Let's End The Week On This...

I have no additional comments to add, other than goddamn I wish I lived in a time where the people who employed scare tactics as a way of keeping the general population in lockstep had bananas graphic design skills like the ones displayed above.

Now we just get "The More You Know" ads on NBC and color-coded terror alert charts that mean less than a pocketful of miracles.

Weak sauce, dudes. Lousy modern times...

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

Okay, so I know that insomnia is where you try and try and try but, no matter the methodology (counting sheep, warm milk, chugging NyQuil, a crowbar across the temples), you simply cannot fall asleep. I've got a deeper understanding of that concept than you'll ever know. But my question is this: What do you call it when you fall asleep easily, but then wake up every hour or so and you can't get comfortable because your bed feels like a thousand itchy, warm bricks and the sleep you do get is fitful, dreamless, and like suffocating on an old sweater that's been in an attic for a thousand years and you can taste the stink of age and decay in the back of your throat all night, every night, for about a week? What do you call that? Because that's basically where I'm at right now. And believe me when I say this, kiddos... it ain't exactly fun like a petting zoo of mythical creatures that grant you wishes and frozen yogurt. If this situation is any kind of petting zoo, it's one that's filled with old cats who can't control their bladders and a dog that wheezes like an old-timey car and a dirty cardboard box filled with dead gerbils. And I think we can all agree that that sort of petting zoo isn't fun at all.

Anyway, if you can cut through the thick vegetative growth of my petting zoo metaphor, I think you'll find that I'm very, very sleepy right now and I'm seriously considering taking a nap under my desk until at least 2009.

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I am so making quesadillas tonight. All golden brown and slutty, dripping with cheese like an 80s saxophone solo. God, they're going to be so good. I feel sorry for all of you, what with the not being at my house later on and all.

And that's not an invitation for you to crash our party, mind you. This is an exclusive, invite-only engagement and if you show up, I'm calling the cops. Oh and they'll come... with guns and nightsticks and tasers and at least three bazookas. You want to get your face bazooka-ed off? Nope. So step off my quesadilla, motherfucker. No one has to die tonight.

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Girlfriend and I went to see the brand-new, Broadway musical Cry-Baby, last night. It's based on, obviously, the film of the same name by John Waters, who's trying to make lightning strike in the same place twice a few years after his previous, super-duper successful show, Hairspray, which for some reason I still haven't seen (I mean I've seen the original movie, but I haven't caught the stage show, nor have I seen it's other cinematic incarnation; the one that features the soul-scarring, Travolta-in-fat-drag performance). But Cry-Baby: The Musical... It's a good show. Lightweight, perhaps, but not everything has to be Les Miserables. Lots of singing, some great dance numbers, funny jokes, and a game, peppy cast. All in all, an enjoyable evening at the theater. But here's the thing: Our tickets were free. It's not important how I got them (let's just say there will be some videos released on the internet later this month of which I am not proud). What is important is that we were able to go into this show without any sort of financial burden hanging over heads, demanding that we enjoy this fucking thing seeing as how we'd already shelled out our hard-earned cash.

And that right there is the problem with seeing a Broadway show... and I know this isn't exactly breaking news or anything, but still... they are too goddamned expensive. Example: good seats to see Cry-Baby are $120. That, my friends, is a lot of money for a show that's entertaining, sure, but not what anyone would call a reinvention of the wheel, theatrically speaking.

I guess what I'm saying is this: If you can get free tickets (by any mean necessary, wink, wink!), or if you can get some cheapo, $30 seats... by all means check it out. It's fun. Otherwise, don't worry about it. You'll live.

The California Supreme Court has overturned the ban on gay marriage!!! Kick-ass, truly... this is a huge victory for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered men and women everywhere, as well as those of us who aren't of said persuasions, but have totally got all their backs in this national bar fight for equal rights.

One step at a time, kiddos.

Got Pride? I Do.

