Completely Irrelevant On LP And Compact Disc

"Everyone's a critic, but hey, we really respect your talent."
—Against Me!, "Unprotected Sex With Multiple Partners"

"Everybody is a star and hot shit is few and far between."
—The Roots, "Star/Pointro"

Don't Say That, Johnny, Just Hear It

Carlin had so many years of crusty brilliance ahead of him. He played in Madison not two years ago and still performed with that fucking scary sharpness, at times wicked, gracious, and cute, and he was still working up new material. I remember driving around with Matt listening to the Classic Gold compilation, and how things from those albums, shit I can't always remember off the top of my head, just effortlessly pops out whenever Matt and I see each other. I remember watching the You Are All Diseased special, and how my dad cringed when Carlin described a guy's armpits as smelling "like an anchovy's cunt."

"If there is a God, may he strike this audience dead."

God dammit. More on this later.

Someday, I'm Telling You, They'll Make A...

"If they can make machines to save us labor,
someday they'll do our hearts the very same favor."
—The Dismemberment Plan, "Memory Machine"

"The Electric Monk was a labour-saving device, like a dishwasher or a video recorder. Dishwashers washed tedious dishes for you, thus saving you the bother of washing them yourself, video recorders watched tedious television for you, thus saving you the bother of looking at it yourself; Electric Monks believed things for you, thus saving you what was becoming an increasingly onerous task, that of believing all the things the world expected you to believe."
—Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

And while we're at it, both of these definitely came out before Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Take that, Michel Gondry!

Whatever It May Be...

"...sure enough, we are slain by that stuff."
-Destroyer, "Streethawk I"

"Send that stuff on down to me!"
-Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds, "There She Goes, My Beautiful World"

"If you need to know it, I never really understood that stuff."
-Elton John, "This Train Don't Stop Here Anymore"

"That stuff"=rock-n-roll for "the intangible/general wackiness"?

And while we're at it:

"You gotta move to stay alive/ you do the very modern jive."
-Destroyer, "Streethawk I"

"Oh, stewardess? I speak jive."
-Airplane!

To Sleep, Perchance To Be Bored Off My Ass

A dream triggered by a Mekons song should probably be a little more fucked-up and entertaining, but here's what I got a few nights ago:

I approach a street corner and see a crowd of meek-looking grad students (in the dream, I know that they're grad students) belting out the Mekons song "The Building." In its original form, the song is just Jon Langford yelping into a mic and stomping his feet for about two minutes, and I'm never shocked to see the occasional obnoxious demonstration in Madison. (In the dream, I know I'm in Madison, I guess in the neighborhood near the office.) I figure it must be one of those "general comment on the way things are going in this country" kind of protests, like the "1984"s I occasionally see around town, scribbled on street signs by the most articulate person ever.

As the chant breaks up, I round the corner and discover a huge party spilling out of someone's house. The people there tell me it's just a party for no particular reason. It's not particularly crazy or fun. I wander into a room at the back of the house and find a few people sitting on a couch watching the Eagles on TV. Some live video from their '90s reunion. Naturally, everyone in this room looks mega-bored. I sit down for a bit and meet a nice girl. When she leaves, she refuses to give me her number, but tells me to get in touch if I want to talk about "community projects." The end, at least as far as I care to remember. Considering all the weird imagery you could get from songs like "Prince Of Darkness," "Hard To Be Human," or, say, "Ghosts Of American Astronauts," it's a bit of a letdown.

Unwanted Heaviness Bummers!

"Every time you eat a steak, a hippie's hacky sack goes into the sewer." —Patton Oswalt

Two instances, all in a Sunday afternoon's strolling:

1. Browsing in a bookstore. There's a poetry reading going on in the middle of the place, and you kind of have to maneuver through the audience to get from section to section. Lots of middle-aged faces knotted up into dazed smiles that say, "Isn't poetry just delightful? Wow, what a wonderful world unfolds for me every time some other fellow steps up to the podium to declaim! Now if only I could track down a taste bud-sizzling bowl of farina..." Still, easy enough to ignore, until one fellow starts cranking up the discomfort, belting out some half-assed satirical rhyme about (I'm paraphrasing here) fossil fuel-burning Bush and his grand greedy schemes. Chuckles and claps after every zinger. The performance ends with a booming cry of "...American GREEEED!" So, there you have it. A little slice of intellectual life in America, and maybe a clue as to why the left seems just a little bit helpless against the reign of Fuckface. Since that encompasses half of my adolescence and all of my adult-ish life so far, I gotta wonder why I don't respond better to the blind anger and mockery it has inspired. Maybe because that shit starts to sound pretty damn dull and useless in its eighth fucking year?

