I know nothing about football and I know nothing about politics. What I do know is self-editing and, later, resurrection. See? “My relationship with the Biff! Bang! words you’re reading [was] troubled, and if the Pats weren’t such a goddamn winning machine I might have signed off altogether following the Beefheart crowning achievement.” It sucks that “weren’t” devolved from conditional to past tense. Beefheart was aces though. Let no one consider it incomplete!
Everything referenced in that bye-week flashback no longer exists on Blogger—over the course of a few purges (if not thee purge), fat was trimmed to focus on, I don’t know, cream. Those posts, therefore, never had a chance to transition to WordPress and the internet, the sanest of the sane, is a better place for it. (We’re not there yet but the inevitable “RIP BBP” declaration cannot be far off.)
Other posts were left behind, victims of an artificial June 2009 cut-off point that made sense at the time (but didn’t even hold), and exist in a purgatory of minimally supported Google applications—you know your platform is in trouble when the logo isn’t remade as some indistinguishable red/yellow/green/blue rectangle. I’d have accommodated something were it deserved but carrying over a first-world lament of suburban car ownership, for example, would not be a commendable way to start over, even when accompanied by a grainy mugshot-looking photo from my then-renewed driver’s license. “Well of course he’s a murderer.” Indeed.
Still, it’s tough to accept their and Blogger’s inevitable erasure without appraisal. And preservation? And preservation! Call this the 1% milk.
“Get behind me critics”
Thursday, August 18, 2005
I’m liking the White Stripes’ Get Behind Me Satan more and more. Remember the kind of WTF response it received from much of the press? “Why is this so different? What’s with all these weird instruments? Where is ‘Eight Nation Army’?” Regarding Coldplay (a band I don’t like) and their new-ish X&Y, the big critical response was “Boy, they just keep putting out the same record!” How do these assholes hold onto their jobs? Right, because they accept promotional copies as payment. And not a lot is expected from them:
Mid-level editor: Hey junior, c’mere a minute. I’d like you to review a coupla records for us.
Unpaid intern: Sure thing, boss. What have you got for me?
Editor: The new White Stripes and Coldplay albums. You heard them?
Intern: You bet! Get Behind Me Satan is different from their last one, which I liked. It sucks! And then X&Y is the same as their last one, which I liked. It sucks!
Editor: Great work. Now get me a chicken cutlet, you fucking maggot.
[The apology: My “you fucking maggot” button was flat-out stolen from Boston-based comedian Paul Nardizzi. Shameful behavior. Blogging then-acquaintance “JeN” responded to the post with gold: “Nobody listens to critics, just look at how many poor bastards paid to see The Dukes of Hazzard.”]
“I am it”
Friday, August 19, 2005
I’d like to thank some internet dude for asking me to list ten songs I’m currently digging. Downside: in the tradition of chain letters and pyramid schemes, I must tag five people myself. This rookie blogger will therefore resort to some serious NEXT BLOG clicking, and all that’s gotten me so far are typo-rich deep dives into Miami-based contractors and discount contact lenses. The Dolphins suck, their fans should welcome blindness and this one goes to eleven because… I don’t know, What Are the Hours?
- Le Tigre – Deceptacon
- The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Servo
- White Stripes – My Doorbell
- Stooges – Fun House ✔️
- Cat Power – Free
- Dead Meadow – The Whirlings
- Mr. Lif – Phantom
- Mountain – Sittin’ on a Rainbow
- Kinks – Wicked Annabella
- Blue Cheer – Out of Focus
- Dr. Octagon – 1977
[The retrospective criticism: Volume 0 remains forty-one minutes of white heat, especially with new Nigel Tufnel artwork.]
Irony defined
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
A. and I stepped off the Red Line in Porter Square the other night, crossed above the tracks toward the exit and heard a huge bang accompanied by a flash of light. We walked over to see what happened and it turns out the departing train clipped the metal DANGER: THIRD RAIL sign—the kind with cartoon lightning bolts all over it. The mini-explosion was caused by the sign falling and landing on the third rail.
[The vocabulary: Irony is properly defined.]
“The ‘Judas!’ guy”
Sunday, October 2, 2005
I taped No Direction Home the other night but have yet to watch it. Here’s hoping Martin Scorsese tracks down the dude who yelled “Judas!” during the Manchester show in ’66—this guy is immortalized. One can dream…
[The regret: I never did watch No Direction Home. Judas!]Scorsese: Wow, almost forty years since the infamous “Judas!” performance! What are your thoughts? How should the world remember you?
Judas Guy: I went to the doctor the next morning for a regular physical—he told me I had aged fifty years in the previous twenty-four hours. That sums up my legacy, alright… standing there with a man’s finger up my ass as the world passes by.”
Scorsese: I understand. I mean, it really makes you look foolish in hindsight. But why did you feel so betrayed? Isn’t it a performer’s right to do what he or she wants instead of catering to an audience? Besides, he’d been playing electric sets for almost a year at that point—it wasn’t shocking like it might have been at Newport. All you had to do was leave after “Mr. Tambourine Man” and you would have been all set.
Judas Guy: Part of me hoped Bob’s artistic and adventurous expression would whither against a collective fear. In the larger scheme we were trying to affect change in society, but by our rules—once someone challenged us with a different set of rules or, rather, with no rules at all, it wasn’t as satisfying. Especially Bob, who would’ve been nowhere without us. He wanted to go in strange new directions, directions we couldn’t control.
Scorsese: “No direction home!”
Judas Guy: Right. That integrity freaked us out.
Scorsese: [Considers this.] I see. [Pauses.] Sounds like a backwards goon squad, if you ask me.
Judas Guy: [Silence.]
Scorsese: And he got a nice chunk of the gate that night. Large venue, your money, his pockets.
Judas Guy: [Silence.]
Scorsese: [Notices a stack of records.] Hey, you still have Bringing It All Back Home! Mind if I play “Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream”? That shit is funny.