Things You Put In Coffee

Sugar - Acceptable, as long as you're not one of those people that puts enough in your cup to send a diabetic into a stricken, shambling gate down the hallway, his slowly-turning-purple lips desperately trying to form the word, "insulin." I mean, do you really need a sugar rush on top of the caffeine boost? Freddy Krueger isn't going to get you if you fall asleep; that was just a movie. Also, stay away from all the Splendas and the Sweet N' Lows and the Equals and all the other cancerous powders that the government insists are better for you, even though they've got a dumpster full of a dead lab rats that say otherwise. Use the raw, natural stuff that grows on farms. Sure, you'll end up looking like Marlon Brando in his declining years (when he started to resemble a large, poorly-upholstered sofa) but that beats dying from a tumor so large, it has teeth, fingernails, and an undergrad degree from Fresno State.

Nothing - Saying the phrase, "I'll take mine black," makes every other penis in the room shrivel up and hide like a fighter plane is strafing the greater crotch region of it's owner's pants. Coffee, unadorned, tastes like crap. Unless you're getting some sort of fancy-schmancy coffee from Belgium or Italy or Heaven or whatever that's been farted on by virgins and blessed by nine Cardinals and flavored with the tears of the Christ child right before the Wise Men showed up all, "We've got gifts, homes!" That probably tastes okay. But the regular coffee that you get like in offices and car dealerships and airport terminals... put that junk next to a bucket of hot diarrhea and you'd be hard pressed to tell the difference, were it not for the chunks. So if you can drink coffee without anything added to it... well, then... you're officially the boss. Of everything and everyone. What can we do for you, you magnificent son of a bitch?

Milk or Cream - Gross. I mean, I like milk and cream... love what they've done for baked goods and chowders... but they don't belong in any cup of coffee that I'd personally want to be involved with. I mean, you like the taste of burnt milk? Really? Do you also like it when babies get stolen by wolves and Prom Queen's get hacked to death by escaped lunatic circus clowns and whole towns get swallowed up by the Devil because he got hungry one day? Why do you like all these horrible things? Why are you such a horrible person. Every dead serial killer just appeared to me in a fever dream and said, "Yeah, I know, but did you see that guy... he likes milk or cream in his coffee. We're all officially disgusted, and we've eaten drifters." So, like, by all means keep putting milk and cream in your coffee. But know that John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy and The Night Stalker and Jeffery Dahmer think you're just awful.

Flavored Syrups - What the fuck is your problem? Coffee isn't supposed to taste like "Vanilla Swirl" or "Snickerdoodle Surprise" or "Mocha Java Cartwheel" or "Mixed Berry Yogurt shoved up the Candy Man's Ass." Coffee, as previously stated, is supposed to taste like hot nastiness. That's the American way! A little sugar, maybe, to take the edge off... some milk, if that's the way you lean (you sick fuck)... But. That. Is. It. None of this "Pomegranate Wing-Wang" or "Frosted Cream Cheese Sex Machine" or "Apple Pie a la Your Mom." That's for little girls, and you're not a little girl anymore, no matter what your Strawberry Shortcake bloomers might lead people to believe. You wear them for comfort, and that's fine. You sissy.

Whiskey - There was a time in my life where putting whiskey in my coffee was the only thing that got me up in the morning. Thankfully I've moved on from those days. Yep, now I wake up, take a hot shower, skip the coffee, and just drink the whisky straight from the bottle while crying under a bridge. Then, after hitting the Off-Track Betting joint, it's on to work! Where I drink whiskey straight from the bottle while crouched under my desk. Don't fucking bother me, I've got knife, man. But yeah, some whiskey in your coffee is a no-sweat way to make your day a tap-dancing miracle of glitter lights and moving sidewalks that whisk you to Happiness Junction, which is a small suburb of Life Is Great-istan. The noon hangovers are no joke, though, so watch out for those.

Nice Day

I don't know what it's like where you are, but sweet baby Jesus on a Razor scooter is it a fucking gorgeous day here in New York.

It's all sunny and cool in the shade and there's a breeze and the asphalt hasn't trapped in all of the sun's heat yet so we're not baking like Toll House Cookies in the industrial oven called Manhattan. It's sooooooo nice, you guys. I mean, doye, the horrible heat is going to show up soon enough and then they'll have to make a Daniel Day-Lewis movie about it called There Will Be Sweat and he'll win an Oscar but it will have melted and then his tears won't be from acting. They'll be real. And we'll all be like, "Thanks Mother Nature, you made a great actor cry like a orphan" and she'll respond by vomiting humidity on us until the world is a sauna and we're walking around like old Russian men in just towels and flip-flops, our collective junk on display like so many wrinkly kiwis.