2. Catching up with my pal and his girlfriend in a shop around the corner. My friend, definitely better than I am at stirring up conversations with strangers, has the clerk on a roll about her book in progress. She's got a slightly challenging idea about sexism, gender, and, in short how men have it tough these days. At first I want to lump this in with the previous experience, but it's nice to see some actual effort going on in someone's head, and maybe a bit of modesty too. And then it's time to goof off for the rest of the afternoon. Yay!

Assorted Shit

Here is an Arrested Development-inspired band name: Dad Likes Leather. It is up for grabs. No need to thank me.

Hell Date: This godless piece of teleshit isn't nearly tough enough on its victims. OK, the dwarf in the little devil suit popping out to deliver the news that, yep, "You're on Hell Date!" is pretty fucked-up, but the meat of the date adds up to rather mild discomfort, at least when one considers the scope of human suffering. Seriously, has anyone on this show ever genuinely feared for his/her life? Better, more deeply fucked ideas to follow.

I'm still not entirely clear what "lumberjack chic" is, but The Walrus has compiled a gallery of expensive Canadian doo-dads. I also don't know anything about photographing expensive doo-dads, but I believe that particle-board backgrounds class up everything.

Readers of 2008, let me tell you a bit about yourselves. 45 percent of you believe in elves; at least three of you are reading this in sweaty socks that rise up too high and emphasize your calves, which is funny because your calves are flabby and do not need to be shown off or further insulated; you represent five legally recognized counties; all of you were involved in extracurricular activities and/or sports in kindergarten; and you'll all get kick-ass reader-appreciation gifts if the current season of Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew ever comes out on DVD.

Once the USB turntable is all set up at WBC headquarters, we'll commence acquisition of audio for Untimely Ript, a blog celebrating random garbage from the bog of forgotten vinyl. More crude stick-mutants and whatnot once outside logistical consultants finish work on our scanner.

Concept Restaurants Part 2

(For the rest of our innovative food-service business plans, please see the first Concept Restaurants presentation.)

Escargot Escarmergency: If you can buy plastic bottles of Perrier by the dozen from Costco, life's other fine luxuries ought to catch up, eh? On the way to the yacht, swing through our drive-thru window to pick up a steamin' platter of snails. Visit us soon, and you'll get those little critters in a commemorative-edition Super Bowl XLII escargot dish (also available at participating Exxon locations). It goes without saying that once this bastard's turning a profit, we'll be rolling out the mail-order wing.
If it's your birthday: Enjoy a complimentary appetizer-sized serving of fugu poppers.

853 Woodcrest Terrace: The servers here are hardly servers at all, but nice, hospitable folks sharing the fruits of suburban life on the cusp of retirement. As they bustle about taking care of laundry and calling the kids (all grown up now), they'll occasionally turn to grab you a lemon bar or a beer from the fridge. If you're lucky, one of our hale and hearty "Pop" servers will reach into his special cabinet and share a jolt of that single malt he got for Christmas a couple years back. While the mild-mannered afternoon away with back issues of Reader's Digest, the family's photo albums, and the reassuring hum of the refrigerator (they used to call it "the ice box," you know).
If it's your birthday: It's awkward that you'd come hang with a stranger's parents on your goddamn birthday, but we'll do our best to cheer you up.

Troglodytes + Computers=This

What better way to convey mankind's wonderment at technology than with an image of a woman in crosshairs, holding up a huge "@" like it's a prized golden pumpkin? This image shows up on the login page of the Baltimore airport's pay wi-fi system. And seriously, it's better than Magic Headache Elixir and Hand-Shoveled Irrigation System combined. Check this shit out, o ye mighty!

Let us now weep for America's children, and the atrocious graphic design--no, shitty old-school Paint work--that gathers to brutalize their eyes. Not to mention all the horrid beige pantsuits they'll have to wear.

Wilford Brimley Not Included

John Carpenter's The Thing should eventually rank among history's finest horror movies. However, Ennio Morricone's score--a perfect companion to the movie's expanse of cold and foreboding--is a bitch to come by. Luckily, some dude has posted some of the tracks on YouTube.

Enjoy it before disputes intervene!

"Lights, Please..."

