March 2003

March 22, 2003
From a United Press International story, a quote from an American human shield after a trip into Iraq:

...the trip "had shocked me back to reality." Some of the Iraqis he interviewed on camera "told me they would commit suicide if American bombing didn't start. They were willing to see their homes demolished to gain their freedom from Saddam's bloody tyranny. They convinced me that Saddam was a monster the likes of which the world had not seen since Stalin and Hitler. He and his sons are sick sadists. Their tales of slow torture and killing made me ill, such as people put in a huge shredder for plastic products, feet first so they could hear their screams as bodies got chewed up from foot to head."

Bully good for you, pal. That really rocked your world, huh? Welcome to the party.

Your view of Saddam prior to jumping a plane to go into a country whose people don't want you there, who want to be saved (not saved from U.S. bombs - saved from being CHIPPED ALIVE) was... he's a benevolent dictator with the best interests of his people at heart? Never occurred to you that this is a minion of The Dark Lord (Satan, not Cosby) with a serious penchant for whoopin' up some human compost from time to time? Couldn't put together those tricky puzzle pieces, huh?

Dickhead.

Get your stinky ass back to the good ol' U.S. of A. where you can protest with all your stinky friends in cushy comfort - where you won't have to come to terms, face-to-face, with the big, scary issues.

You can all join hands, sing campfire songs and fucking stink.

Smelly.

March 21, 2003
As long as I have relatively low-cost and easy access to Mexican soap operas and Yoga Zone, I shall never want for the Spice Channel.

March 20, 2003
So, there's war.

But there's also this:

Me: What sound does a lamb make?

Little girl: BAAAAAAAAAH!

Me: What sound does a cow make?

Little girl: MOOOOOOOOOO!

And what the fuck is better than that?

March 19, 2003
Hey there. Hi.

So, remember how very recently you were walking down the street and you saw that thing that you just had to take a picture of and e-mail to your friend and then call them to talk about it?

Huh? Wha? No?

Oh, right. Me neither. Because that's solely a marketers dream of how we should be wasting our lives with fucking useless applications of fucking overhyped technology. Nowadays you can't spit at the tv without hitting some prick-lensed advert with some gen-x a-holes snapping eye-clawlingly boring shots of things that should never EVER be photographed with their spiffy cell phone DIGITAL CAMERAS AND THEN E-MAILING THEM TO THEIR POT SMOKING JOBLESS ROOMMATES AND THEN CALLING THEM WITH THEIR FREE UNLIMITED OFF-PEAK MINUTES TO JABBER ON ABOUT HOW KEY IT WAS THAT THEY HAD TO SHARE THIS MOMENT LOOKING AT THIS CRAPPY PHOTO AND HOW THEIR LIVES WOULD BE NARY COMPLETE WITHOUT A 30 MINUTE EXCHANGE SPENT ENUMERATING THE TIMELESS QUALITIES OF SAID PHOTO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST - SON OF GOD, LAMB OF GOD, WHO TAKES AWAY THE FUCKING SINS OF THE CELL-TALKING, DIGITAL-PICTURE-TAKING, E-MAIL-ATTACHMENT-SENDING WORLD - LET ME OFF THIS TWISTED, SMOKING, CLUSTERFUCK WRECK OF A MERRY-GO-ROUND.

Thanks.

March 18, 2003
I like the great big fat Dixie Chicks singer. The puffy yapper opened her maw to slag the President whilst playing some hickrock on foreign soil. Apparently, back in the good ol' U. S. of A., country (and western!) fans and radio stations have gone all bananapeshit over her comments, even after her management forced a public apology out of her.

Here's a bim that didn't realize her prime, paycheck-writin', stateside audience was made up of U.S.-lovin' Southern yokels. When CNN shows the ten bazillion stinkypeople protesting war in Iraq, how many cowboy hats can you pick out? It's like finding fucking Waldo.

Next time, B.B.D.C. (Big Beautiful Dixie Chick), try a simple "how ya doin' [insert name of town here]?"

Works every time.

March 17, 2003
Bulldozer: 1
Woman: 0

March 13, 2003
Ladies and Gentlemen,

Will's coming out.

Enjoy.

March 12, 2003
What the hell happened to Mad Max? From what I've read recently (for what it's worth, I'm basing my comments on items gleaned from the Internet - long-respected as a source of legitimate news. Additionally, I'm basing my comments on items I've read - and I don't read so good, see? My reading comprehension is on par with a fetus.) Mel Gibson is some kinda über Jesus freak. Some kinda freaky Bible-thumpin' Jesus guy. Some sorta jumpin' Jesus fanatic. (Just trying to bolster my "Jesus-targeted" Google search hits, there. Very good. Jesus. Thank you. Almighty.) Don't get me wrong here - I'm not poking fun at him for his religious beliefs. After all, why merely poke fun when you can insult? Jesus-lovin' freak.

Mel's recent turn as a God-questioning priest in the God-awful Signs and his decision to direct a film based on the last hours of the Son of God signal a strong stay-the-fuck-away-from-my-movies trend, in my opinion.

