conditions are intolerable. For just a few pennies a day, you can make life better for a suffering child.

Not through food or supplies or education. That would cost thousands of dollars a year, and let's face it - one small charity advertising on late night TV isn't going to put a dent in the problems of a third world country. At New Hope Children's Fund, we're changing kids' lives one day at a time. For a simple donation of $50 a year, we'll throw a pizza party in the honor of one lucky boy or girl. Your donation will buy a young child a pepperoni pizza, a slice of cake for dessert, enough party favors and noisemakers for his or her entire family and memories that will last a lifetime. And we'll send you pictures commemorating your child's special day.

Just listen to this testamonial from young Antare:

VOICEOVER: "My village was destroyed by the ongoing guerrilla war. The water supply is tainted and we often go days without food. But thanks to New Hope, I had a really fun time at my pizza party. Everyone sang songs and played crazy party games. I never saw my little brother laugh so much! Although it's over now and the gnawing pains in my stomach are back again, I'll treasure the memories of that one special day for the rest of my life. Thank you, New Hope."

ACTOR: Support New Hope Children's Fund. We're doing what little we can to fight poverty. I mean, at least it's something, right?

The Dada answering machine: #2 in an (apparently continuing) series.

The new R.E.M. single "Leaving New York" makes me sad. This isn't intentionally created by the song, but by the realization that one of my favorite bands has completely lost its fastball for good. Not that I've expected much out of R.E.M. recently; it's been eight years now since their last good album and both Up and Reveal were largely dull with only a couple of redeeming moments ("Lotus," "Imitation of Life") scattered amongst the tasteful but uninspired proceedings. But the new single is so wan, so lifeless, so clumsy in it's straining for prettiness that it makes me cringe every time I hear it. It's a song that tries to conjure up an elegiac, sentimental feel with a big attempted chorus that's designed to soundtrack the emotional climax of a Hollywood date movie, but the whole thing (particularly the big clinching attempt-at-tearinducing chorus) completely fizzles out into nothing. Granted, R.E.M.'s in a tough creative corner right now: they can't go back and remake the classic albums they made 20 years ago, and any massive reinvention of their sound would seem like old guys awkwardly trying to be down with the kids. But is this bland Wonder Bread 'n Miracle Whip sandwich the best they can do? R.E.M. never really "rocked" to begin with, so you'd think that they might be one of the few major rock bands to survive the transition to middle age, but the strong melodicism and effortless beauty of their best works seems miles away at this point. (And in case you're wondering, yes, I am pretending that the Mandy Moore/Michael Stipe cover of "God Only Knows" isn't happening. Bad enough that I don't like their new stuff any more, I don't want to start retroactively disliking R.E.M. and Stipe for butchering one of the five greatest songs ever written.)

Well, ahem. There would be a new blog entry here, except a last second Google search showed that someone already beat me to the idea I had. So, uh, I'll have to improvise. Here, enjoy this tasteless, hackneyed joke instead, until I come up with something slightly more adequate:

(SCENE: A black and white exterior shot outside a factory. An old man is sobbing quietly as one of his employees attempts to console him.)

SCHINDLER: I could've done more! I could've saved more!

CLERK: Please, sir. You saved so many people's lives. History will always remember your sacrifice.

SCHINDLER: No, not that! I mean I could've saved more on my car insurance if I had just switched to GEICO sooner!

ANNOUNCER: GEICO. A 15 minute call could save you 15% or more on your car insurance.

I have returned. Let us cease with the formalities and the throngs of adulation from a grateful nation and get on with this: a list of some of my favorite moments in music. Leonard of Ludic Log fame did one and Nate of Hipster Detritus fame did one and now I'm blatantly stealing this great idea. I'm sure I'm forgetting hundreds of great moments that I will regret not mentioning after I post this, but this is a decent compendium of Great OMGTHAT'SFUCKINGAWESOME Music Moments I Have Known:

- The dual guitar run at the end of "Timorous Me" by Ted Leo and the Pharmacists.

- The "swing down, sweet chariot, stop and let me ride" outro of Parliament's "Mothership Connection (Star Child)."

- The way Charles Bissell's voice gradually changes from cocky self-assuredness to pleading desperation during the Wrens' "Surprise Honeycomb."

- The keyboard part on Destroyer's "An Actor's Revenge." Who knew that synth horns could be so moving?

- Damo Suzuki's incantation of "you just can't get that no more," rising from a whisper to a obsessively chanted scream, on Can's "Paperhouse."

- The groove of "Doing It to Death" by James Brown. Unstoppable - even the 10 minute version seems too short.

- When 60's garage bands filled with kids who barely knew how to play their instruments somehow stumbled onto one perfect riff, chord progression or beat that they could never again recapture. Examples: "Be Forewarned" by Macabre, "Voices Green and Purple" by the Bees, "Bad Girl" by the Zakary Thaks, "1523 Blair" by the Outcasts.

- Howlin' Wolf's voice.

- The way that Joe Pernice steals the lyrics from Bread's "Make It With You" for the chorus of the Scud Mountain Boys' "Grudge Fuck" and reframes them into the last desperate plea of a man who knows it's all over but can't yet face the end.

- The intro of "Gimme Shelter" - the guitars interlocking, Keith's string bending conjuring the turmoil under the bright facade of the late 60s, then Charlie's drums come in at the exact correct moment. Classic rock radio has not, could not, kill the power of this.

- "GUERILLA WAR STRUGGLE IS THE NEW ENTERTAINMENT"

- "Walk On By," Isaac Hayes, in its full 12 minute glory. That slinking fuzzed out acid guitar, those slowly creeping lonesome strings, the background singers pushing along Ike's pleading vocals during the chorus, all building to that gloriously-epic-yet-incredibly-funky breakdown at the end.

- "Vacuum Cleaner" by Tintern Abbey - the beautiful vocal harmonies, the e-bowed guitar solo, the fact that it is a plaintive and oddly moving song about helping your girlfriend clean the apartment after she fixes your needle.

- The part during "We Are Time" by the Pop Group where Mark Stewart yells "you, I, we are time" as the band completely drops out for a split second before the pulsing bassline returns to lead the rest of the band back in for the apocalyptic, crashing noise of the song's finale.

- The careening wreck of "O My Soul" by Big Star, a song that threatens to come unglued throughout, barely holding together through the weight of its own momentum. And Alex Chilton's clearly ill-fated call to "never you mind / so go on and have a good time."

- Janet Vogel's otherworldly tenor, turning the Skyliners' "Since I Don't Have You" and "This I Swear" from straightforward doo-wop love songs into something that taps into something hauntingly melancholy.

- The combination of Thom Bell's production and the Spinners' voices on "One of a Kind (Love Affair)" and "Could it Be I'm Falling in Love," two of the most effortlessly uplifting songs ever recorded. Hearing the Spinners' classic singles makes even an errand to the grocery store seem like an afternoon at the park with your best girl.

- "Sing Me Back Home" by Merle Haggard - a song that connects with everyone's desire for home so convincingly, it somehow even makes me nostalgic for my hometown.

- The part at 4:20 of Neu!'s "Negativland" where the old tempo stops abruptly and restarts at twice the speed, with Michael Rother's stun-gun guitar taking over the song. And the part at 8:01 where it happens again, but even faster.

- An abridged list of Fall moments: The "Human ra-ace-ah / Don't think, ask him" chorus of "Various Times," a bleak assessment of mankind that makes the rest of punk's nihilism seem like child's play in comparison. "The Classical," from the all-encompassing rant to the pummeling barrage of the bass-and-two-drums attack to the spittle-flecked conclusion where Mark E. declares "I've never felt better in my life" while interjecting cryptic curses. MES yelling "Shift!" to change from the first part to the second part of "The N.W.R.A." "Middle Mass," for the lurching main riff, the cymbal crashes at the end of every line, and "the Wehrmacht never got in here."

- El-P's production on Fantastic Damage and Cannibal Ox's The Cold Vein, a suffocatingly dense atmosphere from which no light can escape.

- John Cipollina's Hendrix-meets-Morricone guitar soloing during Quicksilver Messenger Service's "Calvary."

- The drumbeats punctuating the chorus of the Gap Band's "Early in the Morning."

- The Asheton-Alexander rhythm section throughout the Stooges' Fun House.