For some reason, I can't seem to find a clip of this nugget:

Peter: As we all know, Christmas is that mystical time of year when the ghost of Jesus rises from the grave to feast on the flesh of the living! So we all sing Christmas Carols to lull him back to sleep.
Bob: Outrageous, how dare he say such blasphemy. I've got to do something.
Man #1: Bob, there's nothing you can do.
Bob: Well, I guess I'll just have to develop a sense of humor.

The Bataan Death Mall

Arundel Mills Mall, Hanover, MD [Baltimore suburb]

Shout it from the turrets of Medieval Times or the temple of the Egyptian-themed Muvico multiplex: In a just world, Maryland's Arundel Mills Mall would be visible from space. According to Wikipedia, it is "the first enclosed mall to feature a Medieval Times." Sounds like society's got some catching up to do, folks! You can actually enter the MT from the mall, and while you're waiting for the tournament to begin, put away a draft of mead (note: more likely Michelob Ultra or something) at the bar. MT is the mall's southern bookend; at the northern extreme, behold the Muvico Egyptian 24.

Of course, Arundel Mills isn't the largest mall in America, and for all I know, plenty of malls far exceed it. It's most notable, though, for its particularly wearying floor plan, basically a very elongated oval, divided up into five "neighborhoods." Theme-wise, it already spans continents and centuries, and walking around it two or three times gives a person the same feeling. It must take quite a few trips around to get one's memory around the place; a point you remembered on the first trip around might seem to be just in front of you once more, but is in fact a few hundred yards ahead. The trek from FYE to Dairy Queen is particularly arduous, each storefront a bayonet prodding one ahead to a destination from which he'll have to move on again soon.

Exurbcakes: A Recipe

Brain Lab query: "What happens when flavor imitates life?"

INGREDIENTS
-3 sq. ft. richly tanned leather
-10 lbs. wet stucco, preferably dyed a frosting-like shade of pink or yellow
-5 lbs. Starbucks Espresso Roast ("Starbucks Coffee: Roasted over burning SUV tires!")
-1 box Franzia Vintner Select White Zinfandel
-Assorted Elton John, Barry Manilow, Kenny G, and NOW! compilation CDs
-1 pair pleated khaki shorts

PREPARATION
-Combine stucco and espresso in a large cement truck; process mixture into a viscous paste.
-Shape mixture into uniform circles (1" diameter is ideal), wrap with strips of leather.
-Remove CDs from cases--the cases may later be used for a creative presentation--and crush discs up into little shards. Sprinkle atop cakes to taste.
-Place cakes on car roof; pick a sunny day to drive around doing errands for 9 hours, using only outdoor parking options.
-Smoke over shreds of khaki shorts for extra flavor.
-Serve with energy drinks, Ensure, or any of Pepsi's "Jazz"-variety colas.

FURTHER READING
"Take A Ride To Exurbia": David Brooks, The New York Times, Nov. 9, 2004

Finely Woven Filth: Or, Horny For Presents

A John Waters Christmas + Lavender Diamond: Turner Ballroom, Milwaukee, 12/12/07

[Sorry, no photos. Camera broke.]

Connie Marble: Oh, I love you Raymond. I love you more than anything in this whole world. I love you more than my own filthiness, more than my own hair color. Oh God, I love you more than the sound of bones breaking, the sound of death rattle--even more than the sound of my own shit do I love you, Raymond.

Raymond Marble: And I, Connie, also love you more than anything that I could ever imagine: more than my hair color, more than the sound of babies crying, of dogs dying--even more than the thought of original sin itself. I am yours, Connie, eternally united through an invisible core of finely woven filth, that even God himself could never ever break.

Howdy from Baltimore!

As I write this, I can't be too far from the sidewalk off which Divine ate dog shit for John Waters' camera (at the end of Pink Flamingos). Just a few days before flying out here, I caught one of B'more's finest on his Christmas tour. Beyond those amazing and transgressive films is a snappy showman who's up for riffing about anything. He's just a cool motherfucker, not merely a prankster behind a camera. As he mentions at that link, he's a big Ike and Tina Turner admirer, and arrived in Milwaukee just in time to announce Ike's death.

On his annual Christmas tour, he pops out for an hour of breathless rambles about the holidays and whatever else he gets around to, including his desire to land on the cover of Parade magazine. He never lets up, never seems the least bit unsure of himself. Phrase of the night: "I'm horny for presents."