Or grapefruits... ahem...

Look, my point: Right now, it's lovely outside. I'd like to find a bar with a patio and sit there with beers that never stop coming and a jukebox that plays only the songs I like and maybe some friends to keep my company, but if they couldn't show up, a book would be just fine too. Because guys who read alone at bars are all intellectual and mysterious and not scary nerds addicted to sadness at fucking all, YOU HEAR ME, EVERY GIRL IN AUSTIN, TX DURING 2001???

Whatever, I don't even care, I've got a girlfriend and she's AWESOME.

Anyway, I think this weekend... if the weather holds... I'm going to make a strong effort to think about possibly considering doing something outside, maybe. Like... um... walking? Or sitting on a bench? Or... something...

You know, I've got a lot of Netflix to get through... tell you what, you kids go do some outdoorsy crap and then tell me all about in detail so I can really feel like I was there. 1000 words and please check your spelling. Pictures would be a bonus, particularly if anyone is wearing a bikini. Chicks or dudes, not picky.

Thanks!!!

Unacceptable Uses For Robots

Robots are meant for dealing out cold-eyed death (like in Robocop) and/or being sassy housekeepers (like in The Jetsons). Using them for any other purpose is unacceptable and will only lead to a society like that one in the shitty Will Smith movie where robots are everywhere and then suddenly they're all evil... Six Degrees of Separation, I believe it was. This cannot be. So, to illustrate my point, I've provided below five example of how robots are currently being used in a manner that will ultimately lead to the downfall of our civilization. No need to thank me... unless it's with a large, gold statue. Which you worship. I will also take cash.

Robot Conductor (Symphony)



Giving them control of our music is like handing them the keys to our nation and saying, "Drive, you metal bastards! Drive us straight to hell!!!" You know the first thing they're going to do is ban rock and pop and soul and jazz and replace it all with techno. Because they, themselves, are techno!!! Well, they're techno...logy, which is essentially the same thing. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life listening to "thump, bloop, bleep, ping, blat, thump, bloop, bleep, ping, blat?" I mean, maybe it wouldn't be so bad with a kickin' bass line and some Red Bulls, but still... sometimes you just want to listen to a David Bowie song, but when the robots take over, you won't be able to. They'll kill David Bowie. Because he's awesome and they can't have him leading the revolution.

Surgery Robot



Hey Mr. Robot, why don't you slice open my chest cavity and poke around with your sharp robot fingers and your robot lasers and... oops... it looks like you chopped up all my organs into fresh sashimi and then you ground my spine into a fine powder because, doye, you're a robot and I'm a fucking idiot! C'mon, people... some of these aren't that obvious, granted, but this one's common sense. Give the robots a taste of blood and they're only going to gain sentience that much faster.

Robot Soccer Players



So cute, right? They're all kicking around a ball with painted-on smiles and how could they possibly cause our world to die screaming? Because this is how it starts, people!!! We teach them sports and it's a charming novelty, but then they start to get good at it... first soccer, then basketball, then baseball, then football... hockey, they leave alone (ice is not their friend)... and suddenly, all our major athletes are out of work. Do you want to deal with a down-on-his-luck Alex Rodriguez? A broke and desperate Terrell Owens? A junk-sick and crying Tom Brady? Of course not... and no one's going to pay to see these games. There will be no thrill, no joy in victory, no sorrow in defeat. Just clanking metal and goal after three-pointer after home run after touchdown and on and on and on. Oh, and the world will blow up because of that. Somehow...

Robot Band



Remember what I said about the Robot Conductor? This is "Phase 2." What you can't see is the audience, who are all strapped in with their eyes pinned open Clockwork Orange-style and the music... the techno music... can barely be heard over all the screaming. And the worst thing? The band's only doing techno covers of David Bowie songs. Can you imagine how demoralizing that would be? It's like a slaughterhouse shoved in your ear times a million.