Judas Guy: [Silence.] [Eats own poop.]
Scorsese: Nasty!
“I, Juror”
Monday, October 10, 2005
On Thursday I served jury duty, which is what I get for voting. I expected a DMV-style environment at Cambridge’s Middlesex County Courthouse, one filled with morose and hostile bureaucrats, but everyone I encountered could not have been nicer despite the depressing twenty-story eyesore itself. The bailiffs who signed us in and hosted our orientation, the court officers who escorted us around during the day, the judge who explained our role and its importance… these were people who genuinely appreciated our time and seemed happy in their work. They could have soullessly gone through the daily motions but instead did their best to keep the mood light—I don’t care if they use that same “If you have one of those letters from work saying you’re too valuable to be away then hang onto it and ask for a raise” joke every day to each new crowd because it’s more than they need to do.
I did sit on a jury and had a blast. My panel and another were ushered into a courtroom as the jury pool for a case of “wanton destruction of personal property valuing more than $250.” Judge Marcia Thompson-Jackson, before asking the basic screening questions, told us the trial would be over by the end of the day. That’s all I needed to hear: I wanted in.
(Political aside: Judge Jackson gets my write-in vote for governor of Massachusetts based solely on the poise, reasoning and self-assuredness she demonstrated in those three-plus hours—and we’re going to need a new one, with Mormon Mitt eyeing a White House run. Third book of the bible? Come on.)
Based on my juror number I was one of the first invited into the box. I did my best to look focused yet unbiased—cool motherfucker—and it must have worked because of the eight of us originally called up, half were rejected by the prosecutor or defender. (Called to serve once in my early twenties, I stared at the ceiling to emphasize my (bad) goatee and was promptly rejected. I can turn it on and off at will.) A bit more turnover and we were left with three guys (including me) and five women, with two of the women randomly selected to serve as alternates and kept apart from us real-deals outside of the courtroom.
The trial itself was fascinating—essentially, a woman (twenty-five or so, looking like a strung-out Amber Waves) had pressed charges and sought $1,000 in damages against her ex-boyfriend (a few years older, dead ringer for Manny Ramirez) for slashing her tires outside of the nail salon where she worked. He denied it—his alibi was that he was at his friend Laura’s house at the time, and when pressed to provide Laura’s last name he said he didn’t know. Well done. Aside from the useless testimony of the cop who showed up a half hour afterward, it was he said/she said.
(Also: $1,000 for four new tires? Are they made of opium?)
Amber and Manny had broken up two years earlier after dating for about six months. I use “dating” loosely, because when each was asked about the nature of their relationship they individually answered “We used to go together.” “Hey, do you want to have dinner with me?” “Nah, let’s just go somewhere. Together.” “Together.” “Square One Mall?” “Right on.” Amazing.
This… deep?… background set up a near-Hollywood moment, which occurred during Sleepy the prosecutor’s cross-examination of Manny. After a series of mundane questions when she passed up opportunity after opportunity to really grill him (like with “Laura’s” last name), out of nowhere she demanded “What’s that on your left arm??” The defense attorney objected immediately and the judge called the two over for a conference. It turns out Manny has a tattoo of the girl’s name on said bicep… a tattoo he got after they’d split, which would indicate an inability to move on. Judge Jackson (if yer nasty) didn’t allow the question and, for some reason, that was the end of that—I don’t know, it seemed valid to me! So… if we weren’t allowed to hear this information, how do I know this information? Let’s just say the room’s acoustics are not ideal for private conversation.
This win for the defense only emboldened Manny’s lawyer, who jokingly complained during closing arguments that his client was not as physically attractive as the plaintiff. A concocted strawman argument based on superficial beauty is reason number one to embrace jury duty as public service and entertaining sideshow. Highlight of the day.
Afterward, in the deliberation room, it took the six of us about five minutes to realize we were in complete agreement: Manny probably did it, but there wasn’t enough evidence to eliminate doubt. Too many unanswered questions (it was frustrating to not be able to ask our own), no witnesses, little to no context of the actual crime, apparent laziness and/or lack of preparation on the prosecution’s part, etc. Not guilty. It was well past noon by this point so we enjoyed a free lunch courtesy of the commonwealth—still separated from the alternates—with a sunny view of Boston across the river. The pressure was off and we chatted over decent sandwiches, giving the otherwise-nice foreman (also picked at random) opportunity to repeat “In my gut I think he did it, but they just didn’t make the case” for two hours. We know! We were there! We agreed with you and signed off on the verdict! Just enjoy your roast beef. “In my gut I think he– ” Shut up!
Eventually—it was a looong break—we returned to the courtroom and delivered the verdict. Amber and her family cleared the fuck out of there, trailing smoke and acetone, before the foreman even hit the L in “Not guilty.” (I was sympathetic.) Manny broke into a shit-eating grin as his somewhat sleazy (though effective) lawyer predictably slapped him on the back and envisioned a late night of cold pizza, A Few Good Men and drunk-dialing his ex-wife. We were led out, told our obligation was complete and shown the elevator.
We all rode down together and one of the alternates (neither of whom knew our verdict until it was read aloud) made some flip remark about injustice, and when asked if she’d have voted another way she said yeah. Her heart was in the right place but her brain was in the toilet: any one of us could have prosecuted the case better, but that was someone else’s job. “In my gut I–” Stop it! We did the right thing. I was home before three.
[The religious persecution: I tightened this up, de-Pulp Fiction-ed the nonlinear storyline and christened our former governor, failed presidential candidate and current not-completely-batshit-but-still-Republican-so-fuck-him senator from Utah “Mormon Mitt” Romney for no good reason whatsoever. I’m also a full-on suburb-o now and understand that four new tires do cost at least $1,000. Drag.]
“I officially hate the Clash”
Monday, October 24, 2005
Last week A. and I met a friend and her new boyfriend for dinner in Harvard Square. It was assumed that he and I would get along because we both are “really into music.” Riiight.
