2004: absolutely unecessary

This past year was not a great one for music. Sure, it was the year that "indie" became a marketing classification, but there were many dissapointments, like underwhelming efforts from Wilco, Old 97s, !!! and Interpol and the continued dominance of mall-punk in both boy-band and pop tart forms (really, is there anyone who would disagree that Good Charoltte are just N'Sync in eyeliner? Well, that and Good Charlotte are fat.)

That said, there were some gems this year and so, for no one's consideration, here's my picks for the best albums of 2004.

10)Stars- Set Yourself on Fire
9) Kasabian-s/t
8) Camera Obscura-Underacheivers Please Try Harder
7) Bloc Party- s/t (EP)
6) Felix da Housecat-Devon Dazzle and the Neon Fever
5) Le Tigre-This Island
4) The Futureheads- s/t
3) The Streets-A Grand Don't Come For Free
2) The Organ-Grab That Gun
1) Franz Ferdinand-s/t

Up a tree

It just wouldn't be the holiday's without me getting some kind of bronchial ailment. I was up half the night coughing up a lung and ended up sleeping (fitfully) on the couch so as not to disturb my girlfriend with my freight-train volume hacking. It's pretty awesome. Thankfully, there's nothing going on this weekend so I can take it easy and let my bronchial tree heal a bit. Thank goodness for Grand Theft Auto.

This is a job that people die for.

My current level of satisfaction with my employment situation can be summed up by the "To-do" list that hangs on my bulletin board, the singular item of which reads "#1. Kill self."

Jihad

Attention: stop calling the Killers "indie rock". The band has never put out an indie release. They are signed to megacorporation Universal Music. They get airplay on mainstream rock radio. Now, I'm no indie purist (far from it), but I hate to see the label "indie rock" abused so shamelessly, especially in the service of such a shitty band.

Franz Ferdinand? Indie (Domino Records).
Interpol? Indie (Matador).
The Killers? Shite.

+/-

Um. I just had the most uneventful four-day weekend ever. Saw "The Incredibles", which was superfun. But not much in the way of hot party action.

Our website is oh-so close to being suitable for human consumption, but for a couple of minor glitches. Stay tuned.

The Pop Echo night at Red Star last weekend was a success. There's talk of setting up a regular night there, probably Tuesdays. We'll try to focus on local music and maybe get some locals to guest DJ each week. We'll see what comes of that.

Can't you see what you've done to my heart...and soul?

Some random observations: Oops! Bush did it again! (stole an election that is!)

The Futureheads and Kasabian are really good.

The boys of Pop Echo records are DJing tomorrow (Saturday) night at Red Star on Jasper Ave. Check it out.

I'm a little hungover today after checking out Chromeo last night.

Stand up if you hate the Yankees.

Let's make one thing clear: I'm not a baseball fan. To me, the televised baseball game is up there with "America's Next Top Bulimic" in terms of vapid spectacles. But I do believe the civilized world owes the Red Sox a tip of the cap, not for staging the greatest comeback in baseball history and ousting the Yankees (who, as even the most ardent Bomber booster will tell you, embody all that is wrong and evil in the world), but for silencing the embarrassingly lame (and overtly homoerotic) "Who's your daddy?" chant that makes Yankee Stadium sound like a gay bath house. You'd think a city that seems to take pride in its rough-around-the-edges image would adopt a chant that was a little less, shall we say, minty? They could take some lessons from English football chants.

Your tax dollars at work.

Holy shizzit! It's been nearly a month since I last rapped at you. In that time, I've turned 28, made an Important Grownup Decision, drank too much at least twice, smoked less, played video games, started books I never finished and saw some movies I really enjoyed ("Shaun of the Dead", "Mean Girls", "The Girl Next Door") and others I did not like quite as much ("Coffee and Cigarettes", "Hero"). I was resoundingly underwhelmed by the new Interpol disc, but blown away by the new K-OS. These days, I'm mostly looking forward to AHL hockey, the K-OS show on Oct. 22, Grand Theft Auto San Andreas, Halloween Boo Night, Tiga and (further down the road) the Dietzche V. 7" release. See you soon.

I guess they're just the "Ramone" now.

Johnny's dead.

MNFV

My new favorite blog is that of Vanity Fair's James Wolcott. But you know me: I like the snark.

It lives.

You thought maybe I was gone for good? Fools! It takes a lot to keep me down. Maybe not like stake through the heart and a beheading like that Dick Cheney character, but a lot. Me, I've just been in the midst of a bit or a Life Assessment: friends, job, career, etc. Example: this Saturday night, I walked around one of the old, tony neighbourhoods with my girl, the mist rising from the ravine and that awesome smoky fall tang in the air. I realized that maybe I've been giving the while "being a grown up" thing short shrift. Maybe it's no so bad to be a little dull. Now, I'm not talking babies, suburbs, minivans, lawns and cancer here. But a little structure, some goals ain't such a bad thing to have. I've got a good job (well, good paying, anyway), yet nowt to show for it. All my money goes into my liver and expanding waistline. I've a family I see less and less, a great girl who occupies a lot of my time (not that I'm complaining) and a shrinking circle of friends. Like it or not, it seems adulthood is creeping up on me, whethe rI'm ready or not. Maybe it's time I put more effort into accepting some of these adult inevitabilities and less into trying to put them off.

