I decided it would be a good idea to do a live-to-looped cover of my favorite Wu Tang song, then make a music video for it. So here it is. Me doing Wu. Don't worry about fucking with me, though. I am full well fuckwitable.
In the last ten years, I’ve only got mad enough to punch the shit out of inanimate objects on occasions that involved either women or IBM compatibles. And yet, for whatever reason – call it brand loyalty – I have stood steadfastly by both.
Perhaps it’s their flashy complexity. The sense of overcoming an obstacle that you get from conquering something that isn’t very user-friendly. Maybe it’s the way some of the cases light up red, and their packaging is frosted and S-curved and gaudy, not at all like the simple class-act monochrome geometry of the Apple-cum-Man. Maybe it’s the way there’s more than one button on the PC mouse, and you can draw out endless combinations of graphical and audio effects by double-clicking them and squeezing them in different combinations. And it’s not that you can’t drag-and-drop a Mac or a dude – it’s just, the pyrotechnics are strictly functional, and not at all for show.
My retort to Republicans used to be, “Hey, look, if using Macs was a choice, why would you choose it?” But now, I think I get it. PCs suck. And if using a Macintosh is a choice, I’m going to see if I can make it. Because let’s face it, Heaven is pretty much out of the cards for me. This isn’t going to send me to Extra Hippy Hell, where the kids who pretend they don’t have trust funds are forced to spend an eternity living lavish lifestyles and driving $90k cars, and the kids who once thought about kicking a cat have to kick a cat once a minute for infinity minutes. I'm on my way to regular Hell with the rapists and murderers and non-Islamicists.
Conventional wisdom used to say that you could only catch viruses from guys, but it turns out the easiest way to get them is fucking around on a PC. As it happens, the Windows platform is a festering hotbed of scabs and sores and purulent boils, warts and off-colored discharge and itches that you can’t scratch away. Milling around like idiots are the overpowered white blood cells and clueless antibodies, antiviral armies that open their knees wiiiiiide for the Trojan Horse. Fuck me, wood horse, fuck me with your drip-dripping flaming hot spyware horse cock. I like the way it feels with no firewall. Sometimes you can even shoot a squirrel over the castle gates (shout out to Monty Python).
I installed Service Pack 2 on my Dell yesterday, the notoriously worthless update for Windows XP that all your friends seem to resent. It’s like a computer engagement ring. It makes the thing far less valuable, far less functional, but ultimately more in tune with the way Microsoft, for our purposes the Catholic Church, says things should be. I only downloaded it so I could use Windows Movie Maker, which only comes with SP2, but which, oddly enough, did not install itself on my computer when I installed SP2. The only thing that happened when I installed SP2 was, my computer started freezing every fifteen minutes, and wouldn’t play any video or audio files, or even open any players for video or audio files. Call it going out with the boys for a beer. It’s out of the question now that you’ve got the Service Pack. Sure, allegedly it’s insurance that your computer stays “clean,” doesn’t get “infected,” but we all know that it’s just cosmetic. Pure in name only. My internet browsers won’t open, either. I can’t even see tits. It just mills around in a big retarded circle, making sounds like a vacuum and complaining that the neighbors have a refrigerator with an internet connection and when am I going to get promoted.
At the same time, my dad just bought this $4k Mac video editing workstation that’s the computer equivalent of an 18-year-old Dominican poolboy. I’m feeling feelings I never knew I could feel. Feelings of lust, but also of power. Feelings of sympathy, but also violent passion. Feelings of difference and strangeness and new wonder, but also feelings of lascivious anger and preternatural heat, heat coursing through me like I were an ovulating chinchilla. And it doesn’t feel wrong, it doesn’t feel right, it just feels necessary, like this is what God wants for me. And right or wrong, I hear the call, and I’m going to follow it. He's there for me. He wants me to use him. I have to use him. I call him Enrique.