- Clint Conley yelling "I'm not judging you, I'm judging me!" at the end of "Academy Fight Song", with Peter Prescott slamming the cymbals on every syllable.

- The penultimate verse of Teenage Fanclub's "Alcoholiday" - "All I know is all I know / What I've done, I'll leave behind me / I don't want my soul to find me." Probably my favorite lyric ever - an existentialist statement of purpose set to an ascendant yet wistful melody and gorgeously languorous chords, capped off with a soaring guitar solo that defiantly stomps over the regret-laden reflectiveness of the first four minutes of the song as if to squash any notions that the narrator will keep on living in the past.

- Billie Holiday singing the line "crop" at the end of "Strange Fruit" with a mixture of pain and weary anger that sounds like 200 years of torture and oppression being released in one short phrase. Nothing else in music is remotely like it - the rawest, nakedest emotional display ever recorded.

I have a guest column in today's Ludic Log, a look back at one of the lesser known lights of the 1950s folk revival. Yes, I know A Mighty Wind was the definitive folk music comedy work, but join me as I try to wring a few more laffs out of a half-century-old cultural trend, won't you?

..aaand that's all for now. I'm taking the rest of the summer off from blogging to focus on work, the CPA exam and sleep (not necessarily in that order). See you in September, unless I lose you to a summer love.

(Note: This is an actual recording left on my answering machine. The only words I can make out are "machete" and "in my opinion." I am posting this because a. it's really fucking weird and b. to record this as State Exhibit A when I am hacked to death by a mumbling, machete-wielding assailant.)

After months of delays (and backstage turmoil that made Heart of Darkness look like Making the Video: Britney Spears' "Toxic"), the new issue of The High Hat is finally available.  Fine writing on culture abounds.

A notice to all shareholders of the Vitamin B Glandular Show:

There have been rumblings of discontent over the past several months regarding our corporate direction. Rumors of massive stock selloffs, corporate takeovers and (even, shockingly) changes in our managerial structure have set Wall Street ablaze, or at least caused a moderate but persistent inflammation. I would like to take this opportunity to dispel some of the negative impressions that you may have about this blog and assure you that the Vitamin B Glandular Show is the best sorta-humor, sorta-pop culture, mostly self-indulgent blog for your investment dollar. Our shareholders aren't just the suckers whose cash we grabbed at the first available opportunity, you're our family, and like any members of our family, it is important that we recognize your concerns in a way that validates your feelings without forcing us to make any actual changes in our behavior.

First, let me assure you that our financial picture is much rosier than those bastards in the Wall Street Journal continue to report. This graph would seem to indicate that we're worth more money than we were a while ago. (I'm not sure, but the arrow going up is good, right?) And those rumors about profits being diverted for a massive Tecate-fueled Cinco de Mayo celebration  have been overblown by a sensationalistic media. Rest assured that we are cooperating with the SEC and no wrongdoing has been proven in a court of law as of this message.

Secondly, we are sensitive to the needs of our client base. We've conducted extensive consumer research that will ensure that future entries appeal to a broader segment of our readership. (We've found that 97% of the visitors of this site located it via a search for "paris saddam video," so look for a noted increase in videos featuring hotel heiress skanks and/or deposed Middle Eastern dictators in the near future.) And for those of you who have complained about the template, you will be pleased to note that a committee has been formed that will effort to plan to recommend a potential change to the look of this site.

Finally, let me make my personal commitment to our shareholders that we will do our level best to make your investment worthwhile. Even though I have no idea how this Blogshares thing works, or how the hell my site landed on it in the first place, we are dedicated to making your investment a success. We are proactively creating a dynamic environment through streamlining, better efficiency and strategic enhancement to meet the changing, complex needs of today's market base. Also, paradigm.

My great-great-grandfather founded this blog with a few bricks, a container of Testor's airplane glue, and a dream. That dream was to exploit a minor internet trend for personal gain. And while we have failed miserably at this goal, we continue to carry forward with that same simple vision. The Vitamin B Glandular Show and you: a winning team for the 21st century!

The Vitamin B Glandular Show heartily endorses the following products:

- Anchorman. The funniest mainstream comedy since, I dunno, Office Space maybe? (The past four years of movie comedies have seemed like one long Wayans brothers movie to me.) I'm not even a huge Will Ferrell fan, but he has that self-important, self-loving dumb guy character down to a science at this point. And Steve Carell (the only reason I have any hope that the American version of The Office won't completely blow) more or less steals every scene.

- Patton Oswalt's new comedy album Feelin' Kinda Patton. A master at building long, clever riffs of spiraling ridiculousness. And if "Bend over, Abigail Mae, 'cause here comes the gravy pipe!" doesn't become our next national catchphrase, I lose what little hope I have left in this country.

- Crossballs on Comedy Central. Only three episodes have aired so far, but the trainwreck between the straight-faced incredulousness of the fake panelists and the unintentional comedy of the know-nothing self-appointed "experts" has been compelling to watch. It's not exactly news that TV debate shows are no more enlightening than VH1's "50 Hottest Rock Star Ex-Wives," but seeing just how willing these talking heads are willing to ignore basic intelligence and common sense to get face time on television is particularly illuminating.

- Blueberry Boat by the Fiery Furnaces. I may have bored people already with my raving about this, but it's finally out officially this week. More ideas in one song than most bands come up with in their entire career. A band that stripmines the past half-century of music yet comes up with something new sounding in the process. And in this diminished-expectations era of rock music, it's genuinely thrilling to see someone swing for the fences and make a bold statement like this one. Album of the year? Oh, yeah. Album of the decade? Just maybe, hoss. Just maybe.

In honor of July 4th, a retrospective on some of John Philip Sousa's lesser known works:

"Break Up That Union Meeting March"
"America: One Swell Place"
"Hurrah, For Only Three of My Children Died of the Dropsy!"
"The Memphis Press-Scimitar March"
"May I Take You to the St. Swithin's Day Barnyard Social, Emmy Lou?" (a rare, disastrous foray into romantic songwriting)
"The Industrialist: A Salute to Our White, Elderly, Bloated Ruling Overclass"
"Hail to Old North Dakota State University!"
"Stomp on a Spaniard's Face"
"Red, Green and Polka Dotted Yellow (The Eagle and the Flag Travel By Wireless)" (written during Sousa's famed "ether" period)

I don't normally do rants in this space. Unless you're very, very skilled at invective, they're generally boring to read, and as I get older I'm becoming less and less interested in strident hatred and somewhat more tolerant towards the billions of things that irritate me. (Admittedly, the Thorazine is also a contributing factor here.) But this noxious column by the awful Chicago Sun-Times columnist Jay Mariotti has forced me to flog one of my favorite hobby horses - the irritating tendency of sportswriters to set themselves up as the moral arbiters of the entire nation. I'm not sure what I loathe most about this piece. The insane overreaction to an unfortunate but common incident in places where alcohol is consumed, with as many shame-inducing adjectives as humanly possible? The statement that anyone who doesn't share the author's hysterical indignation is no worse than the people who physically beat up someone? The general argument that America is plunging into debauchery of Caligula's Rome or Studio 54 proportions because some loons hit a guy at a ballgame?

Mariotti is hardly the only one who does this. The noxious Rick Reilly has been filling the back page of Sports Illustrated with fingers points in a shaming fashion for almost two decades now. And Phil Mushnick of the New York Post manages three columns a week, each of which makes the argument that sports and the society that spawned them has found a deeper and deeper sewer to wallow in. (It should be noted that Mushnick has never mentioned the irony or hypocrisy implicit in writing this sort of column in the FUCKING NEW YORK FUCKING POST, nestled in between ads for Asian massage parlors and escort services.) In fact, scratch any sports columnist (with the notable exception of Ray Ratto of the San Francisco Chronicle, perhaps the only writer in the country who has some a realistic idea of how sports actually fits into society), and you'll find a budding Carry Nation who will never pass up the opportunity to earnestly wring their hands over the fact that athletes and fans are human beings and don't generally act like Wheaties box models every minute of their lives.