Did I mention my birthday is in a week?

iPorn

I've got to get me one of these. How many songs can they hold?

What? Did you think I was talking about...oh. Oh dear.

The talkin' leads to pukin'

Rilo Kiley eats ass. That is all.

things i hate today Vol. 2

It's back!

1. Bugs. Lately, the air has been thick with billions of tiny, black aphid like insects that fly in your mouth when you walk, land on your face and clothes and are just generally gross. This town is so low-rent that we can't even get infested by decent insects.

2. Crackheads. Look at yourself: you're living in fucking garbage, your teeth are rotted out, you piss on the street and you suck dick for drugs. What the fuck is wrong with you pieces of human shit?

3. "Fashionistas". Ponchos, pointy shoes and necktie belts: at least they're making it easy to tell which ones should be sent to the camps.

4. Fuckwits who pull "funny" faces everytime a camera comes out. You're plenty ugly as it is. Leave it.

5. Summer. This is a trend with me. I'm sick of bugs (see item #1 above), sick of shorts, and, above all sick of ballsweat. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.

In medias res

"Postponed? Whaddaya mean "postponed? That's total bullshit! What, did Robert Smith run out of Black Cherry lipstick or something? Fuck!"

After 12 hours in a minivan with six other adults, finding out the raison d'etre is no longer valid is a kick in the nuts. So: fuck the Cure. Fuck Interpol and their mediocre new album and fuck the rest of the world.

The Organ are one of the most boring live bands in the world, especially the guitarist who stood stock still for their entire set at Mesaluna (are all Latin bars obligated by law to have that name?). The bass player was wearing a garish-looking trucker cap, so mor epoints off for that. Typical Canadians, I suppose: any chance of widespread success they might have will be tempered by their total lack of prescence.

Gone for now

I am off for five days to the coast, with the ultimate destination being the Curiosa Festival in Washington. Till next time, stay loose.

Gimme Five

Ah, lists!

They'll never get it out of me.

The Globe and Mail is the latest newspaper to require cumbersome registration before you can view their precious online content. If the Guardian goes next, harsh words will be muttered.

I'm kicking it bachelor-style this week, which, unfortunately, coincides with a serious lack of available funds. Dammit.

Party on down

DIETZCHE V. & THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN! TWO SHOWS!

Friday (today), August 6 @ Seedy's
Saturday, August 7 @ Studio E (wherever the fuck that is)

Take off that stoopid fucking headband.

Interesting Edmonton fact: local bands are guaranteed a minimum of three and a half stars from the local hacks. F'r instance, a local ska/punk band (who shall remain nameless here) just released their first full-length, which nabbed five stars out of five from one of the local weekly entertainment rags. A perfect score. Now, call be a purist, but I always felt perfect scores were reserved for the kind of albums that push the musical envelope or redefine genres. Classic albums, like "Revolver" or "Exile..." or "OK Computer". Shit like that that people will still be listening to 10, 20 years down the road. And I can't attest to the quality of the release in question, but it doesn't take a genius to see that there's no fucking way this local ska troupe has crafted a Edmonton "London Calling". This has happened before.

The problem is, all the music writers in town are either friends with/fucking the bands they're writing about, or are in bands themselves and don't want to piss anyone off. So the whole "scene" turns into one gigantic circle jerk. I'm sure that's the way it is everywhere, but it's so much more pronounced in a small town like this. Ugh.

Live Transmission

The band had its third practice last night. We still have no percussion beyond the lonely cowbell, but we're actually starting to flesh things out a little more. Though it's hard to figure out a sound when you don't have drums. Hopefully we'll have our drum machine soon. Then we shall rock.

My job is driving me batshit.

The first signs of life

So: you got any spare change?  We've "signed" our first act (inasmuch as we've agreed to finance their 7" and do some promotional work, assuming they get us some masters soon). I dunno how the fuck I'm going to pay for this little venture on top of my next trip (August to Vancouver and Washington state for the Curiosa festival featuring-bapdadaba!- Interpol.) But I at least feel like I have something to work towards now, which is a cool way to feel. 
 
Going camping this weekend. Hopefully no tornados will carry me away.
 
 

Happy returns

Bunsen's back!
So's Billmon!

Blargf.

I puked a little in my mouth when I read this today. Pricks like these will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.

Now that's what I call shit!