Well, no more of the weaker sex, friends. As soon as I can save up $4k, I’m buying a Macbook and a bus ticket to
Curated by D at 12:15 PM
Ever since I can remember, I’ve disliked Andy Rooney. Y'know, the guy who’s apparently paid enough dues to get the last 5 minutes of 60 Minutes to talk about whatever he wants. We all know that people start to get insufferably inflexible when they hit the 300 year mark, but the dude just went on a rant about how George Bush mispronounces “Nuclear” (punchline: “You’d think the first lady, or maybe a doorman at the White House, would tell him how it’s pronounced. It makes you wonder how he graduated Yale”). Now, I’m never against a cheap shot at the president, but people have been making fun of him for this for years. It's about as fresh and topical as pointing out that Nixon was, in fact, a crook. He, the president, has made fun of himself for it on at least two occasions that I can remember, and I hate nothing more than people who rip into other people for their publically admitted flaws. That's why you're not allowed to call me ugly, bitch. It's just all kinds of lame. I'm not against lame in and of itself, but when the point is wit and the result is lame and you're not even self-effacing about it, you're officially on my shitlist. If you can't get it up, don't go on national television and try to jerk off.
Not to mention, if Bush actually did start pronouncing the word right, every single comedian and smartass, myself and Andy Rooney included, would jump down his throat or up his ass or both for being inauthentic and pretentious and we’d all gloat that he finally “learned his lesson,” which is why people hate to admit they've learned lessons, even when they have: because when they do, jerkoffs gloat about it. There’s nothing worse than people acting high and mighty when all they’re reflecting is conventional wisdom. "Oh, yeah, Bush is finally pronouncing 'nuclear' right. God, what an idiot! It only took him seven years as President of the United States!" You would keep pronouncing that shit wrong too. When our junior high class took a trip to D.C. and I saw the Magna Carta in the glass case, the Ye Olde Cursive "C" looked like a "G" to me. So, on the bus, when I mentioned to my friend the Magna Garta, and he told me that's not what it was at all, I was like, "Dude, I have a cold. Of course I know it's actually the 'Magna Carta! But, you see, I'm ill, and so I pronounce 'C's as 'G's." And I stood by that shit until, like, right now.
And strike 3 against Rooney: we all know how easy it is to slide through college with Cs. It’s not like Yale is some kind of superman academy. Just because the children of the rich and powerful get in, doesn’t mean they’re run through some kind of academic gauntlet to test their mettle. It’s college, for chrissakes. The halls of higher learning are populated by 72% statistically retarded people, just like every other kind of halls. I’m just saying, it’s amazing to me that this man makes probably high-6/low-7 figures to make the jokes that high school sophomores were making 6 years ago when Bush got his sorry self elected. Impeach Bush and Andy Rooney. Or, better yet, just force them to switch jobs. I would love to see Andy Rooney try to do something that I care about at all, and I would love to hear 5 minutes of Bush’s thoughts on partially hydrogenated soybean oil in foodstuffs and the sexual dalliances of the jetset. Why not?Actually, you know what? Here's to Andy Rooney, the world's premier video blogger! Go Andy, go Andy, go!
Curated by D at 7:14 PM
Whether or not Killdozer was better than Architecture in Helsinki or Deerhoof (they weren’t even close -- not exactly), the fact remains, they were Pigfucker. Hyper-prog? Thank you very much, Pitchfork, for coming up with the worst subgenre name ever, and drilling us with it like Major Payne until it stuck. Jesus. It should have just been called "Deerhumper."
Killdozer - The King of Sex
"I am the King of Sex, and I come from the state of Texas... Neither Christ nor the Holy Ghost can quite satisfy a woman's soul."
Where today are the album titles like Intellectuals Are the Shoeshine Boys of the Ruling Elite, or The Uncompromising War on Art Under the Dictatorship of the Proletariat? At least Reagan was, in some respects, a worthy adversary (before he lost his shit and his mind). He elicited rage, too, but it was a kind of smoldering slow-burn rage, a rip-a-tooth-out-of-your-own-mouth rage, a little more bilious, but also a little more flip. You had to be sarcastic, because he was too smart to be chopped down with axes. Liberals were like Kierkegaard to his Hegel. Nowadays it’s all this hyperactive sense of superiority that people use to cover up their insecurity. It’s all Ex-Congressman Huckabees going “The most important thing is the sanctity of human life, and I will always err on the side of life, and make sure gay people cannot get married because so many normal, and by normal I mean real, and by real I mean heterosexual marriages are failing [because, as per most of the world's problems, it’s the fault of gay people that straight people cannot stay married] and the most important thing is that life is precious and we need to kill our enemies, that's the most important thing.”