Robot... Um... Jellyfish, I Guess

I don't know what these are. And that scares me. But I have a theory... Somewhere, deep underground, below a mountain in the Rockies, there's a large, cold room with a water tank hooked up to every computer mainframe in the world via a special series of wires bought at Radio Shack on sale. Inside this tank... they sit. And wait. And monitor all the robot conductors and robot surgeons and robot athletes and robot bands and, when the time is right... when the world has been sufficiently saturated with their mechanical brothers... they'll strike. They'll cut the power, the gas, the phones... everything. Our world will be plunged into chaos. Then the robots take over. For good. And as their techno anthem rings in all our ears, these guys will remain in their tank, running the show. They will become the new face of God.

I'm pretty sure that's what these are. Unless they're like some weird Japanese toy or something. Then never mind.

"Get Better" by Mates of State

This is the new single from Mates of State's latest album, which I believe hits stores today, or maybe next week. Not sure. But you should buy it because they're one of the few consistently awesome bands out there these days. And they got kids to feed, so support, support, support!!!

The video features animal masks, choreography, a terrorism bear, and a very pregnant Kori Gardner, whom has since had the kid.

BONUS: Here's a shot from their just-filmed music video, taken from their extremely readable rock-stars-are-also-parents blog, Band on the Diaper Run. Looks neat-o!

It Came From Chinatown...

And we're back!

Being in Arlington last week sucked monkey butt, kiddos. For a lot of reasons... the whole death thing, of course (which: lame), the sleeping on a couch for an extended period of time, the constant motion of a family in crisis, and... yes... the not getting to eat weird foods for your various, sick pleasures. It felt odd to let a week go by without cramming something unholy and possibly hazardous into my face... really odd. Like the phantom itch felt by people who have just lost a limb. My hand would raise to my mouth, my throat would clench, my tongue would attempt to exit out my eye socket, but there'd be nothing there... nothing horrible, anyway. Only a can of Dr. Pepper and the sense of living in a world gone mad. Fortunately I had plenty of BBQ to staunch the flow of pain and regret. So much brisket, my sweat was smokey... (sigh)...

But that's in the past. As I said, we are motherfucking back! It's ICFC time again and smiles and tap dancing and rainbow sword fights on a cloud made of little-kid's letters to Santa!!! This weeks grossness du jour... Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake:



How we've made it this far into the project without choking on something tofu-based, I'll never know. We were blinded by the vast array of processed fish bits, I guess. But anyway, lets talk Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake. Two things, first impressions-wise: When Girlfriend handed me the above package, I was sure she was just kidding... food, as a general rule doesn't weigh as much as a cinder block dipped in iron and stuffed with Rosanne Barr. I hoisted this package, babies... hoisted. There's no other word to describe it. Okay, "heavy," I guess, but that's about it. Also, while glancing at the nutritional information (I'm always on the look out for listed ingredients like strychnine or Ebola), I noticed... and you can see it there... the term, "Thick Soy Sauce." Not sure why, but the thought of a thick soy sauce... all salty and pasty and vile... makes my stomach do a lazy barrel roll like a drunk stunt pilot about to crash into a barn. So glad it's a part of the thing I'm going to eat. So glad.

Here's one piece of the Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake, which deceptively looks like a homemade brownie:



Seeing as how it smells like a bag of jockstraps left in the closet of a deserted gymnasium, I'm going to assume that it doesn't taste like a brownie. Unless I've been wildly misinformed about brownies. Okay, let's do this:



Huh. Now it looks like an Eskimo Pie. These are the Transformers of nasty food.

Girlfriend, as you can see, has encouraged me to take a big, honkin' bite... to go for the gusto, and go for it I most certainly did. Which I immediately regretted:

Dry. Not quite like the Mojave Desert, but like you've just licked the seat cover of an old car on a hot day. And it's dense. And... urgh... sweaty. Eating a Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake is akin to chewing on a large hunk of foam rubber that's been used as a floor mat for a high school wrestling team from a poor neighborhood somewhere in the deep South. I tried to choke it down. I really, really tried. But it crumbled in my mouth and multiplied like a science-fiction virus and suddenly I couldn't breathe and all was lost and then...