People everywhere seem to be creaming all over the Killers. I don't get it. I mean, Hot Hot Heat is well and good, but do we need another one? Certainly the Killers are by far one of the most underwhelming live bands I've seen (given the hoopla) and, having cocked an ear to the roomie's copy of The Hot Fuss, I can say with some authority that the Killers chew ass. So slick and calculated cool.

The new Radio 4 single is pretty rad, though I'm not sure how much more dance-punk I can handle, especially after the letdown that was !!!'s new album. But then, my idea of a perfect album right now is White Light/White Heat. Like you give a shit.

Wildly divergent plotlines

Friday, I missed work because I was too busy vomiting for several hours.
Today, I came into the office and found a can of "Positive Putty" on my desk.

I'm sure there's no connection.

Seems the only difference is there is no difference.

Of all words, I have the hardest time writing "different" It always comes out "differnt".

Saw the Sundance fave "Napolean Dynamite" last night. It was merely okay. There were some funny bits (most of which were in the trailer anyway), but the lack of a real plot and the unsympathetic bizzareness of the characters left me a little cold. "Freaks and Geeks" is by far the superior saga of high school outsider angst.

After the show, it was on to New City for a Pride Week show. the best bit (not to slag perennial favorites the Vertyical Struts) was "GK and the Press Play". GK is a big diesel dyke in Elvis wig and fake 'tasche who shouts random words to some electro bleeps. The Press Play are four leather daddy types who just stood there in all their buttless-leather chap'd glory. They did one song. Twice. It was so art-fag it was almost good.

Oh, and I briefly contemplated breaking up with my girlfriend over something I thought she said, but had, in fact, misheard because of the volume of the music and skull-dulling effects of too much Stella. *red face*

Eternal Sunshine

Nothing beats a good bask. The weather here's been so god-awfully shitty the past couple of months that basking opportunities have been few and far between. Last night, though, the June sun was beaming in through the open balcony doors and I sat on the couch, Heineken in hand, and just soaked it up. I felt like one of those weird undersea fish that spends its entire life in darkness only to suddenly be brought to the surface. To help you in your summer basking needs, here is EAM's definitive guide to summer basking.

Basking is a luxury in this town, and an underappreciated pleasure. Beyond the obvious requirement of sunlight, a good bask requires a comfortable place to park oneself (upright or prostrate: follow your heart), beer (I usually go with anything European that comes in a green bottle, though sometimes a nice light Mexican brew is the ticket. Domestics should be avoided at all costs.) and, if circumstances avail you of it, pot.

Location wise, it all depends: open grassy areas are good for solitary or intimate basks. For the more social bask, bar or cafe patios are good for people watching. Of course all locations depend on the time of day and amount of direct sunlight.

This brings me to a disclaimer: basking is decidedly not sun-bathing. Sun-bathing is for the beach and people who go to tanning salons in the dead of winter to maintain their medium-rare fleshtone. Basking is more multifaceted: yes, you can just lie in the sun if you want. But you can also read, socialize, eat, listen to music or even watch TV and while getting your bask on.

Of course, these are merely guidelines: there's no hard and fast rules or criteria for basking. The beauty of basking lies in the immortal connection between life on earth and the sun. Happy basking.

You spin me right 'round.

I DJ'd last night for entirely too long (no one else wanted to step up). It was probably our last night at Your Apartment, but we're trying to get a new night elsewhere. Stay tuned.

Oh and in case you're wondering, here's a partial list of stuff I played last night.

What'd I Say?-Ray Charles
Ain't No Fun To Me-Al Green
Your Love Lifted Me (Higher and Higher)-Jackie Wilson
Let's Spend the Night Together-The Roling Stonmes
Ask-The Smiths
Love Will Tear Us Apart-Joy Division
Say Hello to the Angels-Interpol
Nowhere Now-The Secret Machines
Darts of Pleasure-Franz Ferdinand
We Used To Be Friends-Dandy Warhols
Stop-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
STAY-Sekiden
Mass Romantic-New Pornographers
Deceptacon-Le Tigre
Feel Good Hit of the Fall-!!!
Give It Up-LCD Soundsystem
and a bunch of other crap.

The candy of meats.

I went to the gym today and the whole place smelled like bacon. I couldn't figure it out.

I said it once before, but it bears repeating.

Remember this?

It's from this.

This business of little girls singing Ad-Com smooth jazz has got to stop. Right. Fucking. Now.

What'd I say?

Ray Charles, 1930-2004

The new one-two.

Vital daily ritual:
Starbucks dark roast and cheese bagel.

Yum.

If you tolerate this, then your children will be next.

It rained pretty much the entire weekend. We went to Mod Club on Friday, which was medium fun. Saturday was rainy. Saw Aussie popsters Sekiden do a brief free show in a record store basement. They are fun. Check 'em out if you can. Bought a shitload of records, including the Smiths singles compilation, an old Vibrators record and the new !!! full-length. On Sunday, we rented "Bubba Ho-Tep", which was fucking funny and weird. I can't even explain the premise. You wouldn't believe me.