Over drinks and pleasant conversation, the overhead speakers (neutral to that point) inserted themselves with “Train in Vain” by the Clash—a popular band, sure, but so are the Eagles—and I groaned because I’ve never liked them. Here we go.
The boyfriend: You don’t like the Clash?
The elitist: Nope.
The boyfriend: What’s wrong with you?
The elitist’s brain: You tell me, motherfucker!
When I was a freshman in college I nearly came to blows with someone over the validity of the Doors—I was (am) a fan and later learned he was as well but enjoyed playing the contrarian. I’ve—matured?—some since then, and so “Nope” was the right answer this night. Boyfriend can have that privileged reggae/disco/rockabilly bullshit all to himself and, during “Stay With Me” and another round, I can learn him the difference between the Faces and the Small Faces, alright? Our food arrived just in time.
To be certain, I… acquired… The Clash, Give ’Em Enough Rope, London Calling (shudder), Sandinista! and some early singles over the weekend. Until recently I had a similar aversion to the Ramones because I thought they were just aping the Beach Boys—turns out that was the point, and I can enjoy them now that I get it. Giving the Clash the same rope opportunity was only fair, so how’d it go? Here are the albums I enjoyed:
…
And the A-side singles:
…
And the B-sides:
“1977”
No born-again moment this time! Other than a generic throwaway, which Thee Mighty Caesars improved, I didn’t like one goddamn song from their so-called imperial phase. The Clash are just another adult-contemporary band I won’t hear without groaning and about which I won’t elaborate beyond “Nope” when asked if I like them. I’m in my thirties, will not be swayed and shall do no swaying—who gives a shit? The Clash suck and I hate them. It’s official.
[The update: The boyfriend didn’t last, and neither did about half of this post. Not kosher!]
“The year in something or other”
Friday, January 5, 2007
What a 2006. I started a new job, completed school for the rest of my life and finally admitted to myself, wholeheartedly, that attacking Iraq was a bad idea. Delayed good sense is ugly all over. At least it was a good year for music though, right? There were more than five good new songs on popular radio this year… right? No? So it was exactly like every year since about 1993?
That explains why my what-I’ve-been-listening-to playlist consists mainly of stuff from years past. Decades past, even! Volume 1 (hubris!) fits snugly on an eighty-minute CD for some reason, with burners and players on the way out. Drag. I might as well fill a ninety-minute cassette next time. Here we go!
1. Black Angels – Black Grease
The first Black Angels song I heard (I thought it was some Spacemen 3 thing), which has appeared in this identical mix of this identical recording on all three of their releases. Fishy.
2. Edan – Rock and Roll
Extra points here for sampling the Small Faces’ “Ogdens’ Nut Gone Flake,” which I keep telling A. would make great introduction music at our wedding reception, followed immediately by that album’s successive “Afterglow (of Your Love)” as our first dance. I will not win this one.
3. Syd Barrett – Octopus
My iPod loves “Octopus” so much it should be renamed “Octopuses,” which is the correct plural form—not “Octopi.”
4. Black Keys – Strange Desire
I wrote plenty about these guys already. Or, that was my intention until I procrastinated enough to… black out… on the show’s details.
5. Taj Mahal – The Cuckoo
It must have been odd to hear something like this (or the Kinks or the Band, for that matter) in 1968 when everyone was going berserk in the studio. Wonderfully berserk.
6. Elephant’s Memory – Mongoose
In the dark, the cobra waits
And his eyes glow red.
Like a flash comes the mongoose
For the battle head to head.
Mongoose!
Mongoose!
Mongoose!
Mongoose!
7. PJ Harvey – The Life and Death of Mr. Badmouth
Uh Huh Her was a criminally ignored album… by me, after I bought it the week it came out in 2004. Why do I file PJ Harvey under P in my CD collection and the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion under J but the Jimi Hendrix Experience under H? These are the problems I create for myself.
8. Make-Up – Substance Abuse
Here’s to my recent decision to sell my turntable, since flipping records—especially singles—is a real pain in the ass. I’ve got this single (b/w “Under the Impression” and “Have You Heard the Tapes?”) but I also have the band’s I Want Some singles compilation CD… which do you think is easier?
9. Electric Banana (a.k.a. Pretty Things) – It’ll Never Be Me
Since the Pretty Things never cut it from a commercial perspective (thankfully, because I’m not sure a commercially successful band would have been given leeway to produce SF Sorrow and Parachute back to back) they masqueraded as Electric Banana to record soundtracks for cheesy sixties flicks in order to earn some bread. Never officially released, a lot of this material stands head to head with the band’s best.
10. Julie Ruin – On Language
Kathleen Hanna’s precursor to Le Tigre. The Kinks? The Guess Who? Buy this album now.
11. DJ Shadow – Fixed Income
2006: Also the year I questioned non-ownership of The Private Press.
12. Yo La Tengo – Pass the Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind
This rhythm is implacable! And it’s hard to resist I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass as a grand album title, up there with Billy Joel’s I Am the Death of Rock and Yes’s No… No!
13. Ice Cube – Dead Homiez
People went nuts over “It Was a Good Day” in ’92 but “Dead Homiez” is the sad-ending companion. Damn.
14. Split (a.k.a. George Brigman & Split) – Blowin’ Smoke
Stooges-like guitar? Check. Stooges-like vocals? Check. Stooges-like song title? Check. Another nugget courtesy of WMBR.
15. Dead Meadow – Stacy’s Song
From last year’s Feathers. I need to bump up the number of women here—does a backup singer count?
16. Rolling Stones – Miss Amanda Jones
I love Between the Buttons and no one ever talks about it, likely because it fell between—har! har!—the corner-turning (and gratuitous) Aftermath and the frequently shit-upon (but pretty good) Their Satanic Majesties Request. It’s a somewhat shocking album because the band went all three-minute-pop-song on us, including a transparent (and OK) attempt to write a Dylan song (“Who’s Been Sleeping Here?”). The penultimate “Miss Amanda Jones” previews what the band would be doing five years later with Exile on Main St.