I spit it out:

Other than the hot peppers from a few weeks ago, I've never actually not been able to eat something. But this... I mean, yikes. Look at it. It's like a smashed cake, still chunky and mostly solid, and that's after having chewed it up for a good thirty seconds. Inedible, truly. And it's almost entirely due to the texture. Flavor-wise, it just tastes kind of blandly whatever. Certainly not as bad as it smells. There's maybe a hint of sodium, a note of fishiness, but really there's just not a whole lot going on. That texture, though... people always joke about bad food tasting like construction materials but, perhaps for the first time, that is no longer a joke. This actually has the mouth-feel of the thick insulation you'd use in cold-weather climates to cut down on heating costs. In fact, I'm not entirely convinced that that's not it's intended purpose. Because I can't imagine people chowing down on these for fun. They're not fun. They're unpleasant beyond your wildest dreams. Beyond the stars, even.

So of course, it was decided that I should maybe try one more bite. This time, however, with the aide of a little American ingenuity:

Now, in the past, I've made a big fuss over ketchup and how it's the condiment version of a uni-tasker: "For Fries Only," has been the line I've been selling, and until last night, I was convinced that it was a rock-solid dogma upon which a man could build his life.

Turns out, though, if you squirt enough ketchup on a Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake, it provides enough moisture to help you force it down your own throat! Who knew?

So congrats, tomato-based ichor, you've been upgraded! To multi-tasker!!! Though don't get too excited; you're not getting anywhere near my hot dogs and hamburgers.

Anyway, the ketchup helped me at least swallow a bite of the Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cake, but it didn't magically turn it into a tasty appetizer for the TGI Friday's menu or anything. Mostly, it just made it taste like ketchup, and it lubed it up enough so it'd slide down my gullet without triggering any vomit alarms. Probably not something that the Heinz company is going to want to use for their next press release.

So, final verdict on the Flavored Tofu Soy Bean Cakes? Easy-peasy:

Oh, and sorry I made you all look at my ABC food. But you knew what you were getting into when you started reading ICFC. It was bound to happen sometime.

Be sure to tune in next week, friends and and neighbors, for the ICFC Season Finale!!! I have no idea what it's going to be yet, but we'll try to make it super special. And disgusting.

See y'all then!!!

Know Your Enemy: The "BuzzCuts" 2-CD Alternative Music Compilation

Watching TV the other night, Girlfriend and I were assaulted... that's right, assaulted... by a loud, smelly commercial touting a 2-CD compilation of "the biggest alternative rock hits of all time." It goes by the name "BuzzCuts," which is the hippest name on the planet according to the 40 year old marketing executives that read a study about being with-it during the last financial quarter. Say it a few times and see if your tongue doesn't frost over from the coolness. The ad went on to say, that, "If you're a lover of alt rock then this CD is a definite must have." It also referred to said collection as being full of "blazin' tunes."

Lies. All of it. Okay... maybe it's true that some of these songs were hits, but who cares? Having a hit record in this day and age is like winning a "Best Pants-Shitter" competition at a summer camp for fat kids who've never heard of love. You won and you got a trophy and that's great... but in the end, all you've really produced is shit.

So, in an effort to help you Know Your Enemy, I've taken the time out of my busy schedule (of drinking!) to write out for you a detailed list of why this 2-CD compilation will aide in your demise, should you mistakenly purchase it of your own free will. Now, yes, there are a couple of exceptions... a few songs scattered across this particular auditory landscape that aren't that bad; good, even, provided your idea of "good" is warped and gruesome. These are traps... these are the candy held out by strangers to lure innocent children into the unmarked van of horrors that is the "BuzzCuts." Beware, kiddos, and heed my words.

Take heart these lessons, for one day they may save your life. Or, you know, save you $26.99 plus shipping and handling.

Disc One

"Kryptonite" by Three Doors Down - For about two months, this song was on every morning at 7:36am as I drove from my apartment in South Austin to my early classes during my first year of college. It talks about Superman and some other stuff and it's basically the root of why it took me forever to finish school; having this song stuck in my head for so long killed off a part of my brain that made it difficult for me to learn. Also, every member of Three Doors Down looks like a guy that would try to sell you speakers out the back of a van so they could pay back a drug dealer for some skunk weed.