I really don't care about Mel Gibson's faith but for one exception - I hear (from very same rock-solid sources as cited above) that they're making another Mad Max film, and (besides the natural retching that comes from news of a movie sequel in or near production) I'm loathe to envision the Road Warrior remade in the image of Christ. Sure, it'd bring the cost and length of the movie way down - marauders capture Max, he turns one cheek, then the other, gets eviscerated, roll credits - but I'm not certain that this is "on brand" with the franchise.

I'm hoping, at the very least, the movie will be lensed in English. After all, Mel's The Very, Very Last Temptation of Christ talkie is being shot in Latin and Aramaic. Two blockbuster-enabling languages, yes?

No.

When asked about this (extremely) creative decision, Gibson spake:

"Obviously, nobody wants to touch something filmed in two dead languages. They think I'm crazy, and maybe I am. But maybe I'm a genius."

Maybe I'm a ham sandwich. With spicy mustard.

March 11, 2003
5150 Review - Appendix A

So, Stumpy has taken issue with my 5150 review. I'm nothing if not Stump's lil boybitch, so I'll capitulate.

Eddie's rhythm work on "Summer Nights" is, indeed, fabulous. In omitting to comment directly, I meant no less. In fact, Mr. VH is probably the most underrated rhythm guitarist in the a-holes of rock. Er, anals. Whatever. Most rock guitarists can only manage to make rhythmwork sound like they're passing time until they get to the geewhiz solo. Not Eddie. He seems to approach progressions and riffs no differently than spotlight-hoggin' leads. That is, they sound friggin exciting. He plays it like he means it. Power chords, and the licks-derived glue that holds them together, leap to life.

He plays real gud for a white boy.

March 8, 2003
I love it when someone who was apparently hatched sans sense of humor says that something is "so funny." How curious is that? It makes me wonder what "so funny" could possibly mean to him/her.

It's like a colorblind person telling you that something is "so blue."

Occasionally, you just need, need, need a thick slice of cheese to get you going in the morning. Some prefer camembert, some havarti, still others crave a seemingly dirty-sock-infused chunk o' limburger. Me? When those serious cheese D.T.'s kick in, nothing satisfies like Hagar.

And so, it was with no small measure of glee that I fired up the last in a glorious string of seminal Van Halen-authored rock albums - 5150 - as accompaniment to my commute yesterday morning.

Some cry foul at the mention of any Hagar-tinged VH. However, I sidestep the whole DLR vs. Sammy holy war. There's room for both crooners in my perfect musical world. Cause I'm all about peace, love and understanding. What's so fucking funny about that? You colorblind bastard.

Despite my enthusiasm for conferring classic status to this recording, there are several suspect elements within:

1. Eddie traded a bulk of his signature warm brown sound for a more chimey, glossy tone.
2. Alex heavily relied on ultra-dry sounding electronic drums that reduced "Monsters of Rock"-sized gonza tom fills to something that sounds sorta like "pidd-a, pidd-a, pidd-a."
3. Ballads
4. Sammy has a penchant for those manufactured, forced, rock singer "Ha ha ha's." What the fuck are those, anyway? Someday I'm going to catalog all the 80's metal/rock songs that feature some poodle-haired fop coughing "Heh, heh, heh!", "HA!", "Ha, HEH!", "Ha, ha, HEH!", and simply, "heh." There're few verbal noises in this world that produce more douche chills per utterance than these. Jesus, can you see these guys in the studio, "Frank, roll back that last verse. My ha-ha's... they just weren't fucking fake enough. I JUST DON'T SOUND ENOUGH LIKE I'M TRYING VAINLY TO GET SOME EXCITEMENT GOING IN THIS SONG. ONE MORE FUCKING TIME WITH NO FUCKING FEELING."

On the plus side, Jesus Christ, it's Van Halen.

Some highlights:

1. Last things, first. The final track, "Inside," while throwaway on first listen, contains a solo that sounds like Eddie's "Beat It" lead on GHB.
2. "Good Enough," which Sammy apparently scribed about his enormous sexual appetite (no wonder my proposed tagline for the band - "Van Halen. Breaking new ground." - was soundly trounced upon proposal), has our heroic singer conversing with a waitress about her "specials," and features the line, "Rack o' what? Well I'll have some of that!" Makes me proud to speak the English language.
3. "Best of Both Worlds" steals it's progression from Kool and the Gang's "Celebration." Bully good.
4. Eddie's main guitar on this album was one of the teenie Steinberger jobbers, painted in his trademark red with "Stripes Gone Wild!"-style accents. This guitar featured an innovative tremelo/vibrato tailpiece that maintained uniform tuning as tension on the strings is decreased, allowing for slide and pedal-steel like tricks, phrasing and techniques. It was truly a step forward in the design and production of guitars, and proffered a grande assortment of possibilities for a new vocabulary of expression on the instrument. (To my knowledge, this guitar and any like it were never used again.)

All in all, just a sound record, through and through. Not rocket science, not brain surgery, not even a little mentally taxing to listen to. Just rock and roll's take on your favorite diner's meat loaf special. And that really satisfies.

Heh, heh, heh... HA!

March 6, 2003
My favorite pair of often matched misconceptions regarding our existence as caring, empathetic human beings:

It is wrong to judge.