Are things better than they were? Maybe, maybe not. But the important thing is, they’re not as good as they could have been. Because, god damn it, where's the give-take? Where's the satire? Where's the Piledriver? Where's the Killdozer?
Curated by D at 10:03 AM
I just went to the RZA's myspace page to add him as my friend because he's my favorite specimen of what a human being can become when things go just right. Plus, he's doing the music for the new Afro Samurai anime starring Sam Jackson and that's hot to me. But, his top 8 are: Ol Dirty Bastard (R.I.P.), Raekwon, GZA, Inspectah Deck, Method Man, Ghostface Killah, Mastah Killa, and.... Tom.
Poor U-God! Beat out by Tom!
Another reason I resent The Clipse: "[Pharell] is the best rapper/producer. Ain’t nobody touching him, I’ll put money on it."
If Pharell is a better rapper/producer than the Razor, I've never thought about peeing in a dish, freezing it, and sliding a disk of frozen pee under somebody's door. And I'm telling you right now, that's just not the case. But you know what, Pusha? I'll take your money.
Curated by D at 12:19 PM
I turned on CBS at 10:56, waiting for the Penn State vs. Minnesota game in spite of the fact that they're the two most boring baskerville teams in God's great creation, and caught the end credits of a kid's show. In the background, there were 2 high school chicks in wifebeaters holding hands and dancing with each other to a bad third-generation Euro-house ripoff track. The bottom of the screen said www.secretslumberparty.com. I refuse to go to the link, because I know it will be a huge disappointment, but still -- finally, some children's programming that I can get behind, at least in theory. Holy Christ, what is it about stupid chicks in wifebeaters that makes my inner redneck cock his shotgun?
Also: I'm so disappointed that the old Talib Kweli Big-10 commercial is gone. The new one is okay and everything, but where's the "they're blocking your big shots and stopping your big men"?! That aside, though, I commend the conference for contracting the man's services. I wonder if the Pac-10 has Fatlip commercials.
Curated by D at 11:33 AM
Curated by D at 7:42 AM
Draft 1 -- Quick, name the best electro-folk anthem by a mustachioed rapper since “Hey Ya.” My money’s on “Rubber Traits” by emcee-cum-rock band frontman Yoni Wolf, aka Why? Well, Why? is sort of Wolf’s pseudonym, but the name has gone from his alias as a really weird rapper, to designating his middle period as a lo-fi impresario in the style of the Sebadoh doing EPMD covers, to the name of a full on rock band. Running the anything-goes eclecticism of his 2003 solo album Oaklandazulasylum through a filter of Malkmus-sized melancholia and shiny guitars, Elephant Eyelashes is among the first releases on anticon records to evoke Pavement more than the Freestyle Fellowship, and the fact that it’s far more than a curio is a tribute to Wolf’s skill and vulnerability as a songwriter. Wolf has the ability to make slice of life near-nonsense take on anthemic profundity; you know he’s a songsmith when you find yourself hollering along to lines like, “All the people who taught me card tricks are dying.” Wolf’s voice suggests Ad Rock’s shy younger brother with an encyclopedic knowledge of Elephant 6 vocal tics, and his new backing band gives things an organic weight and density hinted at by Wolf’s less direct work in the megahyped, sadly-defunct cLOUDDEAD.