Throughout Waters' performance, a scary fat drunk lady behind us kept yelling stuff, though not enough to really disrupt things. It's a John Waters thing, so a few mental defectives are bound to emerge. Most of what she said wasn't memorable, though I recall that at one point she called out for a Pink Flamingos musical. During the Q&A portion of Waters' set, she started raving about her support for Dennis Kucinich: "HIS WIFE... HE HAS A GREAT... RED-HEADED WIFE..." Waters smoothed right through a brief exchange and went onto the next questioner, though the dumbass kept it up until the end.

For some reason, Waters brought along the band Lavender Diamond for an opening set. For once, it was hard to blame people for talking through the songs. These are precious little morsels of quirky folk that probably sound great when it's late and quiet, but it clunked onstage. Wearing a billowing white dress, singer Becky Stark looked like a cloud trapped inside a K-Mart; the three dudes backing her had zero stage presence. Except for the drummer, who played his minimal beats with greatly exaggerated movements that made him look even more useless. Still, why not bring some surprises to a tour like this?

Though a great filmmaker, Waters should do more of this speaking stuff. There's a killing to be made on the corporate banquet circuit, eh?

Shitty Photos Of Shitty Drawings

Some recent doodles for the sick fucks I know who enjoy this stuff... (Also, my scanner is not cooperating.)



Mega-Cycle Hippie, Minneapolis



The End Of The Conversation



How To Write

Although I Search Myself...

Today I'm in line in the grocery store, and what should I hear but a song I consider a pop classic, Elton John's "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me." But it's not just any "DLTSGDOM." It's the Elton John-George Michael duet version of "DLTSGDOM."

A few things to note:

-My first exposure to pop music came through Elton. My dad loved his music long before I was born, and is still kind of obsessed. He's one of the suckers who bought The Captain And The Kid, Elton's sequel to his concept album Captain Fantastic And The Brown Dirt Cowboy.
-Elton's main songwriting collaborator, lyricist Bernie Taupin, wrote "DLTSGDOM" about the pressures of songwriting.

-Wow, has Elton John recorded some crappy songs in his time.

-Wow, has Elton John recorded some amazing, wonderful songs in his time.

-The song was one of the few redeeming moments of Caribou, an album that sorely needed redemption (other highlights: "The Bitch Is Back," and maybe the maudlin kid-on-a-rampage ballad "Ticking").

-In his duet with George Michael, Elton doesn't fucking play piano. It clearly shows another dude playing it for him, as Elton prances about in a shitty baseball cap. Hey, Elton, your retardulous fashion choices are supposed to make you more amusing, not less, remember?

-In any context, George Michael will look like an asswipe, and the asswipery will be infinitely compounded and refracted by whatever he's wearing and whatever hand/body gestures/supplementary vocals he provides.

-George Michael keeps wagging his left arm/side around as if he is paralyzed along his right side
-4:32: After many tense minutes of shared harmonies and exchanged lines, the two finally hop off their respective metal platforms and hustle toward each other across the arena's large, inhuman stage, like lovers reunited at a Hawaiian Tropic promotional event. Pause here to ready another beer/shot/bowl/syringe, as the "heavy memories" portion of tonight's post is fast approaching!

-Rewind to 5:14. What the hell kind of hat is Elton wearing? Rebar Workers' Union? Iron Cross? Knights Of Columbus? But that's nothing compared to the Crappy Elton Hat action you'll find here.

-5:30: After all this time, finally, the man-hug is consummated! Christ, I thought it'd never happen.

-When I was in fourth grade or so, one of my classmates was this total smart-ass jerk we'll call SJ. Never had any reason to talk to me, except to say something hurtful. Also, I recall that he was good at soccer, so right off the bat, fuck him. However, one day I found myself talking about "DLTSGDOM," and he overheard and snapped to life: "Oh, the one where he sings with—" "Yeah, George Michael!" Keep in mind, this was just a year or so before kids like him discovered Nirvana and kids like me started to feel pretty oblivious. So, for one fleeting, tender moment, the union of these two overripe British pop loonies brought together the little nerdy kid and the jackass. Where the hell are you, SJ, and how many Wham! singles have you since collected on vinyl?

Tags Are Too Much Fun (Or Just Sad)

IMDB and allmusic never fail to help me out, say, a dozen times a day. That said, both are developing an ever-more-obsessive habit of tagging, taking this concept to the ball-dangling brink of its usefulness. Maybe this will be helpful for people who need to have a Mood Customized Optimal Entertainment Experience, and now. Need a perfect tune for staying in bed? A movie with hands in it? Nothing novel about silly tags, but they're more amusing on sites that also function as serious research tools.

Here are more.