Why? I have a few theories. Most of these columnists are baby boomers and the boomer generation is in full jeremiad mode at this point. Combine the boomer generation's stranglehold on the media with the universal tendency to decry the way things are and long for a nonexistent age of past glories, and we'll be hearing this sort of doomsaying until the last one of them retires. And let's face it, everyone enjoys the sweet buzz of feeling morally superior to someone else, and they're just lucky enough to get a public forum to express theirs. But I suspect the main factor is that sportswriters have a hard time accepting or even embracing the reality that they essentially provide the same service as the guy who writes the Junior Jumble. They're providing entertainment, not information that's viewed as important or relevant, and most people will take them less seriously than general news reporters. So, what do you do with those feelings of inadequacy and jealousy? You turn on Barry Bonds, or a couple of guys who get into a fight at a ballpark, and hold them up as examples of a society gone hellishly wrong. Sports is a microcosm of society, after all! (Except that everyone's wealthy, receives massive amounts of public adulation, and has skills that are extremely rare and considered valuable by society. Otherwise, they're entirely comparable to us normal types.)

So, sportswriters of America, I have a simple request. Please stick to discussing trades and demanding that owners fire coaches. Hang out with the people who write the style page, who have a better idea of where they fit into the media spectrum. (Except for Lynn Johnston. I think I'd rather read 100 columns about what a bad guy Barry Bonds is than one "For Better or For Worse" strip.) Providing entertainment is a noble goal. Embrace your "irrelevance": serious news reporting is an overrated gig anyway. Just be thankful that you don't spend your waking hours at city hall meetings or rewriting the police blotter.

I haven't seen Fahrenheit 9/11, nor do I have plans to do so, since the only thing it would really accomplish would be to make me hate the Bush administration more. But, although I'm personally not much for Moore's polemical style, I'm glad the movie's out there and having an enormous amount of box office success. Although it seems to be largely preaching to the converted, if it converts even a very small handful of swing voters or convinces wavering anti-Bush voters that they must vote for Kerry, it will have done a world of good.

Generally speaking, the Moore-styled brand of criticism is the type of thing that liberals have to do to counteract the rise of the self-styled badass conservatism of talk radio and Fox News that has helped shift American discourse irretrievably rightward. It's clear that as distasteful as this style of communication may be to most left-type folks, it works a hell of a lot better than the liberal strategy does. The current brand of mass media discourse is but one of the many reasons why the left has been on the run in this country for the past 25 years or so: allowing conservatism define the debate, affix labels and generally steamroll over a genial, hapless left that still believes in creating political change with devices like protest marches and public radio panel discussions.

Political debates aren't won by the careful, logical consideration of the facts before the audience, especially with this electorate. They're won by appealing to and manipulating others' emotions and creating some sort of personal stake for the voter. Most people make political choices based on emotional reasons and then use intellectual reasons to justify them. Moore, for all his sins, realizes this, and stacks his documentaries accordingly, creating something that's far more likely to resonate with people than a dry but thorough recitation of the facts. (This leads to the much-documented factual distortions of his prior works, although the fact that Fahrenheit 9/11 hasn't been slammed for this is a rather damning indictment of just how dubious the Bush administration's case in Iraq was in the first place.) Fahrenheit 9/11 probably won't win the election for John Kerry, and it should be regarded as the first blow in a liberal assault on the media rather than the final and decisive shot. But even if it won't shift the national debate, at least it's crammed a phonebook under one of the legs of the crooked coffee table, and that's an important first start.

In honor of Bloomsday, here's a link to a Ulysses parody of sorts featured on this blog many moons ago. In 2004, of course, the use of hax0r lingo is a hackneyed and trite comedic device, so please pretend that you haven't read a million other dopes do the same stupid joke. And as for the other installments in the Culture for Internet Subcultures series, please watch this space in the years and decades to come for the furry version of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights and the slash fiction version of Sinclair Lewis' Main Street.

This is my obligatory weekly post to make sure that this blog doesn't go completely dormant. There should be new content here this week, assuming I decide to finish the pieces I've started instead of watching the new, totally kick-ass SCTV DVD set. In the meantime, muffins!



Delicious, oven-fresh muffins! Who doesn't enjoy them? Why not have one today?

Yeah, so. I haven't been updating ye old blog recently, partly because a. I may be involved in an exciting new blog project soon that will change the focus of this page somewhat and b. I have a tendency to gradually ignore any commitments I make to myself. That said, I promise to make a commitment to effort to try to write for this thing on a regular basis. In the meantime, here are a couple of random music thoughts that will fill some space on this page.

- I heard "Summertime, Summertime" by the Jamies on an oldies station over Memorial Day. Has anyone else noticed just how creepy and unsettling that song really is? Despite the surface catchiness, everything about it seems off in a weird way - the just-slightly-of-tune harmonies, the oddly joyless sounding singer (who sounds like she's desperately trying to convince herself just how fun summer is really going to be and failing), the sparse and distantly recorded backing instrumentation and an overall hollow and airless feel from a song that's supposed to be an anthem for the kids who catch junebugs and wrassle down by the old swimmin' hole. I can't believe that David Lynch never used it in one of his 80s era weirdness-in-suburbia flicks - it has that same aura of barely contained turmoil underneath a shiny, happy veneer.

- The hot rumor on the interweb music nerd circuit is that the original lineup of the Gang of Four will reunite soon. As much as I love the Go4's first two albums, and as impressive as all of the post-punk reunions from Wire to Mission of Burma have turned out thus far, I'm kind of nervous about this one. Of all the great post-punk bands, the Gang of Four's music always struck me as the most identifiable to a specific age - i.e., it's one thing to be quoting Marxist philosophy against sputtering noise-funk while in your twenties, but if you're still doing it in your forties and fifties, it's probably time to stop hanging out at the coffee shop and get out of grad school. Most of the great Gang of Four songs were spitballs fired by young men against a social order gone awry; by middle age, these observations don't seem so novel, and you've either chosen resigned acceptance or unrelenting bitterness. I can't see them working again outside of their original context. Besides, the Gang of Four's output post-Solid Gold was widely uneven and suggests that they're less likely to put together a great comeback effort like onOFFon or Read and Burn. That said, of course I'll shell out the money to see them live if they're actually reuniting, because (choose one) a. I'm probably completely wrong b. they're still responsible for some of the best albums ever c. I am extremely gullible.

And now, a summary of my week, in free verse:

wake up
go to work
drive 1 0 0 feetthenstopandslamonbrakes
throw numbers
into
the
technocratichypocriticprotofascist well
that is my laptop
phone call for information
goddamn you, voice mail
lunch break
quiet desperation?
but this sandwich is so good
no
escape
but, like I said, it was a pretty good sandwich
finally leave for home
all part of the
glorioussadhappybroken
suburban struggle
eat again
in front of glowing telebox
before i must start again
assuage my pain
rerun of "Cheers"

According to Blogger's new profile dealie (see the side for the link), I have written 39,222 words in this thing since I started in February 2003. That's roughly 160 pages, or a short novel full of things that are of interest to me and only me.

Unfortunately, I still trail many of the novels whose word counts are listed here. But did David Copperfield have a ton of stupid pop culture references, or did Charlotte Bronte ever write about Jandek? I think not. So I'm making it my goal to keep on pumping out the entries until I overtake Gulliver's Travels around 2007 or so. Let me warn you, Robert Louis Stephenson: in early 2005, you will be my bitch.

I saw Mission of Burma last night at the 9:30 Club in DC. I will try to refrain from too much gushing during this recap, but it will be difficult - it was definitely the best show I've ever attended and an incredible evening that even exceeded the high expectations I had beforehand.

The first opening act was The Hiss. If you've ever wondered to yourself, "Would the Strokes be better if they had a lead singer who sounded like the frontman of a third string arena rock group from the 70s and a drummer who overplayed and inserted the same extraneous fills into every song?" the answer is no, no they wouldn't.

The Fiery Furnaces came out next. I already liked them on the strength of last year's Gallowsbird's Bark and their upcoming album Blueberry Boat (the best album I've heard yet this year, by far), but this set gave me a whole new appreciation for them. I had read that they tended to play much faster live than on the albums, but I wasn't prepared for the all-out intensity of their set - all of the arrangements were at least twice as fast (the "I'm Gonna Run/Leaky Tunnel" section sounded like a hardcore punk cover), while Eleanor Friedberger spat out the words to each song with feverish intensity. They played for roughly 45 minutes solid without stopping for space (or breath), incorporating about 15 songs in what was essentially a long medley of their catalog to date. Even the drummer (who looked suspiciously like a young David Lee Roth) breaking a snare couldn't slow them down. It says something about the strength of the Friedbergers' songwriting that the set was just as enjoyable as their albums even with the massive restructuring of the arrangements. And judging from the genuinely exuberant reception they received at the end and wowed reactions of the people around me, they made a lot of new converts last night.