17. Mudhoney – Blindspots
The triumphant return of Mudhoney… again! We are all better for this band’s persistence. “Blindspots”—your 2006 song of the year—got me pretty excited for Under a Billion Suns, but after downloading the rest I determined it was… fine. I’ll keep trying.
18. James Brown – It’s a New Day
It certainly is. RIP.
Eighty-minute caps are for wimps—this bonus EP mocks the snug-CD format, since you can’t spell “excessive” without “excess.” Or “vice.”
19. Six Finger Satellite – Funny Like a Clown
Rhode Island’s finest! I’ve been getting into 6FS again after scoring The Pigeon Is the Most Popular Bird on eBay. Unfortunate and strange that their albums are out of print because they were on Sub Pop and once had a strong college-radio following around here. At least you can download their final two from iTunes, though I’m guessing Paranormalized comes without a scan of Dr. Chimpanzee examining a topless dancer with a stethoscope.
20. Can – Mother Sky
Clearly a band I need to research. If I know them better I might fall in love.
21. Howlin’ Wolf – Moanin’ at Midnight
Here’s a guy I’ve liked awhile but I only reached the buying stage after watching the documentary The Howlin’ Wolf Story. How about a release of that juke-joint set they kept cutting to, the one with a drunken Son House flailing about? It’s raw power aside from the heavy-handed saxophone.
22. The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Servo
23. Mr. Lif – Phantom
These two are lifted from August 2005’s primordial playlist exercise in weeding out early Blogger friends. (“Do you like Ryan Adams?” No.) I’d help myself to Cat Power’s “Free” and Mountain’s “Sittin’ on a Rainbow” as well if thirty minutes weren’t already stretching the limits of an EP. Now who’s the wimp!
24. Vanilla Fudge – You Keep Me Hangin’ On
A couple of months ago I… performed… this Supremes song at a work karaoke party. It didn’t go well until I resorted to recreating the Fudge cover by slowing down the delivery and ad-libbing a bunch of begging/pleading nonsense, completely out of time with the backing track. Open bar? And how! There ain’t nothin’ I can do about it!
[The sarcasm: Commenter “Shtnstar” corrected me that Dead Meadow guitarist/vocalist Jason Simon is the “female backup singer” on “Stacy’s Song.” “It’s different from the rest of Dead Meadow’s catalog because it was written and almost exclusively performed by ex-member Cory Shane (Edan’s buddy).” “My bad,” I responded. “In other I’m-wrong news, Howlin’ Wolf isn’t the dude’s real name, his real name is Cory Shane. Which would make Edan who? You guessed it, Mr. Willie Dixon!”]
“Straight couture, homey”
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Chicago Bears
Best uniforms in the league. Fantastic football colors, intelligent sense of tradition. Enough said.
Oakland Raiders
The whole package is the antithesis of Al Davis in a white warm-up suit. Badass.
New Orleans Saints
This is some fantastic under-the-radar shit these guys are wearing! All-time-great helmet, stunningly good all-black pants.
Indianapolis Colts
I don’t understand why shoulder/arm stripes never seem to go all the way around, but I’m not a seamstress so probably I just don’t understand how difficult a pattern that is.
Pittsburgh Steelers
Absolutely classic, even if they did run out of money before they could apply the steel logo to the other side of the helmet.
Green Bay Packers
Can’t go wrong with anything here. Good example of defining a letter as your logo, because how do you stylize a packer? Don’t answer that.
New York Jets
Reverting to the Namath-era look was the best thing this team has done since the actual Namath era.
Miami Dolphins
Great colors, great tradition and the wise choice to let the color white carry most of the load.
New York Giants
It’s simple and it grows on you like uptown AIDS: 8.8
Cleveland Browns
Even the dog masks some of the superfans wear are pretty cool, in an I’m-so-preoccupied-with-the-Browns-I-don’t-even-notice-my-wife-is-sleeping-around kind of way.
Kansas City Chiefs
Kudos to the Chiefs for embracing the color red even if the name’s gotta go.
Washington Redskins
Who really remembers what a team is called or what symbol they use to represent themselves?
Dallas Cowboys
How many shades of blue does a team need?
San Diego Chargers
Leave it to a loser franchise like the Chargers to tweak their design in a nod to the Air Coryell era, only it turns out to be a barely perceptible nod that might be mistaken for a Tourette syndrome tic.
San Francisco 49ers
Gotta give props to the typographic logo, the best they could have done outside of a bearded old coot kneeling in a dry riverbed.
Baltimore Ravens
If this wasn’t the great opportunity for a pure black and white uniform then nothing ever will be until the Columbus Crosswords join the league.
Buffalo Bills
You’re almost there, you just need to change almost everything.
Cincinnati Bengals
This is a great example of how the NFL is making the world a worse place with pants.
Atlanta Falcons
The falcon is a goddamn F. Not the grade, the letter!
Tampa Bay Buccaneers
The new look unabashedly rips off the 49ers, with pewter (pewter!) in place of gold. That showed real mettle.
St. Louis Rams
They moved to St. Louis and swapped out mustard for soggy gold—that’s why the Pats went for it in XXXVI.
New England Patriots
Those old Pat Patriot reds are killers. George is getting upset.
Houston Texans
Houston is in Texas? Are you sure? Can this be reflected in the logo somehow?
Carolina Panthers
More teal, please!
Detroit Lions
Enough with the prancing circus lion. They could switch the logo to a cursive D with whiskers on it and I’d be more impressed.
Philadelphia Eagles
[The current slate-sort-of-green] is not even a color, it’s like someone soaked the jerseys in mud all offseason.
Jacksonville Jaguars
How about that late eighties/early nineties teal explosion?
Seattle Seahawks
Sure, just desaturate the shit out of that blue and then overwhelm it with neon piping.
Denver Broncos
I miss the overwhelming orange of the old jerseys. Everyone’s wearing blue fucking jerseys now.