"Fat Lip" by Sum 41 - They're punk, but in quotes. Like they heard of punk... not the actual music, just the concept... then they made an album that they think would probably sound like that, or at least like the way it was explained to them during 6th period gym by this one guy with a pierced eyebrow.

"I Miss You" by Blink 182 - If you have to listen to a Blink-182 song, it might as well be this one. Granted, that's like choosing from a selection of guns the specific one you'd like to have placed against your temple and fired until the only sound is a chorus of dry clicks and dripping blood, but still... you might as well go with the gun that's the least obnoxious.

"Blurry" by Puddle of Mudd - I've heard it said that if you plow into a group of school children at exactly 63mph, the sound of the impact is precisely the baseline to this song. Spooky! Puddle of Mudd are in league with whatever minion of the Devil handles shitty music!

"I'd Do Anything" by Simple Plan - I don't know this song, but I do know the band. Parenthetically, I've never seen the mangled bodies of all the hookers that Jack the Ripper killed, but I know enough about him to assume they sounded just awful.

"Celebrity Skin" by Hole - What a desperate need for fame and attention sounds like.

"Sour Girl" by Stone Temple Pilots - I liked STP as much as the next dude that was a teenager during their heyday, but this song isn't exactly a good representation of their work. It's like a guy trying to convince you he's a doctor by putting a Band-Aid on skinned knee. At least take out my appendix or play "Interstate Love Song" or something.

"Last Resort" by Papa Roach - During my heavy frat party attendance days, there was always some big fat guy called Bear or Oink or Hoss or Ox or The Fart that would stand on a coffee table and sing along with this song with such conviction, it wouldn't have surprised anyone if his head had exploded in a shower of meat and Budweiser. Those were pretty good times, generally, but having to watch that sad display every weekend was a bummer on par with a swift kick to the kneecap right before a nice walk on a sunny day.

"Running Away" by Hoobastank - They could play music that sounded like Jimi Hendrix and Elvis and John Lennon formed a power trio called "Your Awesomness Delivered" and their music would still suck llama nards because they have the worst band name ever in the history of musicians deciding to call themselves whatever lame, inside joke is currently making them laugh through the drug haze.

"Hanging Around" by Counting Crows - Adam Duritz is kind of a douche (cue sound of Girlfriend hitting me with a rolled up magazine), but this song is catchy. It gets a pass, but remember what I said earlier... TRAP!!!

"Lakini's Juice" by Live - I have no problem with the band... they're a little overwrought, but "Lightning Crashes" was okay... but this song is just awful. Like they were having a really bad day in the studio but were up against a deadline and just went, "Whatever, just take this. Now who's up for IHOP?" And they went to IHOP and had a lot of good pancakes and then suddenly this song is a minor hit and it occurred to them that they don't have try and next time you see them, they're performing on American Idol and you can just make out the scarring on the back of their necks where the soul was removed.

"Hanging By A Moment" by Lifehouse - This is your favorite song if you have no idea what kind of music you like. It's pleasant enough, or at least not offensive, and you just heard it on the radio so... yeah... that's your favorite song. And your favorite movie is whatever Will Ferrell is in right now.

"The Way" by Fastball - I saw them at some sort of festival show in Dallas like ten years ago and believe me when I say there's a reason they flogged the ever-lovin' shit out of this song. It is literally the only decent one they can play. Like, this is it. All their other stuff sounds like The Wallflowers got thrown in a garbage compacter with a stabbed cat who can't play guitar.

"What It is To Burn" by Finch - No one has any idea who this band is or where they came from. This song just showed up on the album one day after the "BuzzCuts" staff played a round of Bloody Mary in the men's room on their lunch break.

"The Chemicals Between Us" by Bush - "Sixteen Stone" was the only halfway-decent album Bush ever put out, so if we have to have a Bush song on this thing, let's not pick one from that. We have standards, people, but in the opposite direction from what's normal.

"Smooth Criminal" by Alien Ant Farm - This song, the video, the band itself... they're like that one time you were hanging out with friends and this one guy's little brother did something retarded and you all laughed about it for a week and then forgot about it and then, like two months later, someone brought it up again and you all collectively go,"Yeah, why was that so funny? Just seems stupid and kinda lame now." I'd like to believe that somewhere, somehow, Alien Ant Farm is reading this analogy and slowly nodding their heads before heading off to the liquor store.