Allmusic themes/moods:
Housework, The Sporting Life, Dinner Ambience, Pool Party, Knotty, The Creative Side, Guys Night Out ... efforts to locate "Trapped Under Car" and "Awkward Funeral" were unsuccessful.

IMDB plot keywords:
Lactation, Sunglasses, Fisticuffs, Title Spoken By Character, Vomit Scene, Wrist Watch... but even better, you can click your way around the "related keywords" field that accompanies each one until you've got just the right combination*.

*Also fits under Guys Night Out, The Creative Side, and Housework.

The Saddest Sign

Been noticing signs like these on public restrooms, dressing rooms, etc. lately. That's "family restroom" as in "distinct from the male and female restrooms, but absorbing the disabled bathroom while pushing the wheelchair dude to the side and making him significantly smaller in the grand scheme of bathroom symbolism."

The dad who brings his little kid into the multi-stall public restroom is one of the more unstable, insecure creatures you can observe in a public place. But I think normal bathroom-goers need to be nearby, to check his behavior—for the child's sake. Especially in places like airports, where I've most often seen this sign. Most likely, the family we're aiming for has been crammed into a single room in the Quality Inn 20 minutes from Disneyland for a week now, sharing two miserable twin beds and four shitty little plastic cups and a cracked, leaky ice bucket and a rented 1996 Tercel. This is the last group of people who should be locking themselves into a tiny room outfitted with sturdy porcelain fixtures and shiny railings. Especially if three of them have already been pushing wheelchair boy through the Space Mountain line and helping him dunk in the shitty motor-court swimming pool for several nights in a row. Yes, folks, force these people into the more-public public restrooms, where shame will restrain them from killing each other. A family that needs quality-private-bathroom time is a family that needs some fucking lithium.

Concept Restaurants

Too bad I don't have $6 million to throw around. If I did, my entrepreneurship would be nigh-on on unstoppable. First, I would establish a series of concept restaurants.

Watch: Closed-circuit TV cameras and large flat-screen TVs are mounted all over the white, otherwise undecorated walls and ceiling of this very sleek restaurant. You are served generous portions of expensive gourmet food, but you can't avoid the televised sight of yourself or others eating it. People in a control booth will be able to zoom in on chosen eaters and annotate scenes with JumboTron-like humor and commentary. They can also switch on a special nutrient-imaging system that brings the most fatty parts of your meal into infrared-style relief as they dangle half-gnawed from your mouth. Think you can hide from the self-consciousness in the bathroom? Spend more than 15 minutes there, and the camera in your stall goes live. No one goes to a restaurant to watch people eat, but that's going to change, whether anyone likes it or not.
If it's your birthday: You'll be served our Giant Flourless Chocolate Surveillance Cake. A small camera placed inside it exposes your hoggery—yep, looking right up into your syrup-smeared face—as you dig further and further in. One year greedier, motherfucker!

The Meat Locker: It's kind of cold inside this restaurant. You enter through a large, insulated door, which is slammed behind you from the outside. There is barely room for a table in here, because you'll be eating your massive, bloody, choice-cut steak amid swinging sides of meat. Move your plate aside for a sec—the butcher needs some workspace.
If it's your birthday: PETA slaughterhouse footage will be projected on the walls/sides for free.

Drunken Derby: Live out your drunken-driving fantasy in bumper cars with realistic handling, safety reinforcements, and mandatory $10,000,000 insurance policies. Obstacles, precarious curves, amputee stuntmen you can hit, ice patches, storefronts to crash through, traffic signals to defy—this ain't no lonely suburban back road as your paper-bagged bottle of Early Times dribbles away down by the clutch. "Officers" pull you over to unload fresh servings of booze and gourmet nachos into your vehicle. "Sir, I'm gonna have to issue you a citation—of Wild Turkey 101 proof! No, sir, you haven't had enough—save it for the judge."
If it's your birthday: Suck down that complimentary bottle of Andre fast, get your drunkymobile up to full-speed, and put on this NASCAR-surplus firesuit we hope still works, because you've got a Flaming Birthday Baked Alaska Wall to plow into.

Vandalism?

This map's on the bathroom wall at a local bar, and it appears vandalism is welcome because people draw and write shit all over it. I figured I'd add to their list of Iceland-associated artists. (Just Bjork? C'mon.) This is exactly the kind of place, though, that would attract someone who knows a bunch more obscure Icelandic stuff, yet has the dignity not to go around writing it on bathroom walls. And no, the middle finger isn't mine. In retrospect, maybe I should have included "part of Fields."