Arizona Cardinals
Phoenix suggests a certain color palette and brick red isn’t it.
Minnesota Vikings
Just get together with your friends in Cincinnati and have an intervention—NFL pants are functional and should stop there.
Tennessee Titans
I can’t understand why this team isn’t called the Nashville Kings, that would be incredible.
“This is Wal-Mart do not panic”
Thursday, October 9, 2008
I own an Xbox 360 and enjoy using it to make Lego Chewbacca dismember Lego Stormtroopers and to pretend Tom Brady is still alive. Lately, though, A. and I have even taken to setting the world ablaze with our color-coordinated riffing via Guitar Hero III. Fuck yeah.
When I first heard of this genre I thought it sounded ridiculous—it is—but I enjoy ridiculous things like Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins and Love’s nineteen-minute “Revelation.” After an all-night session of Rock Band at a friend’s house we couldn’t deny the fun factor and were hooked right away, clean through to 3 a.m. Yikes! We awoke the following morning and shot straight to Target for GH3, because that’s all our small PRC apartment could handle. Alas, the game came with only one guitar, and playing together as adorable couples do would require a second wireless guitar—sold separately with some assembly (sticker application) required.
Last Christmas I got an iPod adaptor for the car, one of those you have to wire into the back of the stereo. It sat unopened because our car has a tape deck (old school!) and we already have one of those flimsy-yet-functional cassette adaptors that don’t require professional installation—meanwhile, the Wal-Mart gift receipt hung out in a drawer long enough for its return/exchange period to lapse. Well shit. It took a planned visit to my dad’s in New Hampshire to start the let’s-get-away-with-something wheels rolling, thinking that if they sold the same adaptor in actual stores then they might take one back for store credit. Wal-Mart store credit, but credit nonetheless, and I figured Wal-Mart must sell video games and be able to afford a little red ink. Why not try to return the iPod thingy and see about getting ourselves a tax-free “guitar”? Properly motivated, we hit the Jaffrey store after dinner for some scam-o-rama. Nice, right? Nice.
Except: not nice. The plan was a brutal failure, with the no (valid) receipt and the no return. To make matters worse we ventured back to the electronics department after the unpleasantness and discovered that, in fact, they did carry the individual GH3 guitar we sought. Drag. Homeward bound, then, and empty-handed at that.
Determination (mine) insisted the plan would work in the long run to spin that iPod refuse into a good time. Before long we ventured to central Mass., land of countless Wal-Marts, so we figured we’d give the return trick another shot in Lunenburg. This store’s close to where I grew up and the whole strip-mall sat on a manufactured hill that was once a lovely cow pasture—I loved driving by those fucking cows as a kid. I figured the bastard capitalism of this attack on childhood wonder and, well, bastard agriculture might shift some points our way when we stopped in on the way home.
And—huzzah!—it did. The nice old lady working customer service accepted the return without question, even going so far as to cut open the security tape (we never opened it since we always planned to return it) and taking everything out to make sure nothing was missing. I didn’t mind this overt corporate mistrust because it meant they had to take it back, since she was the one to ruin its pristine newness. The resulting sixty dollars in credit was (we learned in Jaffrey) just what we needed for the guitar—hallelujah! Let’s (v)rock! As we practically jogged to the electronics section I had the sensation of shoplifting and it was wonderful, exhilarating. But rats! No prize in stock. Well shit. I did anticipate this setback at my mom’s and mapped out other Wal-Marts more or less on the way back to Cambridge—perhaps we’d get lucky in West Boylston, Hudson or (the inconvenient last resort) Framingham.
Route 190 is a scenic north–south highway I enjoy touring year-round. I’m always surprised at how little traffic it carries on the weekend, though I suppose Worcester isn’t quite a Saturday-night hotspot unless Vince McMahon and friends are in town. So I had no problem with a southward detour to West Boylston unless, of course, the West Boylston store was also sold out… which it was. Drag.
Getting lost on the way to Hudson was not as lovely as cruising 190. I had a bad attitude going into that store and a worse one walking out after learning “We only sell the Wii version.” This was not working out, and I was in no mood to deal with Route 9 and its Framingham/Natick Shopping Madness Spectacular. I also didn’t want to go home without that friggin guitar. So off to Framingham it was, even if we should’ve been home an hour and a half ago.
As it turns out, the fourth (fifth, really) time was the charm. They had like ten of those fuckers on the shelf, and you’re goddamn right we took our time picking out the perfect one. We got home too late to even play but who cares—we’d just gotten away with something, however minor in the grand scheme of things, and that’s what counts when dealing with The Man. But you knew that, right? Use your wheels, it is what they are for!
[The fallout: A. and I broke hard from the couple who introduced us to Rock Band when their Second Amendment lunacy became too much to bear after one of the dozens of horrible school shootings over the last decade. I’m sure they voted for Trump twice since then as well. Good riddance.]
“What’s wrong with Peter King?”
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Say what you will about context, but Peter King is writing some crazy shit this week.
Wake up, Washington. You know what I dug out of my closet the other day? Form-fitting Detroit Tigers pajamas. Now we’ll see if all the sweat pays off… nausea and terminal ugliness… miso soup… people would watch that.
Not to be preachy but there’s hope both for the killer and the killed. What happened when the action was really live? Discipline! The redemptive quality of accidental death grips you. Taut. Sounds like the script for a commercial.
An altogether needless Brett Favre leads the nation in screwing, scurries from one explosive reacher to the next. How about throwing it to Jay Mohr? I’ve been staring at that dude since I’m a kid and it’s time I do something about it. Thirty-four inches! He’s used to giving, struggling to fit, now I’m ready to take all his powerful stuff out of spite. Just wake up every morning and go. We’ve been in here forty-five minutes? I thought it was ten or fifteen. Pick him up and have it done in two days, only with more aggression, dripping with sweat in the center of some hotel. I tell you, there’s nothing sinister about packers, and I feel very good about the nuns, but you can only mow your grass so many times. Tell them to eat balls. Who knows? We’ll all make it. You’re welcome.