We gotta get out of that place.

Is it just me, or have reports of American casualties in Iraq dried up? I've skimmed a few reports on fighting between American forces and Muqtada al-Sadr's militia in Najaf, all of which mentioned militia casualties, but no mention was made of U.S. deaths or injuries. With the severity of the fighting, you can be sure troops aren't coming out unscathed. So where are the casualties?

The U.S. administration already prohibited coverage of funerals or of the dead returning home, so it wouldn't surprise me if they stopped issuing casualty reports or ordered new outlets not to report them. That way the toll in U.S. deaths will be kept out of sight and out of the minds of the American people. Just like the tens of thousands of Iraqi deaths.

Election 2004

Bunsen does it again.

Up the racket.

Mick Jones *hearts* the forthcoming Libertines album. (Keep in mind though, he did produce it). Call it "anticipated".

Set the VCR's: the May 22 Saturday Night Live is a "Best of Chrsitopher Walken" reset.

Drag it up.

One last thing before I plunge back into the booze-athon: the new Old 97s record, Drag It Up is gonna drop July 27th.

Been down so long

Another Friday, another hangover (a unfortunate-and as near as I can tell, the only-drawback to free beer), another truncated post. Back to life next week (hopefully). Till then, why not go listen to the new Streets album (I can hear the Big easy groaning from across the Atlantic)?

There are no fucking rules, dude.

So, I watched the Nick Berg beheading video. Strong stuff indeed, but it really raised many questions for me. I'm not alone, as Another Day in the Empire has some interesting thoughts about it. I too was struck by the lack of struggle and blood. In fact, I had the impression that Berg was already dead when his killers read their statement to the camera. Granted the video I saw was very poor quality. There are parts where you can't tell what the hell is going on at all. Very strange, but then, what isn't these days?

The new barbarians II.

Today, the SCLM is up in arms over the execution of an American civilian worker by a group in Iraq claiming ties to Al Q'aeda. The gruesome footage is being posted all over the interweb, so I can't be bothered to feed the beast here.

Why Nick Berg went to Iraq is unknown. Maybe he wanted to turn a quick buck, maybe he just wanted to help. Whatever the reason, I doubt it warranted having his head sawn off on camera. However, as we brace for the inevitable call for vengeance coming from the neofascist elements of American society, we must keep in mind that meeting barbarism with barbarism is not only contrary to the principles for which "we" claim we're in Iraq to uphold (though only the stupid, naive or willfully blind believe in those anymore), but is precisely the kind of response the men who perpetrated this act are hoping for. Like Bush and his gang, the jihadists want war. They want to widen the rift between North and South, the Arab world and "the rest". Berg's death simply contributes to the all-too prevalent attitude that "these people" are animals and should be treated accordingly. Reprisals against Iraqis (and believe me, they'll happen, whether under official sanction or not) will drive more to the jihadi cause and lock us further into a cycle of violence and brutality from which we'll never escape.

It was a brutal act, more brutal than the execution and subsequent mutilation of the four U.S. mercenaries..er "private security forces" in Fallujah a few weeks back. I'm sure it's equally brutal to the kind of acts occupation troops carry out that we never read about in the papers, but hear whispers of in every corner, acts that would doubtless make the photos from Abu Ghirabi look like the college prank Rush Limbaugh says they were. If I were paranoid (which I undoubtedly am), I would question the sudden appearance of this footage in the midst of the prisoner abuse scandal that had only begun to gain momentum. But even if one casts aside conspiracy theories (which are increasingly becoming the only way to make sense of this fucked up world), there's no doubt in my mind that we are reaching a tipping point. Whether it tips in June with the "transition of power" in Iraq, or in November with the U.S. elections, or some other unknown point remains to be seen, but where the chips fall will pretty much shape the course of history.

To paraphrase the old curse: we live in interesting times.

The new barbarians.

Rage of the day: The Edmonton Journal's headline on today's article on the torture and abuse of detainees in Iraq's Abu Gharabi prison reads "Anguish, soul-searching at home of rogue U.S. soldiers" (emphasis mine).

The use of the word rogue is telling, in that it reinforces the notion that the acts of barabarism committed by the "liberators" in Saddam's most infamous house of pain were the isolated acts of a few MPs. However, the evidence is mounting to show that such horrific acts (acts which would be horrible in their own right, yet are worsened by the fact that most of the detainees housed at Abu Gharabi are non-combatants. In other words, the very people the smirking ape of a president and his goon squad claimed to be liberating from tyrrany.) are not isolated, but institutionalized.

(The Whisky Bar has some of the best analysis of the situation, hands down.)