Finally, what we all came for. What more can I say about the greatness of Mission of Burma? The band was in incredible form - just as tight live as on record, and Roger Miller's explosive yet carefully controlled guitar chaos was particularly inspired during the show. The songs from their new album onOFFon were integrated into the playlist well, "The Setup" and "The Enthusiast" were particular highlights of the show. But, let's face it - most of us were there because their classic albums Signals, Calls and Marches and Vs. blew the tops of our heads open and we wanted to hear those songs live. The benefit of Mission of Burma's 20 year hiatus was that they haven't gotten sick of playing the standards - they sounded spirited on every one they tackled, and the enthusiasm of Miller and Clint Conley was infectious. There's something that's still awe-inspiring about seeing a great performance of one of your favorite songs performed live by the original band, and I had that feeling at least six or seven times during the course of the evening. (The only downside was that they didn't do "Einstein's Day," which is probably my favorite Burma song and one of my favorite songs by anyone ever. But they played everything else I needed to hear and a killer cover of the Wipers' "Youth of America" to boot.) Even the usually reserved DC crowds were hopping up and down and chanting along to "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate" and "Academy Fight Song." All in all, a great experience. I'm not sure how many bands could've taken a 20 year break and then come back and match their old form, but Mission of Burma have managed to pull it off.

Short CD reviews are a semi-regular feature on this blog. However, I haven't been paying much attention to new music this year and I'm very lazy. So I've asked Today Show movie critic Gene Shalit to contribute a guest column of music reviews. (Please note: Mr. Shalit was awakened from an afternoon nap to write this column, plus he hasn't liked a new album since REO Speedwagon's You Can Tune a Piano, But You Can't Tuna Fish back in 1978, so please excuse any crankiness.)

Kanye West - The College Dropout
Kanye? The answer, after listening to this album: he kant. The title of his debut may be The College Dropout, but I doubt that even a vocational school would take this clown after releasing this report-card-with-4-Fs-and-a-D of an album. West's career is headed south, so dropout this CD from your stereo and put on something better.

Franz Ferdinand
Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination helped set World War I into motion, and we can only hope the same fate befalls these Scottish snots. Even four years of global bloodshed would be worth it just to never hear another note from these haggis-chomping hipsters. Glasgow away before I have the whole lot of you kilt.

The Magnetic Fields - i
i hated this tuneless pile of crap. The Magnetic Fields are the polar opposites of quality music, and I am positive that you'll be negative after hearing this CD. And the vocals! There is no Merritt in Stephin's endless droning. Hopefully someone will be killing Fields in the near future so we never have to suffer through another one of these albums.

The Streets - A Grand Don't Come For Free
A grand may not come for free, but even if you get this CD for free, you'll feel like you overpaid. Mike Skinner should be skinned alive for making this grand sham of an album. Even Principal Skinner has better lyrical flow than this Cockney cockhead. The US Air Force should be called in to bomb these Streets to oblivion like the streets of Tikrit.

Yeah. Well. I'm currently in the throes of another debiliating case of writers' block. So while the half-finished blog and online web magazine pieces taunt me in my Recent Documents folder, let's stall for time by listening to another MP3, shall we? This is "I Lost My Dog" by the Fiery Furnaces from their upcoming album Blueberry Boat. The album mostly consists of longish (seven to ten minutes) pop-psych-English music hall pastiche mini-epics, but this is a short, jaunty old-fashioned pop song that's reminiscent of their debut album. Charming, clever and oddly catchy. And please don't miss the surprise ending, with a groaningly awful pun that serves as the song's punchline.

More later this week. Really. Probably.

MP3 - "War Dance" by the inimitable Jandek. Some critical pieces about Jandek might give the impression that his music is nothing but formless, completely unschooled plonking recorded onto a cheap tape recorder. OK, there's that side of Jandek, but this song in particular shows that the guy (whoever he may be) has an idea of what he's doing. The simple tribal/blues riff (which is repetitive without actually repeating the exact same notes) underneath is driving and ominous, while the angular guitar lines throughout jab and dart into strange neighborhoods - part surf/spy instrumental, part free jazz (of a much less skilled variety, granted). But Jandek hasn't forgotten his roots - the vocals are completely tuneless in that trademark half-spoken, half-yelled-and-moaned style.

You've marveled at the revelatory brilliance of The Grey Album. You've been awed by the striking recreations of The Double Black Album. You've sadly shook your head over the mere existence of The Slack Album. But these are just some of the many mashups featuring Jay-Z's The Black Album that have been created by today's groundbreaking copyright violators. Here are some of the lesser known versions:

The None More Black Album - Jay-Z + Spinal Tap. "99 Problems" has never sounded better than when backed by the riff from "Sex Farm."

The Michael Ian Black Album - Jay-Z + Michael Ian Black's comments from I Love the 80s. Don't miss "What More Can I Say (About Wacky Wallwalkers)."

The Brecht Album - Jay-Z + German cabaret. Coming soon - 50 Cent Opera.

The Blecch! Album - Jay-Z + those old novelty records Mad Magazine released in the mid-60s.

The I Want My Baby Black, Baby Black, Baby Black Album - Jay-Z + the Chili's baby back ribs jingle.

The Black-ack-ack-ack Album - every song on The Black Album crossed with "Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)" by Billy Joel.

I saw the Fall last night at the Black Cat in DC. I may be risking my credibility as a Fall-geek here, but I was a little underwhelmed with the show. This version of the Fall is a competent, professional group, but they lack that certain spark that Craig Scanlon and Brix Smith gave to prior incarnations. Live, you could strip away Mark E. Smith's vocals and they wouldn't sound much different from any number of the post-punk revivalists who have copped from the Fall. And MES was oddly subdued last night, although that could be partly explained by the godawful sound system at the Black Cat (which pushed his vocals way too low in the mix and muddied the sound to the point where you couldn't make out much of the lyrics) and partly due to his recovery from a broken leg. (Mark E. was stationed behind a desk all night, which actually enhanced his oddly compelling not-really-pleased-to-be-there stage presence.)

A lot of people I know who've listened to the Fall and not liked them have registered the same complaint: "every song sounds the same." I don't get that sense at all from listening to the albums, but I could see their point if you judged them solely on last night's show. With a few exceptions, everything was stuck in the same plodding mid-tempo groove without the dynamics that are usually present on their albums. Nevertheless, there were highlights: the version of "Middle Mass" turned the main riff into insane calliope music, "Mountain Energei" actually outdid the album version with a relentless drum-led attack, "Mere Pseud Mag. Ed." was pounded out ferociously at a level comparable (if not superior) to the original, and "Theme from Sparta F.C." worked perfectly as a barroom chantalong. But overall, it was a decent but unspectacular and uninspiring outing.

Ah, well. No one ever said being a Fall fan was easy. And it could've been a lot worse.

I'm currently suffering from post-tax season burnout, the bane of the accounting professional. Updates to this here thing will gradually return to semi-regular over the next few weeks. (Promise or threat, etc.) In the meantime, a few quick things:

- I realize spam found humor is getting played out, but:
Subject: wellbutrin reduces cocaine craving and is much cheaper!
A drug that reduces the craving for cocaine? What an wondrous age we live in.

- "Everything's Tuesday" by the Chairmen of the Board. My parents had Best of Buddah Records on 8-track, so Holland-Dozier-Holland style pop-soul was part of the soundtrack of my earliest years (along with Waylon Jennings' Greatest Hits - I haven't heard either in years, but I can still remember most of the songs note-for-note). This song encapsulates everything I like about the style - a subtly on-the-mark rhythm section, breezily buoyant strings and a vocal chorus that establishes permanent residence in your head.