[The clarification: I deleted the old Sports Illustrated links because they no longer work. I promise the man did write these words over the course of two June 2009 articles.]
“Marc and Debra Blain have real problems”
Sunday, January 24, 2010
A slight non-musical exploration while I rejoice in one evil (the Colts) defeating another, greater evil (the Jets), while the greatest evil of them all (the Favre) mentally prepares for how he will swiftly and publicly blame Adrian Peterson for the loss. (It’s tied at twenty-one right now but there’s no way the Saints lose this).
“A new monument, given to [my town] just two weeks ago after Veterans Service Officer [Fruit Loop] wrote a letter of application for it, won’t be placed on [the town square]. And it may not be coming to here at all.” Really dodged a bullet! As an American, this whole “USA” thing is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because when I’m filling out some international form or declaration or shit like that, when I get to the COUNTRY line I can write three silly letters and be done. And two of them are vowels! And the third is like the most popular consonant. Those letters don’t even need to be written out, they’re assumed and shit.
I’m very nearly drunk right now.
The downside of such a catchy acronym is that people can sculpt ridiculousness based solely around its simplicity, with a little warmongering richness added for flavor. A. and I moved to town last spring and we’ve enjoyed its lack of an overt political heaviness. We’re both cranky independents who get pretty worked up when it comes to (I think Favre is hurt!!!!) people who feel entitled—so independent, in fact, that we bucked the system and never got around to re-registering to vote. Ha! Eat shit, Washington!
Who knows if us not voting in the special Massachusetts The-Future-Is-Brilliant-and/or-Fucked senatorial election will matter in the long run. (Also the local election to decide if town taxes should (touchdown, Saints!) be raised to build a new police station, and frankly I was more interested in those results. Not interested enough to take three or four minutes to update my voter registration, but still interested. Whatever. It was defeated—take that, fuzz!) So back to that entitlement thing. Maybe I would have voted for Scott Brown (probably not) and maybe I would have voted for Martha Coakley (also probably not, since I saw her glad-handing at North Station twice in the last two weeks and noticed a Quadimodo-esque hunch that is dangerously under-reported). In fact, I probably would have voted for Joseph P. L. Kennedy because he thought he could win based on coincidence and outright deception, which is how most elections are won anyway. That guy got one percent of the vote, which might not sound like a lot except that ninety percent of the people who voted for him probably thought he was an “actual” Kennedy. Bravo.
Anyway, Coakley only recently realized that she had to earn (fumble!) our votes, and that’s why she lost. In true I-can’t-believe-I’m-losing-to-this-guy fashion, Brown did everything short of bitch-slap his daughter when he announced in his victory speech that she was available for sex. He also kept telling us about the truck he drives. Redacted campaign slogan: SLIP IT TO MY DAUGHTER IN MY TRUCK OR THE TERRORISTS WIN.
Onward. The above… monument… would have pulverized every political, sensible and ironic fabric of my beautiful mind and body. Marc and Debra Blain have real problems. I like the quote comparing the thing to a commercial sign because unfortunately that’s what “USA” has become—a brand name that “patriotic” ninnies can holler in unison while neglecting to bring their non-illuminated flags in from the rain. Right. If your national anthem describes war and your veterans’ memorials honor violence then it’s fair to accuse “Occupying force!” when your humanitarian aid workers arrive bearing machine guns.
Anyway, I play Risk online with my friends, and Kamchatka is a key country (oblast). I’ve been staring at the word “Kamchatka” off and on for years playing this game, and just now I still had to look up how to spell it. I don’t wish I lived in Kamchatka, because I like it here and it’s where I keep my stuff. But I wish my country were called “Kamchatka,” “Eastern Australia” or even “Tinycockistan.” Try putting that on a bumper sticker! Anything to make people think twice about yelling it over and over when they have nothing better to say.
Tied at twenty-eight.
[The awakening: Democrats remain imperfect but our independent ideology didn’t age well, and neither did the original linked Wicked Local article. The artless horror almost ended up in Alabama (of course) before landing for good in Biden-winning Arizona—no wonder Kyler Murray wants out!]
“Saw that big-time James Cameron flick this weekend”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
It’s impressive entertainment, a fresh take on a wonderful original idea. Many say the special effects steal the show and that the narrative suffers from too many action-movie clichés… but I happen to like action movies. And yeah, the special effects are stunning.
In summary: humans have “colonized” an alien planet for an undefined period of time, though long enough to establish infrastructure, governance and industry and to adapt to the atmosphere and geography. Overt signs of hostility between the humans and the (native?) alien race they encounter are present, but that doesn’t matter to the slimeball representative from “The Company.” He only cares about harvesting something, likely for use as a weapon based on most everything the human characters bring to the story—this is clearly a military operation first and a scientific one second.
Cameron knows armaments, or at least has a futurist’s grasp of armaments. Personnel vehicles too—you can see the roots of those transport ships back in The Terminator. He gets into combat tactics as well, and thankfully realizes that all the technical flair in the world can’t necessarily defeat a determined enemy with home-field advantage. (I love how the human troops only seem capable of looking straight ahead and not up or down, particularly since they were decimated in the end by an overhead attack. Think in three dimensions, people!)
Alien was a slow-burning thriller and I think this film works just as well in its own way to continue the story. Indeed, it holds up after almost twenty-five years—Aliens is that good.
Hey, we saw Avatar the other night too. It was pretty good.
[The pride: Bravo.]
All of the above (sans Peter King’s guest authorship) went through minor rewrites and/or significant cuts before this strange carryover. Call the remaining extracts sips the skim milk, and the sediment sticking to the glass to be juvenile self-importance protein. Strategic use of bracketed ellipses is in.
“So I’m a blogger”
Friday, August 5, 2005
I’ve never kept a journal or anything and my first goal will be to write in my own voice, not one resembling Bill Simmons’s, Ken Tremendous’s or Jason Josephes’s. S apostrophe S is correct in all instances. […] Sorry ladies, I have a girlfriend.