So are we seeing a quiet push in the North American so-called "liberal" media to isolate these acts and draw attention away from what Sid Blumenthal (the Whisky Bar's favorite pundit) calls America's gulag, a prison system that "stretches from prisons in Afghanistan to Iraq, from Guantánamo to secret CIA prisons around the world. There are perhaps 10,000 people being held in Iraq, 1,000 in Afghanistan and almost 700 in Guantánamo, but no one knows the exact numbers. The law as it applies to them is whatever the executive deems necessary. There has been nothing like this system since the fall of the Soviet Union."? Or was the choice of words in the above-mentioned headline simply the handiwork of a bored and inattentive copy editor? I don't know, but what I do know that we're talking about the United States of Whatever, nothing is impossible.

(UPDATE)
I wa smulling over America's gulag, and suddenly it hit me: America already has more of its population in prison than any other. Now, in the true spirit of capitalism, they're starting franchises. I wonder what the signs will say? "More than 15,000 served (so far)"?

It also occurred to me that, despite all the "anguish and soul searching" going on in Middle America, how many anguished soul searchers will still vote for that sonofabitch Bush? The thought that people can look at the pictures coming out and still be able to say they support the policies of the man who made them possible makes me sick to my stomach.

Getting good at getting by.

I just found out that my ten year high school reunion is in a week. Oh snap. I may be a little round about the tummy (though probably less so than back in high school) and the once notorious head of hair has thinned dramatically in the intervening years, but at least I'm not saddled with a couple of snot-nosed brats and a mortage for some soulless shitheap in the black heart of suburbia. Nossir: I'm a retarded adolescent.

Dumb. So dumb.

Got back from Coachella. Did laundry. Washed my passport. I'm a fucking genius.

These are the things we can live without

Two things for this increasingly irrelevant forum.

- I leave for SoCal tomorrow for Coachella.

- I DJ tonight at Your Apartment (the bar, not the apartment). Fucking be there.

Increment by increment.

2 days to Coachella. Shit.

Charisma Carpenter naked.

Superfantastiche.

Bring on the apocolypse

Just saw a video featuring a bunch of guys in fur coats and bling'd out necklaces standing in a parking lot, surrounded by shiny cars and hoochie girls shaking their asses into the camera. Standard hip hop fare, except this was on Country fucking Music Television. I need to lie down.

I'm just a shot away from you.

Franz Ferdinand edited the Guardian's G2 this week, which included a good article on the death of rock'n'roll mythology. Check it out.

Coachella countdown: 8 days.

Is she weird? Is she white? Is she promised to the night?

Weekend buzz:

-Kill Bill Vol.2 was awesome. More chatty and less bloody than the first one, but a more complete film. Plus Pai Mei totally reminded me of a character from My New Fighting Technique Is Unstoppable.

-Pixies. Solid outing by the alt-rock legends. Frank Black still has a voice like a jet engine, but the venue and asshole crowd put a damper on things.

That's all for now.

Dispatches from the department of "What the fuck?"

Heard today: the Von Bondies' "C'mon C'mon" at the Gap. The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights" at Sunglasses Hut. I wanna go home.

It's the end of the world as we know it.

Most days, I try to keep up with what's going on in the world. Today, in light of the deteriorating situation in Iraq, The Smirking Idiot's fellating of Sharon and endorsement of ISrael's new apartheid and just teh fact that there's,like, a foot of snow on the ground, it's not worth it. So I think I'll get drunk.

I am trying to break your heart.

Damn. News from the Coachella Fest web site has Wilco dropping out as a result of singer Jeff Tweedy's continuing treatment for his addicition to painkillers. Shit, first the Yeah Yeah Yeahs bail, now this. If Radiohead or the Pixies go next, heads will fucking roll.

It's so much better on holiday.

Apologies for the abscence (ah, who am I kidding: I don't care). Long weekends, especially of the four-day variety, should be a regular occurance. One shouldn't have to wait for some Jewish caprenter to get nailed to a tree and rise again, "Dawn of the Dead" style, just to get a little bit of time away from the office. Anyhow, now that I'm back, I'm even less inclined than usual to work, let alone blog, so this is what you get.

Starlite Starbright

Last night marked my first visit to the Starlite room (ex-Rev) for metric. Things did not go well. For starters, it was an all ages gig, which meant no booze. This necessitated a extended visit to the dubious Hawkeye's next door, who's owners are no doubt rubbing their hands in anticipation of the overflow of alcoholic 20-somethings that will spill over from the Starlite.

Secondly, the show was sold out and possibly oversold, so you couldn't move for all the 17 year old hipster pups jamming the front of the stage. As for the new venue itself, it looked pretty similar to the old haunt, albeit daubed with tons of red paint. The stage itself has been moved to the north entrance. Strangest of all, though, is the fact that the floor slopes quite dramatically away from the stage, meaning those unfortunate enough to get stuck near the back had a great view of a shitload of $45 haircuts.

As for the band, well, maybe it's because I've seen 'em thrice in the last nine months, but I would have rather spent the money on beer and stayed home and listened to the CD. They left me quite cold.

WWCWD?

Lots.

Though the scientific validity of this test is questionable.