- Dear whoever is designing the modern suburban office park: Is it your intention to create the most depressingly uniform and bleak landscapes possible? I know you're probably bitter about getting passed over for the downtown highrise project, so you're just halfassing it and inflicting some of your own turmoil on the rest of us, but seriously - windows? Colors besides that drab slightly-lighter-than-brick-red that every office complex I see uses? Building designs that aren't so damn blocky and square? I'm not a big visual aesthete or anything, I'm just looking for something that doesn't exacerbate my light-deprivation-caused irritability. Most suburban commercial zones are only slightly more cheerful looking than East Berlin circa 1977 or so. So let's vary things up a little. Also - windows. Thanks.

I'd just like to point out the two ads that are currently at the top of my blog (at least, the last time I loaded it):

RE-ELECT PRESIDENT BUSH?
GAS MASKS: $11.95 NEW

That's some uncannily well-designed marketing right there.

Opening Day tomorrow. (I realize that there have already been official games played, but I don't consider the Japanese series to be the real live Opening Day. But call tomorrow Opening Day (Observed) if you're a real stickler about this.) One of my favorite days of the year. Now I can start enjoying the White Sox' two months of pseudo-competiveness before they inevitably fall out of contention, poring over EQA and DIPS and support-neutral win-loss records (the real reason mathematics was invented) and planning another season of fantasy baseball glory.

I promise not to pull any George Will-ian rhetorical stunts here; enough has been vomited out about the lyrical qualities of baseball and the sport as a metaphor for life and a reflection of America and bleepblop. I love baseball, but people who have to invent some sort of deeper meaning for watching a game should really work on becoming more secure in their own tastes and interests. On the other hand, the people who always complain about "grown men playing a kids' game" are even more fucking annoying. C'mon, everyone, join us in the overflowing kiddie pool that is cultural relativism. Baseball is what it is - an entertaining way to kill a few hours, a fine meshing of strategy and physical force and a sport that lends itself to geeky obsession through the ability to document every single action through a series of statistics. And for me, Opening Day also serves as a celebration of the end of winter (which, of course, sucks) and a brief renewal of hope until the inevitable season-crushing disappointments of summer. So hurray for baseball, except for the Cubs (who are overrated this year, by the way, and will surely disappoint) and the Yankees.

MP3 - "F-Oldin' Money" by Tommy Blake. A bit of rockabilly weirdness from 1959, with the key line in the chorus delivered through what I believe to be an empty can of LeSueur peas. And check out the incomprehensible muttering at the end. This was later covered by The Fall on the OK-but-not-great The Marshall Suite album.

I'm callin' you out, Charlie Kaufman. Your screenplay of the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind may be critically acclaimed and beloved by audiences, but it bears disturbing similarities to my as-yet-unfilmed script also centering around the concept of removing memories from the brain.

OK, I'll admit there are a few superficial differences. My script is entitled The Head Eraser Caper and features a wacky, nerdy mad scientist (to be played by either the Urkel kid or Eddie Deezen, based on availability) who invents a device that erases the memories of lovely, buxom young lasses. Our hero (hopefully Corey Haim, if we can get him out of rehab in time) uses the device to score with all the women who had once responded to his advances with a knee in the groin. But an evil company steals the gadget and uses it as part of a plan to take over the world by creating an army of remorseless (yet very hot) babes who kill with impunity while wearing sheer nightgowns. Our heroes thwart the plan (I won't disclose how - I'll just say it involves a sack race and the world's largest supply of chili) and become international idols.

See, it's the same idea, essentially. All right, maybe your film didn't have a pie throwing scene or the third act where the entire cast went to Tijuana to lose their virginities to some Mexican prostitutes. But besides that, I call shenanigans. And since you're one of the few people in Hollywood whose ass I'm reasonably sure I could kick, you'd best watch your back.

Hey, kids! Ever wanted to defend the Bush administration in the national media, but just can't memorize the script or keep up to date on the latest talking points? Help is on the way! Introducing the Karl Rove Phrase-o-Matic! Just select the correct phrase based on the appropriate line of rhetoric the Bush administration is using today, and voila! You'll be misdirecting reporters just like Scott McClellan in no time! Here's just a sample using this week's enemy of the state, former terrorism advisor Richard Clarke:

Richard Clarke is a(n) (embittered failed former bureaucrat/lifelong partisan Democrat/opportunistic shill looking to sell a book). Besides, he (wasn't even in the loop/was in the loop, but no one listened to his advice/advocated failed policies of the Clinton administration). Clarke's criticism on our policy to focus on Iraq after 9/11 is dubious because (terrorists, or countries that terrorists may have lived in, or visited at one time, must be dealt with by force/we were getting to al-Qaeda eventually, just wait until the second term//how dare you question the war? You America-hating, Saddam-hugging appeaser!) Our problem with terrorism isn't due to our pre-9/11 policy, it's the fault of the Clinton administration for (not singlehandedly wiping out al-Qaeda/not invading Iraq/getting a blowjob! Remember how awful that was? He disgraced the White House!) Did we mention that Richard Clarke (was obsessed with the threat of computer viruses/worked for a Democrat for a while/picked up prostitutes in Thailand one time)? It is time that the American people ignore the cheap shots taken by this (opportunist/partisan/unpatriotic dissenter) and focus on the real issues of this campaign, such as (how rugged and manly our President looks in a flight suit/not letting homos get married/John Kerry's botox treatments).

MP3 - "Lovin' in the Red" by the Theoretical Girls. Although this song was written in the late 1970s, the lyrics eerily predict the rise of eHarmony.com. It's too bad that Jeffrey Lohn fell off the face of the earth after the Theoretical Girls broke up; not only was he a talented writer of odd, barbed pop songs, but his ability to predict social trends in songs like this and "Computer Dating" would make Faith Popcorn blush (if she hadn't undergone that new surgery that prevents blushing, that is).

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "I recognize that guy, but I can't quite place where I've seen him." Maybe this'll jog your memory: "Lauren, I am honored to be the one out of thirty contestants chosen to join you in sacred matrimony." Yeah, that's right. I was the guy who won the Million Dollar Marriage reality show last June. Well, obviously, things didn't turn out "happily ever after" like the commercials promised. We've been separated for three months, the divorce'll be final next month. Our agent pitched the divorce proceedings to the networks, but no such luck. So, I'm just looking for work, trying to make it back into the big leagues.

Oh, y'know, it was pretty exciting at first. We hit the talk show circuit, did the mall-and-supermarket tour of middle America, wrote the book "Eighty Ways to a Successful Instant Televised Marriage..." Man, we were riding high. We were American Idol quarterfinalist-famous. People respected us. And then the new reality shows came on the air, and all of a sudden we were yesterday's news. That fuckin' midget, I swear to God I'll kick him in the shins if I ever meet him and if I can find them. And once the fame wore off, the reality settled in that I was married to a complete stranger who I had nothing in common with besides a shared love of fame. Yeah, you think it's "ironic," huh? I have another word for it - living torture.

The money? Hell, we blew through the money in a month's time. Bought this house in Hollywood that was once owned by David Ogden Stiers, a fleet of Aston Martins (one for each bastard I beat out to win the contest), and as many chemical skin peels as the human body is allowed. We had everything dipped in gold - trash cans, pencils, bars of soap - just because we could. Our stuff will be up for sale at the bankruptcy auction, if you're interested.

Sure, I've got regrets. Wish I had hit on a few more models at those Hollywood parties. Sure wish I hadn't invested in that line of reality-themed pizza parlors with Kelly Clarkson and the guy from the European Joe Millionaire. But I'd do it all over again if I had to. I've got an audition for a Lay's potato chip commercial next week - you think I would've gotten that if I was still working in the insurance racket? Yeah, it's only a radio voiceover spot, but it's a start. And if I can just hold on a few more years, that retro-2000s wave is gonna crest up and sweep me right back into the public eye. VH-1 spots, infomercials for 00s hits CDs and "The Atkins Diet is Back," a whole line of t-shirt decals and sew-on patches for the hip crowd...I've got it all planned out, man.

Oh, by the way, could you do me a favor and pick up the tab for this round? C'mon, man, I gave you a great inside story on one of 2003's hottest reality shows. Besides, I'm saving up for new headshots and teeth whitening - the treatment they gave me during the show wore off.

Here are a couple of dumb but hopefully sort of entertaining cartoons I made with this thing:
Imperialist Funnies #1
Imperialist Funnies #2
Primitive flash animation + kneejerk lefty politics + punchlines cribbed from a Bazooka Joe comic = the reason Jesus invented the Internet.