Disc Two

"Higher" by Creed - The worst thing to happen to music since the day Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Richie Valens all died in that plane crash.

"Meant To Live" by Switchfoot - It's good to keep a few Switchfoot albums around the house, just in case you decided to end the evening with some date rape. Makes for excellent background music... like, it's not going to be too distracting while you're date-raping, but it makes the whole affair a little more atmospheric and easy. Like really the ideal situation for date rape, which is sometimes a hard balance to hit.

"Butterfly" by Crazytown - These guys got kicked off of the Ozzfest tour a few years ago. Ha! What do you have to do to get kicked off of the fucking Ozzfest tour?!?! What...? Oh, you have to do a lot of heroin. Yeah, I guess that would do it. So let me get this straight: These guys are junkies that sing about butterflies? That's like a parody of the sadness wrapped around music that makes deaf people cringe.

"Hemorrhage (In My Hands)" by Fuel - What's ironic is that, whenever Fuel sings this song, elderly people within a 500 yard radius die instantly from a brain hemorrhage. Which is why Fuel concerts look like Dr. Kevorkian's waiting room the day after Christmas.

"My Own Worst Enemy" by Lit - Girlfriend really likes this song, and even can play it on the guitar, so I'll give it a pass. Begrudgingly, but that's what you do for love.

"I Will Buy You A New Life" by Everclear - Like the band, like the beverage. Odd coincidence: I was really into this song at exactly the same time in my life that I was really into floating an inch of Everclear on the top of all my drinks. Isn't that an odd coincidence? I think so. I think it's also why I can't remember phone numbers anymore and I still have to do math on my fingers.

"Amber" by 311 - An old roommate of mine was so into 311, I thought about killing her in her sleep as an act of kindness like when you shoot a horse with a broken leg. I didn't go through with it because I'm a weak, weak man and now I've got this regret hanging around my neck like bling made of concrete. Because 311 is just the worst, you guys. They're everything that's wrong with everything. Even stuff that doesn't have anything to do with music. If your car won't start or your Dad dies all of a sudden, it's more than likely 311's fault.

"Somewhere Out There" by Our Lady Peace - Putting the ballad from An American Tale on the "BuzzCuts" album was an interesting choice, but it's nice that they're getting outside their comfort zone and trying new things.

"Bodies" by Drowning Pool - Obviously this song is annoying and worthless, but it's also kind of funny because it's been used on every other action movie trailer since the day it hit the charts. It's like the point where shitty music and shitty movies cross each other, which from a historical perspective is rather interesting. I mean, culturally it means we're fucked as a species, but still... historically of note.

"I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace - No, no, Three Days Grace. It's US that hates everything about YOU. But nice try, writing a song that tries to flip the situation. That's like telling everyone that you hate Becky because you know Becky is about to spread rumors about you because she saw you buying hemorrhoid cream at the drugstore. Way to act like a sixteen year old girl, Three Days Grace.

"Inside Out" by Eve 6 - Eh. They had a couple of songs, including this one, that were alright. Not a band I'd rush to defend if a critic was making fun of their mothers or anything, but I don't pray for a car wreck if they happen to come on the radio while I'm driving. A wash, really, which is more than you can say for most of the bands on this list.

"Send The Pain Below" by Chevelle - You... named yourself... after a crappy, early-70's muscle car? I just spray-painted the word "Oooookay" on the side of goat and then chained it to a pole in Jurassic Park so a T-Rex could it eat and die from an acute case of "WTF????"

"Where Ever You Will Go" by The Calling - This is sort of the same thing as that Lifehouse tune from the first disc, but this is way worse because I think they're supposed to be all Jesus-y or something. Or maybe it's Lifehouse that's all Jesus-y. Whatever, they both blow convicts in the prison showers of popular music, so it doesn't really matter. One of them will be praying while they gag and one won't.

"Fly" by Sugar Ray feat. SuperCat - A good song the first 100 times I heard it. Then it slowly took the form of a surgical scalpel and every time it came on the radio, it removed another chuck of my flesh. So now I look like the Hollow Man about halfway through his transformation from Kevin Bacon to an invisible guy. Thanks, Sugar Ray. Your inoffensive radio pop has flayed me alive. And SuperCat... you can just die because your name is SuperCat. Gross, for real.