It may surprise some people to know that, according to this test, I'm 26 per cent gay. I was surprised: I expected to be a lot faggier.

The Metric System 2

It's Juno (the lame-o Canadian version of the Grammy's) time. My town has the dubious honour of hosting this year's shenanigans, which mainly celebrate Canadian "artists" like Celine Dion, Shania Twain, Nickleback and Avril Lavigne who's primary contribution to Canadian music is breaking through in the U.S.A (and, to be frank, the Yanks can have 'em). However, there's a smattering of decent shows this weekend, like Joel Plaskett (who I missed last time he rolled through town 'cause I was sick as fuck) and the Dears. Unfortunately these two gigs conflict, but life is full of tough choices.

Oh and I'm checking out Metric at the brand-spanking new Starlight Room next week. It should be sweet.

Ah! Fucking zombies!

I, for one, am glad to see someone tackling the tough issues; the issues that really matter.

How did movie zombies get so fast?

In related zombie news, the Oilers continue to shuffle towards the post-season.

This fire is out of control, gonna burn this city

Oh God. Not again. Please not again.

Oilers/Stars playoff meeting looms

For those of you who don't know, the Edmonton Oilers and Dallas Satrs have met in the Stanley Cup playoffs six times in the past seven years, five times in the first round. The only time the two clubs haven't met during that span was the year both clubs missed the post season. Now the Oilers haven't even clinched a playoff berth yet, but I don't it's too early to start praying this meeting does not come to pass. Of course, an optimist would say that this could be the year for the Oielrs to finally get the Dallas monkey off their backs, but we all know that the Stars have had the Oilers' number since 1997. In the words of the Matrix's Agent Smith: "It is...inevitable."

On the other hand, I'd still rather they play Dallas than Detroit.

Where's a boy with bad intentions gonna settle down?

Woot!
Good news from Hit By A train:
"The Old 97's album is halfway done! No title yet. Thus far it's shaping up as a bit of a throwback to Wreck Your Life era content but with a much fuller sound, and less poppy than both Fight Songs and Satellite Rides."

Good news for those who soured on their bands turn to Britsh iNvasion-era guitar pop, I suppose. (WTF is Rhett doing playing Christian music fests, anyway? Fuck that.)

Also check out Phil's tour diary from the February 19 Dallas Observer.

I'm not drunk. Yet.

Happy St. Paddy's to all! Let's get things started with the following e-mail missive from the Belfast Canuck:

"Yo. Happy St Paddy's Day. Saw Shane McGowan do a free show outside of City Hall after the parade today. And between you and me, I think he'd been drinking."

On these shores we have a MP pushing to make St. Paddy's a national holiday.

I like the cut of this guy's gib, but have to respectfully disagree with him. St. Paddy's should not be a holiday. The day after St. Paddy's should.

Finally: Naked Irish chicks.

E-town to Deetwah: you suck.

Yo, douchebag: you wanna talk "no buzz"? Let's talk about what kind of boring, white bread, frat-boy fucker would cop to attending both John Mayer and Guster gigs. You probably dig the String Cheese Incident too, but only for the off chance some dreadlocked 17 year-old on nitrous will let you touch their post-pubescent titties. Mayer. Jesus.

Is this it?

So Todd Bertuzzi gets a minimum 17 game suspension for breaking Colorado's Steve Moore's neck, with additional time to be determined prior to the start of the next season. I think it's a decent amount, but the league missed a chance to send a real message by suspending him for next season as well. Either way, Moore still lies in a hospital bed and, chances are, this isn't the last time we see something like this.

Y'know, much has been made of the current climate in the NHL and the lack of respect players show towards one another's' well-being. Seems to me this is simply an extension of the culture of violence that exists in the game, at nearly every level. While Don Cherry might say otherwise, its a short trip from sanctioned violence (fighting, hitting etc.) to the kind of crap we see today. And it's making the game into a joke. I saw the clip of the mugging on CNN yesterday, which is probably the first time hockey and the NHL have ever been mentioned on that network, while the Times of London had hockey on its list of 10 Most Overrated Things In Sport (this from a country that brought the world cricket and public school sodomy? Whatever.) This incident is not the kind of exposure the league needs. Something's gotta give. The league needs to make changes, not just to protect players, but to improve the game itself.

(1) Fighting: hockey is the only sport that tolerates physical violence between participants. And as much I, as a red-blooded Canadian, enjoy watching a good tilt, the fact it, fighting makes the game look like a joke. Ban it. You drop the flippers, you're gone for the rest of the game and get an automatic game suspension and fine to boot.

(2) Think eliminating fighting will lead to more stickwork? Get tough on that too. High sticking penalties should be an automatic 5, 5 and a game if blood is drawn, but the hit was accidental, 5, a game and a one game suspension for intentional high sticking.

(3) Protect the melon: the head has become a target. The NFL has rules protecting players' heads. So too should the NHL. Make shots to the head (be it with shoulder, elbow, forearm, whatever) a penalty, maybe even a major. Hell, make boarding, kneeing, hits from behind majors as well.