I was disappointed to see that Rhea County backed down on its promise/threat to ban gays and Darwinists from its county borders. It's high time that someone stood up against the last three centuries of progress and gave a hearty "fuck you" to the Enlightenment. Other sinful items of our modern age that the county elders wanted to ban:

- the internal combustion engine
- marmosets ("Don't cotton to no tiny fairy monkeys round here. We like our monkeys large and hairy! And wearin' those little hats and ridin' a little tricycle. Cracks me and the missus right up.")
- zippers
- hair products (a known gateway drug to homo-sin-uality)
- Newton's First Law of Motion ("Dammit, objects ain't s'posed ta stay in motion with the same speed unless acted upon by an unbalanced force! It just ain't natural!")
- those little sprinkle things they put on cupcakes
- the Gabor sisters
- the three way light bulb ("One setting ain't good enough for you, fancypants?")

It's Sixties-Era Peruvian Rock MP3 Month on the Vitamin B Glandular Show! This is "Demolicion" by Los Saicos, released in 1965. Essentially, it's "Surfin' Bird" except 1. it's in Spanish and 2. the lyrics are an attempt to incite the youth of Peru to destroy the mass transit system (Let's tear railway station down!/Tear down, tear down, tear down, tear down/Let's tear railway station down/We like blowing railway stations up!" - ha, take THAT, Johnny Rotten!). So, obviously, it's much better.

I went to see the Mekons last night at Iota in Arlington, Virginia. It was the first time I've seen them live and I was mightily impressed. The Mekons are even better live than on record, possessing an easy familiarity from two decades of touring and a loose performance style that always remains in service to the song. And Jon Langford and Sally Timms have honed the between-song give-and-take to the standards of an old-fashioned comedy team. (When Branson, Missouri opens a street devoted solely to post-punk, the Langford-Timms Theater is going to be the most popular attraction.)

The setlist consisted mostly of songs from their newest album Punk Rock, a collection of remakes of their earliest material. The show suffered from the same problem as the album; while it's impressive that the 2004 edition of the Mekons is able to make decent to good material out of such thin gruel, the fact remains that these songs pale in comparison to their more recent output. Nevertheless, several of the Punk Rock songs stood out: "Corporal Chalkie" has been recast as a rueful anti-war ballad with a wearily expressive Timms vocal and "32 Weeks and "Dan Dare" were pounded out with a ferocity that made their predecessors 25 years ago sound tame. And the standards still sound fresh - Tom Greenhalgh's alienated Reagan-era "(Sometimes I Feel Like) Fletcher Christian" sounds even more apt in this day and age, and Timms' clear as a bell delivery of "Ghosts of American Astronauts" adds an unusual emotional resonance for a song that's essentially a comment on American imperialism.

I was eight feet from the door when they came back on stage for the second encore, "Heaven and Back." I would've cursed myself forever for missing such an incredible performance - a soaring, blistering take of an anthemic song on overcoming struggle (personal, professional, political) that's served as a summary of the Mekons mission. It was a transcendent moment, and a prime example of why a seemingly disposable art form like rock music is worth all of the hype, bother and attention. It's a testament to the incredible staying power of the Mekons, who've managed to remain important, vital performers in a medium that values youth above all else and when so many of their contemporaries have fallen victim to dissolution, laziness and creative inability.

Hurrah! I won a free song on the 7-11 iTunes shop giveaway today. Now, this might have been a cool prize in some other dimension of reality, but in a world where free downloads of songs are cheap and abundant, it's kind of like winning a glass of tap water.

MP3 - "It's a Sin to Go Away" by We All Together, a song from the Nuggets II box set that I always skipped over but rediscovered thanks to the miracle of the iPod shuffle function. These one-(not-really-a)-hit-wonders from Peru came up with this psychedelic pop gem featuring overbearing organ, smooth harmonies, a fuzzed-out bass that sounds like a primitive synth meandering about in the background, and an inexplicably funky backbeat that some enterprising producer needs to sample if they haven't already. It somehow works, despite the fact that it's really several different songs slapped together into one piece.

Once again, it's time to kill a few minutes with another edition of blog filler. Please enjoy these random, unrelated thoughts on various topics:

- I have mixed feelings about John Kerry getting the Democratic nomination. Don't get me wrong, I'd vote
for a chinchilla or a telemarketer or a flat can of RC Cola with a 1987 expiration date instead of Bush. But it's kinda difficult to get excited about Kerry, who reminds me of a tenured English professor who quit caring about whether his students were paying attention a decade ago. And although Kerry's record is solid enough, I'm more than a bit worried by the fact that he's never really offered a vision for where the country will be headed in the future, as well as his weathervaning on things like the gay marriage issue. But I'll take one for the team here - anti-Bush unity is more important than anything else right now. (And fine, you win, America - what you want in a president is vastly different from what I want. So I'll just resign myself to voting for the least offensive option for the rest of my life.)

- I finally got a chance to hear the live version of Smile performed by Brian Wilson in London last month. I was apprehensive about hearing it - partly because of Wilson's scattershot at best output of the past thirty years, partly because middle-aged rock shows tend to have an aura of faded glory that dampens the effect of the original works, and partly because you can't go home again - but it's an incredible piece of work. The bootleg versions of Smile were by their nature patchwork productions, featuring some good ideas without any thematic threading, but this version finally flows and feels like a fully realized series of song cycles. And while it's true that Brian Wilson can't hit the notes he could in 1966, his voice has taken on a new resonance - it's particularly poignant to hear the coming-of-age ballad "Wonderful" sung by a 61-year-old whose entire life has been defined by the pain of innocence lost. Obviously, there's no way to recapture the magic of the prime, classic Beach Boys recordings during their brief, meteoric heyday, but this is a rare instance of successful closure of the past.

- I feel obligated to make some sort of comment on the Jesus movie, even though I haven't seen it and I have no real opinions about it either way. Judging from the previews, it seems to consist of two hours of Jesus getting the shit beat out of him. I wish someone would make a beatings-per-scene comparison between this movie and Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom or Caligula or a backyard wrestling tape. (Does that satisfy my legal requirement to comment on The Passion of the Christ? Excellent.)

- McDonald's is getting rid of the supersize fries and sodas this year, in a desperate attempt to deflect some of the growing criticism of their unhealthy product lines (and, mostly, avoid additional class action lawsuits). I guess any vague notions of corporate responsibility are welcome in this day and age (even market-driven ones like this), but this idea that we as a nation need to be protected from our own consumerist whims is sort of embarrassing. C'mon, everyone knows that eating at McDonald's is essentially a low-level form of slow suicide, anyway. But this decision won't put a dent in the fattenization of America. If supersize fries are outlawed, then only outlaws will have supersize fries. And just think of the problems we'll have with people illegally crossing the border to Canada to buy poutine.

- Speaking of food, enough with the damn Atkins-friendly stuff everywhere. I bought a roll of Certs yesterday and each mint is individually wrapped in bacon now.

MP3 is the solo piano version of "Surf's Up" recorded by Brian Wilson during the illfated Beach Boys Smile sessions. Not as great as the version they finally released in 1971 with the "child is father to the man" coda, but one of Brian Wilson's greatest vocal performances - he makes Van Dyke Parks' impressive-sounding-but-meaningless wordplay actually seem profound and heartfelt. And the "mmhhmmm" at 2:33 is one of the most expressive wordless syllables ever recorded.

(And like most of Music Geek Nation, I am breathlessly awaiting the new finished (or as finished as it's ever going to get) version of Smile.)

(Inspired by a real e-mail received by a real life employee of a real life company, really. Only slightly exaggerated. Names and facts changed to protect the innocent.)

I received your letter in regards to our January 27th offer of a three year extended service contract for the Minolta XC680 copier purchased by your office last year. I understand that you have declined our offer.

All right, fine. Just let me warn you that the future of your career, not to mention your entire organization, rests upon this decision. Allied Office Equipment has been in business since 1965, providing our customers with high quality solutions to their printing and imaging needs. That's why we're the industry leader - we have the expertise to handle any possible copying need or emergency situation. You think Office Depot's going to care when your copier breaks down in the middle of a 275 page print job, 35 minutes before the presentation that will make or break your future? No. You'll call them up and talk to some spotty-faced kid making $6.75 an hour who couldn't tell you the difference between xerography and xenophobia. We could have your copier serviced and ready to run in two hours or less, but instead you're willing to throw away your professional reputation to save a measly 600 bucks a year. Just the thought of it makes me want to vomit in disgust.