It is wrong to discriminate.

I guess this is no shock coming from a guy who would have ferreted out an armful of perfectly smooth, flat, oval stones and asked the adulteress to lay down and point her toes so I could get a good solid couple of skips with my first throw.

Still, the ability to judge and discriminate are two of our greatest strengths (perhaps also-ran's only to sparking up good, strong, black coffee). Make no mistake, Skipper, we all do both, constantly. From our selection of socks, stock picks, tv fare, what to eat, who to befriend, who to avoid, etc. Nearly everything we surround ourselves (or, insulate yourself, if you're me) with from waking to sleepie time (and inbetween) is informed by our ability to judge and discriminate.

How irksome indeed, then, that your average "feeling" hippy/co-ed/liberal equates any form of judgement or discrimination as prima facie evidence of bigotry, prejudice, and the like. How troubling as well, that so many will "pass the buck" rather than step up to the plate and make a call (a couple sport references there. My father would be so proud.) on any number of issues, events, people that call (nay, scream!) for a healthy dollop of judgement and discrimination. Rather than risk offending anyone or any interest/racial/religious group, we play it safe, skirt the tough terrain, indict no one, ever, no matter the cost. Effectively, PC'ing ourselves to death.

Let's all take a deep, cleansing breath, take a deep, informing look, and call the kettle black. We may be pots, but that does absolutely nothing to change the color of that fucking kettle.

March 5, 2003
U.S. students to skip classes for antiwar protest.

In related news, moglia to eat ho-ho's in support of U.S. troops. After all, it's apparent from the example of these moral role-models that we all need to make some serious, serious sacrifices.

These fucking pillowheads. I weep for the future. One of the organizers of "Books not Bombs" (aptly named for a protest that involves walking out of class. Fucking brain trusts. I guess I'll name mine, "Eat Right for the Troops.") talks about how walking out of her dance class is "kind of a big deal."

Come again?

"Kind of a big deal" to who, exactly? You? Your similarly intellectually-equipped "friends"? Your college-education-providing Mom and Dad (who I hope will be left scratching their dull heads, wondering how a little (seemingly) harmless fucking produced such a trainwreck of a human being)? Yapperhead. One can only pray you'll asphyxiate yourself in a tutu donning mishap.

The loss. The tragedy.

Now, where're my fucking ho-ho's?

March 4, 2003
If you're too lazy to actually hit the streets in search of the almighty dolla, here's a coupla cardinal rules - excerpted from The Guide to Internet Panhandling for Smarteez - to get you started on virtua-begging:

Poor spelling = rich, um, riches.
Time is money and spellchecking takes time. You simply can't afford to spel with any veracity. Besides, who wants to give some scratch to a beggar whose spelling ability suggests his/her education can beat up your education? Nobody. To quote Chris Rock: "Keep it real. Real stupid."

Complain. Often.
You've got it hard, harder than everyone else. Make your case with such bon mots as "my husband/wife sits around watching tv all day and does nothing to find work," "I have seven hungry kids and triplets on the way," "I've got it got it hard, harder than everyone else." You know, really endear yourself to all those hard workers out there - those folks working to foot the bill(s) for your twenty kids, your Springer-addicted spouse, and you. Ready your pockets for lining!

Anonymity prevents identity theft.
You're looking to get, not give. Keep any donation-enabling info well hidden. If you're posting to, say, the comments section of someone's blog site, the best avenue to offer for the giving of some col', hard cash is an e-mail address. I know of no better way to give a brotha a dime than sending it as an attachment.

Got it? Alright, then. Go get 'em, you bone spur on the heel of society.

March 3, 2003
Norah Jones' music is my aural broccoli. I know it's good for me (hell, no less authority on such matters than the Grammys told me so), but I just can't force it down my gaping maw. Her tinkling (no, not pee-pee tinkling, you pervy monkey. I'm not down with the whole "piss hot" thing. Now, pooping? Fuhgeddaboudit. That's something else entirely. Namely, pooping. Ugh. You disgust me.) puts me to sleep. I thought mayhaps her take on "More Than This," (the great 80's Roxy Music track with the great 80's antiseptic, shimmering, icy production) with The Charlie Hunter Quartet would float my boat, but zzzzz... wuh-wha-happen? Musically, nothing. If you're taking her disc to go, make sure you pack a handful of No-Doz and an exceptionally grandé Toffee Nut Latte with an extra shot or four (I order it "super duper fucking grand" and the baristas seem to catch my drift). Getting behind the wheel with a soundtrack scored by Ms. Jones sounds like vehicular manslaughter waiting (sleepily) to happen.

That said, I would like to nominate Stanton Moore's "All Kooked Out!" for commute saver of year. The raw blast of this morning's late-started, accident-riddled, over-congested trek to work was mitigated nicely and very substantially by Sir Moore's art. Loose, funky, jazzy goodness. It's like jazz for people who are too retarded to follow jazz. I don't need an AAA TripTik® to find the 2 and 4. It's as good as having the little AOL disembodied-voice guy running around in my head, reassuring me with a soothing, detached delivery, "You've Got Backbeat."