(4) Four on four, all the time. Fewer players=more room=less contact=less chance of shit hitting the fan.

Those would be a good start, but the bottom line is , major changes are required, if not to shed the game's thuggish profile, but at least to ensure the next time a player goes down in a heap, he doesn't leave the rink in a hearse.

Snack when you're winning.

Robbie Williams: what's up, lardass?

Where's a boy with bad intentions gonna settle down?

So, I have my entire apartment to myself for the weekend. However, I'm at a loss as to what to do with it. What is a boy to do?

Take me out.

New GTA to drop in October?Buzz?

What bliss it was that dawn to be alive...

...but this is pure heaven. Like the man says: so effing hott!

I was saying "Boo-urns."

So spoiled-brat rich kid, ex-Oiler and current Coyote Mike Comrie returns to face his old squad tonight.

Sure, there'll be booing, but as our man across the pond, the Belfast Canuck, pointed out over e-mail, this highlights some key differences between sports fans on each side of the Atlantic.

"I guarantee you there will not be any signs with "Judas" or "scum" or "cunt" or "Judas scum cunt" at the pill tonight. Also I'm pretty sure nobody will be throwing bottles of piss at the Coyotes bus. Which is a shame, really."

Jesus, that's funny.

Crucifixion? How about crucifunxion!

Handy Aramic phrases for moviegoers.

That's what I call Passion.

Gal with microphone and "Jesusfish" tee-shirt : "So, you just saw Passion? What did you think?"

dong resin : "Amazing. Simply amazing. I'll tell you, using subtitles made a lot of sense."

Jesusfish Gal : "And what was so great? What was the best part of the movie for you?"

dong resin : "Well, the best part was when they tore up Jesus."

Jesusfish Gal : "..........."

dong resin : "They totally whale on that motherfucker!"

Terse Jesusfish Gal : "Thank you."

dong resin : "Thank you!"


The last word.

Three bits on Oscar

1. I still can't decide what was worse: the bloated, unkempt Peter Jackson (the only thing missing were sauce stains on his shirt front, but maybe they were CGI'd-out) or the walking grotesquery that was his mate's hairdo. Shudder.

2. So Charlize Theron gets the nod for burying her luminosity beneath a pile of make up to play an ugly person. My question is: couldn't the producers of "Monster" have just, y'know, hired an actual ugly person?

3. "Annie Hall" was, what: 30 years ago? So why is Diane Keaton still wearing that stoopid fucking hat and sunglasses?

EaM's so boring ever since he stopped drinking.

Well, 48 hours on the wagon and counting. The tremors have subsided and the bugs are gone, but I still can't shake the feeling that there's a good reason I try to stay good and drunk. Could be because the workaday world is so blindingly dull. Either way, I'm going to bed right after the OC tonight.

Flip the track, bring the old school back.

I think it's time for a "Whassup?!" revival. I'm just sayin'.

Living it up while we're going down.

If there's anything funnier than a pile of wheelchair-bound senior citizens stuck in a glass elevator, I don't wanna know about it.

Finally, something I can be proud of.

Alright! After hyping their shit for some time, I've finally contributed to the Black Table's Black List.

For the record, I'm the guy who wrote about rubbing it out at work.

God bless the postal service.

And I'm talking about Canada Post, not faggy emotronica bands. Props due not only for prompt delivery of a package that was sent on Tuesday, but for the safe arrival of the illicit narcotics contained therein. Sometimes this country is A-OK.

In brief

British Sea Power does put on a scorching show, even though the singer's voice sounds a lil' too close to Bowie for my comfort. Super Furry Animals were off the fucking hook. Mad respect for a band that would segue from a full on rock song into a techno breakdown, leave the stage and return 10 minutes later dressed in their trademark fucking Yeti costumes to kick out the jams. So good, they'll put a new hole in your ass.

Giving it up.

I can't remember where I ripped this from, but after five booze and cannabis fueled days away from home, I reckon now's a good time to reflect on the merits of teetotaling.

Life after Sex

MSNBC asks how "Sex and the City" should close out its run. Since neither "a hail of bullets" or "pirahanas" figured prominently in the choices, I refrained from delving any deeper.

Meanwhile, Bunsen plays the SATC spoiler. No, really.

What's not funny about 9-11 jokes. anyway?

More fallout from Conan Quebecois routine.

Somebody get this country a sense of humour, stat. The whole Quebec seperatism thing is just so 1993. Fucking babies.

Soon to be blasting from an SUV near you.

Norah Jones moves 1 million copies of new album.

I don't care to speculate on what this might mean for a music industry plagued by sagging sales and internet piracy, except for the distinct possibility that we can expect an onslaught of watered down Jones clones over the next 10 months, accompanied by aggressive, "grown-up" oriented marketing campaigns.