Draft 2 -- Why? used to be a rapper who never really rapped, and busted a capella lines like “I’m not gay, I just like to know who’s at the park throwing Frisbee with their shirts off.” Now Why? is a folk-singer who sounds like Daniel Johnston if he had an enormous budget and b-boy aspirations – but still never left his bedroom. Why? somehow elevates his wafer-thin voice into a malleable musical instrument that steers his songs through the flubs incumbent in spontaneous home recording. It’s a voice that suggests Ad Rock’s shy younger brother with an encyclopedic knowledge of Elephant 6 vocal tics. Running the anything-goes eclecticism of his 2003 solo album Oaklandazulasylum through a filter of Malkmus-sized melancholia and shiny guitars, Elephant Eyelashes is among the first releases on anticon records to evoke Pavement more than the Freestyle Fellowship, and the fact that it’s far more than a curio is a tribute to Wolf’s skill and vulnerability as a songwriter, and the flat-out talent of his new backing band, who take Why?’s work from the musings of a bedroom impresario (imagine the Sebadoh hunkering down to record a batch of EPMD covers) to a full-on, geeked out rock band. Get ready for a room full of ex-high school spazzes when Why? plays with…
Editor’s response to my comments on her edits -- i'll make the changes tomorrow at work. but i gotta say, that's kinda what you get when you write so damn unclearly. if you read your first draft, and read this one, and think it's not an improvement, we'll have to agree to disagree. that i misrepresented your claims only smacks of your claims were damn near buried in your original draft. you've got 150 words to make a point. you didn't do that, so i had to. which is probably why it sounds like "someone who never listened to why?".
What went to print -- Why? used to be a rapper who never really fit in; he made choruses out of lines such as “I’m not gay/But I do like to know just who’s at the park throwing frisbee with their shirts off.” After getting his start when he found his first four-track in the basement of his father’s synagogue, Why? transitioned from rapper to folk singer with sounds like Daniel Johnson’s—minus the enormous budget and B-boy aspirations. This is a man who knows how to push pleasure centers: His new album, Elephant Eyelashes, is the first release on Anticon Records to evoke Pavement more than the Freestyle Fellowship. This new release is a tribute to Why?’s skill and vulnerability as a songwriter, and the talent of his new ensemble, which takes the songs past the musings of a bedroom impresario to those of a full-on, geeked-out rock band.
That’s right. “With sounds like Daniel Johnson’s." BIG FUCKING SIC. Top 5 alt-weekly, my eye. I'm going to grad school.
Curated by D at 2:00 PM
I used to take the bus to my 8:30 German history class. The ride took 20 minutes or so, so a few times -- even though I'm about as far from being an early bird as you can get, while still being the kind of bird who gets the worm, if you know what I'm saying -- I don't even know what I'm saying -- anyway, a few times I took the shuttle that came at 7:50, just so I could sit outside the lecture hall and watch all the pretty journalism girls bounce from hallway conversation to hallway conversation while listening, in my cute little cd walkman, to the first seven tracks of the first Pretenders album -- right up through "Stop Your Sobbing" -- and then capping it off with "Brass In Pocket," that 1980 uber-hit, while I walked through the doors and through the aisles to my seat next to the girl I always sat next to. Her name was Margery, and she was a shiny Denver dime in a cable-knit coin purse, and once I even worked up the nerve to talk to her. I don't remember what I said, but I remember she laughed, and said something back and I laughed, and I said something back, and she laughed, and she said something back, and I laughed, and then I couldn't think of anything to say, and the conversation fizzled. And that was it. No more talking to Margery, not ever again, though we sat next to each other every day the entire semester. I'm not sure if it was force of habit, or active an active stalkerly impulse on my part, though I do know it spanned the entire landscape lecture hall, and I wasn't always the last one to sit down. Yeah, right, she was following me is more plausible.
So "Brass in Pocket," right? It's one of those songs that everybody my age knows, but nobody really knows that they know until they're told what it is, and then they know it forever.
Why didn't I make the connection, you ask?
In a word, Wolfsonizing. Have you ever heard of the French nonsense poem, "Un petit d'un petit"? It goes,
Un petit d'un petit
S'étonne aux Halles
Un petit d'un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent
Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu'importe un petit d'un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes
What's the point? Well, I swear to you, I think Chrissy Hynde writes her lyrics in a cross between French and Japanese, and then listens to them with an English ear, and homophonically transliterates the words for her lyric sheets. "The Wait," as far as I can tell when I listen to it, contains not so much as a single word of English. I am quite sure that it's the work of one of those Japanese cover bands who figure out song-lyrics phonetically and then sing a sophisticated form of gibberish, without quite knowing it's wrong.
"Brass in Pocket" has always rubbed me the wrong way a little bit, because I feel like such a fraud when I'm listening to it. It's so incredibly slinky. So much slinkier than I am. There's no way I could possibly get away with saying anything like this to anyone, let alone saying it like this, and let's just be honest with ourselves. Chrissy Hynde is not talking to me. Don't get cocky, she's not talking to you either. She's probably talking to Sufjan Stevens.
