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.