I am the best, Roger. I am to copier sales what Stradivarius was to the violin, what Einstein was to physics, what Ted Williams was to hitting a baseball. No one's going to care for your needs like I will, Roger. I stay awake very night in a state of constant despair, panicking over the myriad possibilities of flaws and defects in our products. You think Jesus suffered on the cross? That was only six hours. My entire life is subsumed with the search for copying perfection. And you, the customer, will benefit from my unquenchable desire for immaculate service.

I'm just a little disappointed in you. I thought you and I were different than all those little nobodies, those insignificant mediocrities who settle for the path of least resistance. I thought we both had a shared commitment to excellence in a world that cheapens and devalues the meaning of quality and hard work. And, I'll admit it, I'm a little hurt. I thought we had something special, Roger, that went beyond the salesman-client relationship - a mutual brotherhood, if you will. Just watch - your products will break down, you personally will be blamed, you'll be fired, you'll descend into a hellish torment of substance abuse and poverty as everyone who you thought loved you abandons you. And, although I am a kind and gentle soul by nature, I won't be able to stifle a muted chuckle at your expense.

It's not too late, however. Our offer remains valid for another week. Think it over. Prove me wrong.

Sincerely yours,
James Pruitt
Account Executive

While performing yet another random Google search, I found this - a page of video clips of those Saturday morning PSAs the networks ran in the late 70s through the 80s. Most memorable are the ones featuring Timer, a rotund orange cartoon creature who was ubiquitous during the terrible ABC cartoons of my youth. Let's journey back into the past for a moment and relive the glory days of ineffectual attempts to make kids take notice of their health sandwiched between ads for Sugar Encrusted Remnants of Corn Meal and Carmelized Fruit-Flavored Chewable Snack Products:

"Hanker for a Hunka Cheese" - Anyone who was a sentient, TV viewing child in the United States of America between 1978 and 1988 knows this thing word for word and has probably had the jingle stuck in their head during an inopportune time, like a history exam or a relative's funeral. But this PSA also proves that far from a charming 70s retro character, Timer was a spokesthing far ahead of his time. By urging kids to nourish themselves by shoveling cheese into their gaping maws, Timer presaged the Atkins diet by over two decades.

"You Are What You Eat" - Timer parlayed the earnings from his early PSA appearances into a string of cattle ranches in southeast Wyoming. From then on, Timer would use his perch to not-so-subtly emphasize the value of protein above all else. (Notice how vitamins and minerals get a mere ". . . and so on" mention near the end of the short.) You will eat meat, children! Eat the animal flesh! (Bonus fact: the sample of "how can you have your pudding if you won't eat your meat?" from Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall" was taken from an unreleased outtake of this PSA, which caught Timer in the midst of an obscene, protein-fueled rant against vegetarians.)

"Quick Snack" - This one was targeted for the millions of neglected latchkey kids who grew up in front of the television, showing them a way to maintain basic nourishment during Dad's three day benders or Mom's tours of the American Southwest with Skeetch, Dirthog and the rest of Satan's Avengers. (Unfortunately, this site doesn't include a clip of the "Time to Call Child Protective Services" PSA.) Timer shows a dirty, rickets-and-scurvy-suffering young lad a recipe for a snack involving ice cubes, cauliflower and cheese. I call bullshit. No one in the history of the world ever willingly ate a cauliflower/ice cube/celery/cheese combination - OK, maybe maximum security prisoners forced to eat the special management meal. Clearly, the mighty Timer empire was already fading when this PSA was released.

"Sunshine on a Stick" - Clearly written by an ex-hippie trying to inflict his pro-hallucinogen propaganda into the minds of impressionable young people. One can imagine him sketching the storyboards for this short in between sneaking a J in the executive washroom and muttering about "fuckin' Reagan" and "fuckin' Jefferson fuckin' Starship." In this one, Timer cheers up a depressed proto-emo kid by showing him how to make popsicles from frozen juice. The drug references are numerous: from "sunshine on a stick" (a particularly potent form of acid popular in the San Fernando Valley in the mid 70's) to Timer saying "whatever turns you on," to the poking of the toothpicks in the saran wrap (just like a needle in a junkie's flesh). The connection between the rise in recreational drug use in our nation's youth and the introduction of this PSA cannot be overstated.

Apologies to the hardy few who check this thing for the dearth of original content recently. Blame work commitments, general laziness, my tireless work feeding needy orphans, etc. More of the usual stuff will resume shortly.

But who cares about that, when The High Hat issue #3 is finally ready! Plenty of fine writing abounds, as per usual, and also some junk by me: an essay on the American Music Club's Mercury and the Afghan Whigs' Gentlemen ten (well, eleven, now) years later, and the same 2003 top ten list I posted here in December. (Ah, recycling.) So click, read, enjoy and love.

Ah, Valentine's Day. The day in which we (choose your answer based on your current relationship status and feelings towards same) celebrate love/feed the commercial beast in a hollow attempt to purchase human affection. But why is love the only human feeling that gets its own holiday? It's high time that every single shade of the emotional rainbow is celebrated in its own special day, complete with matching cards and gifts available wherever cheap disposable goods are sold. Here's a list of just some of the new holidays you will be required to observe or else face wrath and shunning from your friends and loved ones:

- April 19th will be St. Boniface's Day, a celebration of hatred. Let those people you've been barely tolerating throughout the rest of the year know how you really feel on this day. Gifts range from cards bearing a simple message of disgust to a special arrangement of animal feces and rotting cow parts for those you particularly despise.

- January 27th will be St. Jonas' Day, a holiday dedicated to indifferent tolerance. For the hundreds of people in your life (co-workers, friends of friends, even family members) for whom you have neither affection nor disgust. Give a gift that says "we have nothing in common, but I still support your general right to exist."

- June 7th will be St. Ambrose's Day, devoted to alienation. A day to embrace the sullen 15 year old in all of us. Suggested ways of celebration include sulking, brooding, wearing all black, and getting into loud shouting matches with your parents. J.D. Salinger has licensed Holden Caulfield for Hallmark's new line of "You Just Don't Understand, Man" cards for this special event.

- August 29th will be St. Theodore's Day, the first holiday completely dedicated to total confusion. Introduce befuddlement into a total stranger's life on this day by giving a random and completely inappropriate gift - from geriatric supplies for young people to feminine hygiene products for the burliest man you know.

- October 14th will be St. Kenneth's Day, a holiday to revel in vague, wistful regret. Celebrate by reliving past failures, quiet sighs, and mournful stares into the distance. The "General Apologies for Whatever I Did Wrong" card will be a popular seller around this holiday.

I recently entered a mix CD sorta-contest thing with a bunch of other music geeks. The goal was to create a mix where each song had to correspond to a specific category. Here's what I came up with:

1) If you were making a soundtrack for your life so far – this song would have to be on it.
"We Are Time," Pop Group. The best track by the underappreciated Bristol post-punk band, "We Are Time" is an incredible epic about the struggle to overcome the unstoppable forces of time and society to carve out an individual life. Admittedly, the lyrics don't make a whole lot of narrative sense, but hearing Mark Stewart yell "we'll tame eternity" and the climactic "you, I, we are time" are inspiring like few moments in rock music.

2) A song from one of the CDs currently in your 1) car stereo 2) portable CD player 3) stereo
"Faster Gun," Wrens. From my favorite album of 2003, The Meadowlands. This is one of the standout tracks - by far the most uptempo, rockingest song on the album, with a driving chord progression leading to the windmill guitar on the chorus.

3) A song from the first album, cassette, or CD (whichever was first or the oldest that you still have access to) that you purchased for yourself.
"Get Off of My Cloud," Stones. The first CDs I ever bought were Hot Rocks by the Rolling Stones and A Decade of Steely Dan, and both hold up a lot better than some of the other classic rock stuff I liked at the time. Just be grateful I didn't get the Foreigner CD first.

4) A song without a word in its title.
"1970," Stooges. Yeah, it's a ringer that I'm sure everyone here has heard time and time again, but who could get tired of the Ashton/Alexander rhythm section's finest moment, and the inspired derangedness of the ending sax solo? (And I already used "1984" elsewhere on the mix, so.)