Curated by D at 5:56 PM
Ahh, the Hip Rock Chick. We've all had one. If you think back, she's probably the only person who's ever made you feel like you really deserved to be alive. But she probably did it unintentionally, and she probably didn't do it for very long. Ephemeral creatures, the Hip Rock Chicks. Un-tie-downable, doing swirling butterfly loops around your head, brightening your day and then migrating somewhere warmer, because fuck you -- what did you ever do to deserve a Hip Rock Chick?
They're the hipster's philosopher's stone. Quasi-mythical, perhaps even non-existent outside the realm of lore, they're the indie-rock alembic, and they turn lead (you) into gold. The Hip Rock Chick is incredibly rare, so when you stumble upon one, it is biologically mandated that you latch onto her with ten little claws and don't let go until she tears them out at the root. Simpletons call this "crushing," and it's dismissed as self-indulgent, ponderous, sort of pathetic, if in an endearing way. But really, it's not that different from Saharan tribes guarding a watering hole -- you do what you have to do to protect from theft the things that make life bearable. Dying of thirst is one of the most painful ways to go.
You know them by sight. They wear those knee-length dresses and those calf-length boots that you think are pretty ugly but are really pretty hot. Or, t-shirts that are constantly sliding up their bellies, because they’re always waving their arms in the air, and the lots of little trinkets on their wrists are always sliding elbow-wards. The way they do their hair suggests they may have a mild form of autism. They smile a lot. A lot. But they're really mean to people they don't know, unless they have to be nice, and then they're just awkward. They're Hip Rock Chicks, and they are the greatest and rarest and hottest of all natural resources.
Far be it from me to objectify these women, though. The point is not to hold them at arm's length and squint at them like subhumans, or to praise them for their vacuous beauty or fuckability or anything so puerile as that. The point is, these are the people you'd like to subjectify. I stand to gain nothing from exploiting them, and everything from communing with them. As one of the finest upcoming Hip Rock Chicks, Khaela Maricich from the Blow, puts it in one of the greatest stupid love song in a long time, "Parentheses," "If something in the deli aisle makes you cry, of course I'll put my arms around you and I'll walk you outside, through the sliding doors, why would I mind? You're not a baby if you feel the world... although the babies, they can feel the world... that's why they cry." Download that shit here and listen to it constantly for the next week straight.
Ok, so I'm totally objectifying these women, because I'm making a top ten list of my favorite Hip Rock Chicks. It's not a beauty contest, though. The rankings are based on a carefully modulated and highly-controlled algorithm that balances looks, intimidation-factor, fashion sense, skillz, and, especially, tangible contributions to my feelings of well-being during daydreams.
The twins from On!Air!Library!, for example, are disqualified, because, although they are retardedly good-looking, they are more or less just hot girls. You just don't sense in them that just-below-the-surface tinge of bizarre occultism, the true belief in the curative powers of god or dragons and wolf-howls, or at least the garden-variety punk rock xenophobia that elevates a standard hot chick to an extraordinary Hip Rock Chick.
People like Bjork and Miho Hatori, on the other hand, are disqualified because they're not much like people as I understand people, and while that's totally hot, it falls outside of the purview of the list.
These ladies are, as much as anything, representative of their own paradigm of hot hipster chickdom. To you!
The Scottish Gum-Bubbles
The Soda Pop Jerk
The Black Angel
The Itsy-Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Poka Dot Spiders
And the other two, Wilcox and Vail, ain't so bad themselves... but you always have to look around Kathleen to get to 'em. Tobi Vail was in the first band called the Go Team, with the estimable Calvin Johnson. Now she's in some psychadelic whatchamacallit called Spider and the Webs. She's got it going on.
Besides, I don't blame her. I would change sexual orientation for Ad-Rock, too.