Pot Head

Three teenagers were arrested this week for attempting to use a corpse’s skull as a bong. Let me say that again... teenagers, corpses head, bong. Chew on that for a second.

Now, without clicking on the article, guess where this happened:

A) In a Dean Koontz short story
B) In the dark second-half of the new Harold & Kumar flick
C) In a sheet-drenching nightmare
D) In Texas

Okay, time's up. Let me tally the results here...

Looks like everyone came up with the same answer: In Texas! And you're correct, you smart fucking people. Because Texas is where the freaks live and work and do their freaky shit in the graveyards at night under a harvest moon.

Seriously, and I mean this... you're killing me, home state. It's getting real fucking hard to defend you when you keep pulling shit like this. I think I'm going to start telling people I'm from Hawaii or something, because they don't use cemeteries like head shops over there. I assume. God, tell me I'm right; I don't want to have to pretend to be Canadian. I don't care for hockey.

Friday Morning Hodgepodge

I'm so tired, you guys. This week has drained me of all my energy like a vampire who runs on people's energy instead of blood because he thinks blood is all icky and stuff (he also invented Red Bull; true story!) (not true at all; C-dog lies). I think part of the problem is that, during my week home, I got used to sleeping in a house just packed to the rafters with icy, cool air conditioning. There was so much of it... cold blasts pumping in currents through the rooms like a river made of sherbet and Snow Queen tears. It was awesome (and hangover friendly!), but now it's over. I'm back in my apartment, which, like so many other apartments in New York, is sans central air. We have windows, sure, but come the motherfuck on. Windows are like a crying tranny trying to sell you a handjob for crank money next to the super-cute, punk rock drummer chick that is air conditioning. There's no comparison. It's the difference between eating a picnic lunch in the park with your friends and getting shot in the face at close range while withdrawing money from an ATM late at night. Goddammit, I hate windows so fucking much!!! Fuck!!! I'm so tired, you guys. So tired...

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Last night, a year after the fact and at least two or three months past the point where everyone stopped caring, I finally got around to watching Juno. If ever there's a movie that comes dragging behind it a fuckload of pop-cultural baggage, it's this one... the whole stripper thing, the slangy dialogue that apparently everyone hates, Diablo Cody's dress at the Oscars, it making a bazillion dollars by word-of mouth which means that hipsters have to hate it, and so on and so on. You know what I'm talking about. Juno whipped up a hurricane-sized backlash not seen since The Blair Witch Project and it was with that in mind that I sat down to check it out, unsure if I'd be able to separate the hoopla from the film itself (I'm not very smart, so it's a challenge). So, was it a Best Picture-worthy masterpiece of comedic brilliance. Oh, probably not. Did I enjoy the fuck out of it? Yep. Big time. Totally connected with the characters, the story, and the techniques used to display same. I'll admit that some of the writing smacked of trying too hard, but only a little bit, and mostly just in the first twenty minutes or so. Once the plot got rolling, all that kinda calmed down and then it was golden throughout. Ellen Page earned all the buzz she got, for sure, but the rest of the cast was just aces too. Special hollas to J.K. Simmons as Juno's dad; he's the kind of father I'd like to be one day. When I'm ready to have kids. Which I'm soooo not right now. Much like Juno herself. Ah, how the universe all connects directly to me!!! Fascinating, no? (no).

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The Texas Rangers got their brawl on!!! Two things: 1) how fucking huge is Richie Sexson (the guy charging the mound)? If I were the announcer, I wouldn't be so cavalier with the calling him gutless. He might show up in your living room with a Louisville Slugger as a retort. And 2) if batters got that pissed over every chin-high pitch thrown at them, the game of baseball would be nothing but fight after fight after fight. I mean that would be awesome, but still. Not exactly baseball. Routine pitches such as that shouldn't evoke that kind of bonkers emotions. Richie Sexson is a weenie.

NOTE: That video might get taken down soon, so watch it while you can. If you want to. I mean, who am I to tell you what to do? Besides your father, of course.