5) A song from the year you were born
"We Got the Neutron Bomb," Weirdos. I was born in 1978, which was a great year for music, so this one was a tough pick. I went with "We Got the Neutron Bomb," a loud punk anthem with a shoutalong chorus. And the mockery of overassertive U.S. foreign policy seems even more timely these days. Wow, remember when people thought Carter was the biggest threat to world peace?

6) A song with the name of someone in this music swap in it
"The Nazz are Blue," Yardbirds. In honor of TV's Naz Nomad, here's a prime slice of British white guy blues with a sharp Jeff Beck solo that edges into psychedelic territory.

7) A song in a language other than English.
Track #2 from the Cambodia Rocks! compilation. No track or band names were provided by the compilers of this collection, which features garage and pop bands from late 60's Cambodia. It's fascinating to hear the shotgun marriage of traditional Asian music and American rock music, and this one features a female singer belting out an almost Bollywood-like melody to the accompaniment of surf guitar and a chugging organ.

8) A song with a city or state/province name.
"Philadelphia," Magazine. Howard Devoto's ode to American ennui. Also includes the best Dostoevsky reference in music besides the little known Carpenters b-side "My Liver is Diseased."

9) Say you're planning a multi-day road trip, this song could go on every mix you make for the trip.
"Tell Her She's Lovely," El Chicano. One of the finest cruising-around-in-summer-with-the-radio-down songs ever committed to recorded material.

10) A song by a local artist.
"Spider in the Snow," Dismemberment Plan. DC's late, lamented Dismemberment Plan released one of the best albums of the 1990s, Emergency and I. This song perfectly captures the mid-20's crisis of confidence and meaning.

11) A song with a color in the title.
"The Sun is Going Black," Los Chijuas. Ultramelodramatic garage song from a band out of Chihuahua, Mexico. A endlessly repeating bass riff, insanely over-the-top organ scale runs and menacing guitar jangling, all topped off with a ripped-off-from-Syd-Barrett-era-Pink-Floyd breakdown at the end.

12) It’s 5am, your alarm is going off, this song would still make you smile.
"Now It's On," Grandaddy. One of those rare songs that manages to be uplifting and optimistic without sounding rah-rah or cloying.

13) Either a cover you thought was an original or an original you thought was a cover
"I Love You," People. I heard this version of the Zombies song before the original. People slow down the tempo and tack on a vaguely acid (but still safe for the kids) rock intro. The original's better, but this version has a nicely tense arrangement.

14) A song that is about a specific movie or book or at least mentions a specific movie or book.
"1984," Spirit. The Cliff Notes version of the Orwell classic in rock song form - only the part about the jackbooted government thugs is included, so it's not recommended as a subsitute for the book for lazy high school students. A tense, paranoid classic with a killer doubletracked guitar solo from Randy California.

15) WILDCARD
"Leave the Capitol," The Fall. I had to include something from my all time favorite band, because no mix is complete without the sound of Mark E. Smith railing at something.

16) A song that has reached number one on a Billboard chart (state which chart and when).
"Quarter to Three," Gary U.S. Bonds. The number #1 single on Billboard's charts for two weeks: June 26, 1961 and July 3, 1961. Simple yet irresistible mix of an insistent drumbeat, handclaps and saxophone squawking.

17) This song doesn’t fit a category as far as you’re concerned.
"Helen Forsdale," MARS. From the seminal No New York compilation, this song sounds like almost nothing before or since - from the deranged gibberish vocals, to the consistently off beat, to the guitar that squalls away seemingly oblivious to the rest of the song. The song consistently threatens to fall apart into anarchy, but somehow makes it to the finish line.

18) I hate the artist, but I love the song.
"Just Like Heaven," The Cure. I wouldn't say I hate them, but I've never been much for Robert Smith's schtick. This, however, is a classic song, and Smith's overromanticism is charming here instead of annoying.

19) Wha? If anyone can tell me what this song is about, give me a call.
"Letter from an Occupant," New Pornographers. Actually, I doubt this song is really about anything, since the New Pornographers tend to emphasize vocal sounds over lyrical meaning. I just wanted to put it on here because it's a damn near perfect rock-pop song with a strong vocal performance by Neko Case and one of the best "oooh"s you'll ever hear in a pop chorus.

20) Guilty Pleasure.
"Ballroom Blitz," Sweet.
I don't really believe in "guilty pleasures" - I like what I like without apologies - but I'll concede that this is a dumb piece of junk. But it's a rockin' dumb piece of junk.

21) Stump the band.
"Faded Colors," Stonemen. Plucked from an obscure garage compilation, this single from an unknown Atlantic Canadian group features some of the harshest guitar tones you'll ever hear in the intro, as well as a truly nasty guitar solo interjecting itself into the song at random moments.

22) TV theme song
"WKRP End Theme," Tom Wells. The closing credits music to the beloved classic sitcom. Ret too boptenda, bah she ahbet tenna. As a bonus, the meow of the MTM kitten is included at no additional cost.

MP3 is a live version of "I'm Straight" by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers, from Precise Modern Lovers Order. This is an earlier rendition than the version on The Modern Lovers, and is far more vicious and sarcastic than the somewhat gentle upbraiding of the more well known album version - Richman's bile is dialed up to Costello-on-This Year's Model levels as he takes shots at the shallowness and conformity of the Woodstock generation.

Well, it's been one week since Tittygate exploded across American television screens. God, January 31, 2003 seems like such an innocent time now - a time when our media was free from sexualization, when decent folk could watch television in peace without being burdened by thoughts of body parts and reproductive acts. Now, in one short week, we've seen the complete deterioration of the moral fabric of this country. Who knew that a simple halftime show would've destroyed polite society as we know it? (If the Russians had just infiltrated Up with People back in the seventies, we'd all be harvesting beets on a collective farm in Andropovgrad (formerly Nebraska) right now.) Public nudity is now de rigueur, and the old standard friendly greetings have been replaced with expressions like "Nice bag, Ted!" and "Your areola's looking especially radiant today, Janice!" One can hardly walk the streets without tripping over young people engaged in sexual acts of varying natures, their once restrained passions now unlocked by the brazen display of sort-of nudity seen by millions last Sunday. And the networks have just made it worse - first there was random, casual toplessness on "Yes, Dear" and "According to Jim," then Stone Phillips' full frontal during Friday's "Dateline NBC", then Fox pulled Saturday's Cops in order to run "Teenage Vixen Slumber Party #7"... and rumor has it that next week, "American Idol"'s judging system will be replaced by a fellatio contest.

If only we could turn back time and replace Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson with wholesome, upstanding performers. Even Britney Spears, who seemed controversial in those naive pre-Super Bowl days, would've been a better choice than the evil mastermind Justin and his evil harlot Jezebel Janet. How could we have been so blind to not see that their entire rise to fame was built for that one moment, to purposely introduce the breast to the national viewing public! Only our government can save us now. I pray that George W. Bush will have the wisdom and the courage to jail exposers of the flesh and mandate that women are forced to wear bodices and several layers of undergarments at all times so their dirty, dirty bodies will never again see the light of day.

Hard to believe, but today marks the one year anniversary of the first post on this blog. (Please do not actually go back and read those first entries, as they suck even more than the usual fare here.) Over the past year, we've laughed a little, cried a little, and learned a little something about ourselves. And this humble little web-thing has grown from a semi-regularly updated site that no one reads but me to a sporadically updated site that no one reads but me. My thanks to anyone who reads this site. Whether you're killing time at work, you kinda sorta know me online, or you came here via a Google search for "+paris hilton +sextape +donkey," I appreciate your patronage. I hope that this site has provided some amusement, or at the very least not made you cringe with embarrassment on my behalf too often. (And I promise that in year two, the self-deprecation that is ladled over this entry will be kept to an acceptable minimum.)

This would be the natural time to walk away, to stop this project before the updates become even more sporadic and half-assed and keeping a blog becomes even more unfashionable, a pop culture relic of the early aughts. But I've never let common sense, regard for quality or self-respect keep me from achieving massive public embarrassment. So, onward we march into year number two, fearlessly continuing to boldly flog the same obscure half-jokes and cultural quasi-commentary in the face of public indifference. May God have mercy on us all.