The Exterminating Angel
The Female Twin
The Harpy Cherub
The Archangel Uriel
Or, replace any of these women with Chan Marshall from Cat Power.
|You Are Gwen Stefani!|
All guys dream about you
And all the girls want to be you
"Sappy pathetic little me
That was the girl I used to be"
Curated by D at 2:09 AM
It's strangely fitting: All these motherfuckers have strangely Southern Literary names in the great Faulknerian tradition. There's Lonnie Stiffler, then there's Neil Havens Rodreick II, Brian J. Nellis, and Robert James Snow. They're even in Yavapai County, Arizona, which I gather is about a fifteen minute bike ride from Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi, and you can stop by Preston Sturges's house on the way for some pie and milk.
By far the best part of this story, though? This was a two-way con.
Motherfucker looks just like a thin Corey Haim, too. With a personal trainer, a lettuce diet, and some Nair, there's a starring role in here somewhere, Frog Brother.
Curated by D at 8:16 AM
And on the nipple tip: Of all the ridiculous and hilarious fetishes in the world, I think my favorite is the fact that there are porn websites that specifically cater to those who lust after "sexy Canadian teens." It just seems like an implausible implacable sexual craving, Canadians.
Caught by his wife, Reginald could only stammer, over and over, "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…. I can't help myself. I crave sexy Canadian teens!" Never mind the myriad intergrity issues, since it's pretty hard to brand a Canadian when all you've got to go on is a jpeg.
I always felt bad for people who had, like, fetishes for household appliances before they were invented (dialogue between two peasants in Schenectady, New York, circa 1751: "Shock me with electricity!" "What's electricity?"), or foot fetishes before recent breakthroughs in personal health and hygiene. In fact, I think I'm going to pitch a new slogan to Bed, Bath & Beyond.
"Bed, Bath & Beyond: a foot fetishist's best friend. Yadadamean?"
Also: Redford demands apology over Iraq. I don't give a shit about the story, but I love this picture.
Curated by D at 9:40 PM
Highwaters, capris, plus-fours, trousers, lederhosen, knickerbockers, hiphuggers, nuthuggers, jodhpurs, and the rest. There are many pants.
Hot chicks with douchebags. It’s only the greatest idea for a website ever. Pictures of hot chicks with douchebags, with acerbic commentary. And surprisingly well executed and imagined. From the FAQ:
A: The Grieco refers to the early 90s b-movie actor and star of
Q: Well then what is "The Bleeth" or "Fair Maiden Bleeth"?
A: Fair Maiden Bleeth refers to television star and Baywatch beauty Yasmine Bleeth. A former wonder of nature, Fair Maiden Bleeth found herself enthralled and charmed by The Grieco in the mid 1990s. Her time spent in such close presence to Source Douchitude infected her with enough Grieco 'Bag Virus to kill a large horse. Yet Fair Maiden Bleeth survived. Barely. Her coked out mug shot after four years of being exposed to such heinous douchitude can be seen in the archives of this blog. She is the warning to all hotties featured on this site of what awaits them if they continue down the 'bag path to greasy scrotitude.'
Also: one of the dictionary definitions of “pantaloons” is “Trousers worn in former times.” I must take the boxful of pantaloons that no longer fit me to Goodwill.
Curated by D at 6:26 AM
-Man: "I'm gonna sing 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing' by Aerosmith."
-Simon Cowell: "Fantastick!"
Curated by D at 7:35 PM
The TV on the Radio reckids are aight and everything (I'm practicing understatement, on the path to feigning indifference, in the interest of appearing hipper), but who knew "Wolf Like Me" actually sounded like this? Lookittem go, they think it's Chapel Hill in ninety fo'! It's like a punk-as-fuck version of "Highway to the Danger Zone," and that can't be bad. And you've got to respect Kyp Malone's out-of-tune falsetto backing wail at the 2:45 mark that stoically wears its course to completion, and then the way, right after it, he stomps out this intense little Devo-dance foot shuffle. And Tunde Adebimpe could sell me anything, as long as he was waving his hand in the air like that.
"Gonna teach you tricks that'll blow your mind!"
As Letterman puts it, "Yeah, I guess so. Yeahaha. Cool. Oh, that was nice. Nice to see you. Oh, that was great." What the fuck?!
And: further proof that the obvious, sane, and humane first step in post-Katrina American Affirmative Action is to subsidize indie rock and cede total creative control and 60% of manpower to non-white people.
Curated by D at 4:41 AM