“Zenith year!”
Saturday, August 6, 2005
We can probably blame Elektra for the Doors’ Waiting for the Sun. […] “Five to One,” “Hello, I Love You,” “The Unknown Soldier” and “Not to Touch the Earth” are fantastic songs that point to the album’s potential but filler reigned once side-long suite “The Celebration of the Lizard” fell apart in the studio. “We were afraid to touch it.” Drag.
“Keeping music evil”
Friday, August 12, 2005
I’m not one to hype a best-of compilation but you can’t go wrong with the Brian Jonestown Massacre’s double-disc Tepid Peppermint Wonderland retrospective. […] Good liner notes too, even if the cover looks like it was designed in PageMaker ten years ago.
“Enhanced offerings? No thanks”
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Today, the US Government Accountability Office released the results of a study of skyrocketing price increases across the education market—it’s a fantastic summation of everything that made me wash my hands of publishing sales. The Association of American Publishers, representing such titans (and former employers) as Pearson and Thomson, would have you believe this is necessary in order to “meet the needs of students.” A golden calf!
“Kevin Millar is on dope”
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Was he explaining who is the Tully Banta-Cain of the Red Sox?
“Alien 3.1”
Monday, August 29, 2005
Hicks and Newt are part of the story! They weren’t killed off during the opening credits! That’s good writing!
“Ladies and gentlemen, your 2004 American League champions!”
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Next to me on the train was a woman wearing a 2004 AMERICAN LEAGUE CHAMPIONS shirt. Who wears this in an age when WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS versions are plentiful? Defeating the Yankees was huge but not renting-a-shirt huge.
“Friday night laundry party”
Friday, September 2, 2005
While putting my stuff in the drier I ran into one of the resident middle-aged, single, eccentric women in my building. I asked how she was doing. “Tired,” she answered, before adding “Couple that with what’s going on in New Orleans [Katrina] and it’s been quite a tough week.” Um, what?
“Thoughts on a New Hampshire wedding”
Tuesday, September 6, 2005
An all-eighties soundtrack is puzzling at first but all bets are off once “Safety Dance” plays, and the one-two punch of “Jump Around” and “It Takes Two” is artistically, aesthetically and athletically breathtaking (if not eighties-exclusive).
“Thoughts on a New Hampshire wedding” (comments section)
Wednesday, September 7, 2005
It’s a good thing we didn’t hear “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” or else everyone’s clothes would have evaporated.
“Tomatoes, strangely”
Wednesday, September 7, 2005
At the end of my cubicle row, where people usually put out leftover cake and bagels and such, there is a large bowl of cherry tomatoes. Where did they come from?
“Tomatoes, strangely” (comments section)
Thursday, September 8, 2005
Someone put out the tomatoes again. God help us all.
“Tuesday morning quarterbacks”
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Stick a man on a park bench to mentally undress every woman who walks by and he’s a pervert. Put a thermos in his hand and he’s a bricklayer.
“Nerd alert!”
Friday, September 16, 2005
We hosted a party some sophomore night when En Vogue’s “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It) came on the radio.” This one girl didn’t believe my observation that it samples James Brown’s “The Payback” so I played that one next and blew her damn mind. […] I had to push her out the window.
“William Dawes’s horse is rolling over in its horse-grave”
Saturday, September 24, 2005
There are brass horseshoes set into the concrete, along with a plaque identifying it as the spot where William Dawes began his midnight ride in 1775 to warn the colonists of the encroaching Regulars. […] These are some serious bastards we’re talking about.
“Confessions of a list-maker”
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Ask someone to pick “the best” Public Enemy song and it will ruin their week.
“Scruples vs. Netflix”
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Are we supposed to feel guilty about rating a holocaust film the same as a silly family film? And what happens when I go rate Back to School five stars in a minute?
“Fact-checker wanted”
Sunday, October 30, 2005
If you’re going to be a loudmouth, at least be an accurate loudmouth.
“It’s football season so please move on”
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
A. and I had the news on Monday night and hadn’t yet heard about Theo Epstein’s resignation. The sound was muted (!) but the chyron read THEO RESIGNS, and A. correctly inferred “Oh no, Theo resigned!” (as in quit). “No,” I responded “it’s re-sign” (as in signed again), because that was the story earlier in the day. Language is a funny thing.
“Lost in the maize”
Saturday, November 5, 2005
Davis Mega-Maze is a seriously large cornstalk maze in central Mass. that we learned about in the AAA newsletter. No AAA discount though. Fuckers.
“Redemption, Cambridge style”
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
I love walking to Harvard Square and taking advantage of the forty-second WALK light that kicks my sanity in the nuts whenever I’m stuck trying to drive through. Forty! Seconds!)
“Loyalty is: Royals… Athletics… Red Sox… Yankees…”
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
It’s hard to blame Johnny Damon because the Sox brass seemed caught off guard, like they assumed the whole negotiation would work itself out as they sat around selling patches of Fenway Park grass to lamebrains.
“A mysterious ooze”
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The motherfucker was mortally wounded and bleeding on me.
“You can keep ‘In My Life’”
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
During an awkward sixth-grade dance a friend and I went up to the DJ to request “Black Dog” or some shit. “You just want something fast,” responded the gross old bastard, “so you can watch their titties bounce.”
“‘How can we manifest that as a problem?’”
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
I mean, that would be my guess if, say, I kept shitting in my own pants. Because seriously, I’d have bigger things to worry about then. But only then.
“Back for more!”
Friday, March 17, 2006
[Elephant’s Memory’s] “Mongoose.” 1970. Phenomenal. I recognized the opening drum bit from Cypress Hill’s “Latin Lingo” so I was preconditioned to like it.
“The retail power of sitting”
Monday, March 20, 2006
I can never remember the name of the place so I call it the Woodcock, which makes A. laugh against her wishes.
“Nudity!”
Monday, May 15, 2006
Poor Duran Duran had to write a song called “A View to a Kill” for the soundtrack. Rivers and perverts are tangible things you can wrap scenarios around, but this? Maybe they grasped what viewing to (at?) a kill really stood for. Maybe they lived the viewed-kill life.
“I found myself admiring a homeless person today”
Friday, May 26, 2006
Now I know that dreadlocks, for some people, have a spiritual significance. But this [white] woman has one giant, horrifying dreadlock down to her ass.
“All your chair are belong to us”
Sunday, August 13, 2006
“Get that bastard a new goddamn chair!”
“Between light and delete”
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
During Sci-Fi Channel marathons of The Twilight Zone, I no longer need to throw an eight-hour cassette into the VCR every July 4 and be happy with whatever episodes they’re running. I DVR what I want, watch that shit and delete it as fast as I can.
“WEEI must be stopped”
Friday, August 25, 2006
In 1993 I saw the Butthole Surfers in Gardner at the PA Beach Club, née the Polish-American Citizens Club, renamed as if Kendall Pond were a coastal tourist trap. Similarly, the band was abbreviated as “BH Surfers” on the ticket in a world of prudish acronyms gone mad. They played after supposed headliner Stone Temple Pilots and Scott Weiland self-immolated at the Searstown Mall later that night.
“True love”
Saturday, August 26, 2006
The first song played during my WZLX reign of Springsteen-dodging terror will be “Sister Ray.” Song number two? “Sister Ray,” some bootleg live version! Shit yeah!
“Let the Polamalu suck-off begin!”
Friday, September 15, 2006
A few years ago my friends and I drove to East Lansing for a Michigan State/Penn State football game. Nick Saban was the MSU coach at the time, and the undisputed highlight of the weekend was some guy shouting “You suck, Saban!” all game long from a few seats away. We still crack each other up with that one.
“Shame and the electric jug”
Monday, December 18, 2006
Every time I go to Newbury Comics […] I pick up either The Man Who Sold the World, Hunky Dory, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust & the Spiders From Mars or Aladdin Sane and almost buy it.
“Blacky MacBlackenblack & His Blackest Blackness”
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Black Angels were great but I quickly developed a bias against the female keyboard player. She had what Lee Ranaldo called the I’m-in-a-band look (he would know) and was sort of swaying/grooving throughout, eyes closed, etc. I’m sure it was intended as blithe seduction and whatnot but it too closely resembled what happens when you’re walking along and your knee halfway gives out midstep, only over and over.
“This guy here, this is the guy”
Monday, April 2, 2007
One of the benefits of instant replay is hearing these guys make a definitive statement like “Oh, he clearly stepped out of bounds there, Jim,” seeing on the replay that the player remained in bounds after all and then listening to the dead air of an unacknowledged mistake.
“Pizzeria Uno? Cheesecake Factory? It must be the Boston Marathon!”
Monday, April 16, 2007
Visiting Americans and non-Americans alike were flocking to the chain restaurants—I had to plow through a crowd of people just dying for Pizzeria Uno, or otherwise too lazy to see if this “Boss-teen” has other restaurants. […] Of course, the Prudential subway stop is adjacent to the Cheesecake Factory, where another lazy mob waited to eat exactly what they could at home. I understand the familiarity of a chain restaurant—wasn’t that the idea behind McDonald’s in the first place?—but if I’m visiting San Francisco or Chicago I hope to seek something with local flavor. Like Chili’s!
“More marathon observations”
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Many runners are determined to wear these mylar blankets the entire rest of the day and night while walking around the city, in a very I-ran-the-marathon-and-you-did-not manner. Sorry, dude, I was busy drinking my ass off and not bleeding out of my nipples.
“I have no words”
Monday, February 4, 2008
“In case you’re wondering, my blog is the shit”
Friday, October 3, 2008
“Bring in Daunte Culpepper. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BRING IN DAUNTE CULPEPPER!!” Nitwit.
“Item! Manufacturing sports opinions is not journalism”
Friday, November 14, 2008
If only there were commercials where coaches’ postgame press conferences were edited into a bunch of hilarious out-of-context quotes in a way that told me what kind of beer to drink.
“The death of quick sizzle”
Saturday, April 4, 2009
I heard a live version of “The Joker” rearranged as a reggae jam. It was like chocolate and peanut butter, only if the chocolate were anal rape and the peanut butter were AIDS.
“The wait begins”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
We know Ice is hiding an Uzi but what about Beth Ditto? I bet it’s a pizza.
“Bruins fans are the worst”
Thursday, December 9, 2010
James Brown is telling me that Christmas is love and I’m inclined to be swept away by that for the remainder of the ride. I haven’t even reached Lynn yet. I wonder if anyone drank as much as I did.
“Justified carpooling with satanic results”
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
If I get mugged on the way to the parking lot, I’ll lie on the cold ground afterward and think of the part toward the end of Black Sabbath’s “Into the Void” where the soloing guitar track rejoins the main riff.
“I hope Jess still has a job”
Thursday, January 20, 2011
I don’t know if “Jess Will Type Headlines Here” is a legitimate story subject—it links to a dead page—but I figure Jess is goofing off on Facebook.
That glass up top looks mighty delicious, am I right? Mmm. Pure cream. How about that 2005 production? Such output! Drink up, then! (Snicker.)
I fooled you! Har! Har! Pictured, in fact, is one-percent milk with but a splash of cream! Assuming cream is just shy of one-hundred-percent milk—that being a solid white block—then said splash enfattens it to, say, one point zero five percent milk. Again: mmm.
That’s it, for real: all the best content I did not bring with me to WordPress, abridged and repackaged for some reason. Were it possible for Biff! Bang! Pow! to have fewer readers, they would surely be More Cream Please’s. Watch Blogger get its new logo any day now—red, blue and yellow all over. Oh well. No crying over spilled… what’s that stuff?
More Cream Please 