I would, though, just like to ask: who are these fuckers that buy these records and what do they have against music?

Dope is for dopes, man.

Unintentionally hilarious, "hip" anti-pot web site.

I laughed quite hard at the section on teen sex and drugs. However, it should be noted that I was quite high at the time.

Stop this before it starts.

Key-tars: no no no.

See? It is a gateway drug!

A former senior aide of Saddam Hussein claims the dictator was probably high on drugs when he decided to invade Kuwait in 1990.

One word: RESPECT!

This Valentine's Day, give the gift of blue balls.

Teens promote "purity". Why anyone would choose celibacy when so many others have celibacy thrust (or not thrust as the case may be) upon them is beyond me. Then again, based on the photo, I don't think these dudes are up to their ears in poontang at the moment anyway (metaphorically speaking, of course).

Enter the jilted.

The great thing about the interweb is that it provides a forum for folks who got screwed over by their boyfriends to vent their bile-filled spleens under the guise of some sort of post-feminist deconstruction of modern male behaviour. Step right up, Rachel Elder.

This monkey's gone to heaven...

So, I've been seeing and hearing a variety of complaints emanating from south of the 49th about the Pixies' decision to kick off their reunion, pre-Coachella mini-tour in the Great White North (specifically, Winnipeg). In our nation's defense, I just wanted to say this:

Fuck you, you buncha whiners. First, it's not like we (especially those of us stuck in areas that aren't Vancouver or Toronto) get blessed with a lot of great tours over the course of your average year. No, the best we can usually manage is Nickleback (who, to the eternal shame of those of us with taste who still call E-town home, are endlessly billed as "Alberta's own Nickleback" and sell out back-to-back dates at the old Coliseum). So when we get the rare chance to see, live and in person, a touchstone of modern rock'n'roll like the Pixies, you can bet it's appreciated. So, once again, fuck you to all you Iraq-invadin', gun-totin', 12-sandwich-eatin' motherfuckers. And also: nyah nyah.

It's a damn sight better than "husky".

I think it would be really cool to be referred to as being "rakish."

What was the old low, then?

FCC chairman calls halftime show 'new low'

That's just the kind of quick, decisive action that one would expect from a Republican government, uh...right?

Bush dicks around 9-11 panel.

How soon is now?

So, at the bar this weekend and someone asks "If you could go back in time and witness just one event, what would it be?"
While the rest of the table hummed and hawed over crucifixions and whatnot, I blurted out "I'd go back to 1969 and see the Velvet Underground play the Factory!"

What does that say about me?

It's not me, it's the technology.

I have a cell phone now. I just need friends.

Make baby Jesus cry.

But I don't even believe in Jebus!

California schemin'.

Shit, I need to stop indulging my taste in vintage wines, floor-length fur coats, lap dances and the finest cocaine money can buy in order to save enough scratch to make it down to Coachella this year. The lineup looks un-fucking real (Radiohead and the fucking Pixies! On the same day!) So far (and this is unofficial) this is how it's shaping up:

SATURDAY:
Radiohead
The Pixies
Kraftwerk
Electric Six
LCD Soundsystem
Sahara Hotnights
The International Noise Conspiracy
And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead
Atmosphere w/ Eyedea and Abilities
Kinky

SUNDAY:
The Cure
Wilco
Air
Belle and Sebastian
Basement Jaxx
The Thrills
Moving Units
Mogwai
Dizzee Rascal
Prefuse 73
Sidestepper
T. Raumschmiere
Seb Fontaine
Sage Francis

DAY UNKNOWN:
The Flaming Lips
Le Tigre
The Streets
!!!
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Bright Eyes
Death Cab for Cutie
The Sleepy Jackson
My Morning Jacket
The Crystal Method
Paul Van Dyk
Mark Farina
The Stills
Broken Social Scene
The Killers
Stellastarr
The Black Keys

Say it with me, now: ROAD TRIP!

It's spreading...

4 a.m. Jihad

I love the word jihad, and am trying to use it more in casual conversation. As in: "What's up with her outfit? Has she declared a jihad on good taste?"

You get the picture.

Dude, it's SO fucking on!

"Listen to me. Now lookit, when you go up to talk to her, man, I don't want you to be the guy in PG-13 movie everyone's really hopin' makes it happen. I want you to be like the guy in the rated R movie. You know? The guy you're not sure whether or not you like yet. You're not sure where he's comin' from okay? You're a bad man, you're a bad man, you're a bad man. Bad man."

Prone to violent outbursts.

This guy needs to have his teeth kicked in for writing such a load of smug, condescending, self-satisfied crap and passing it onto the public. I have many married friends. Some of them are even happy, and bless 'em for it. But then I also know people who enjoy Nickleback. Maybe that's the right choice for them, but it's not for everyone. At the end, though, Steinberg's characterization of single people as cowardly, sad, disconnected and pathetic is as much of a fallacy as the single-person stereotype of married folk as zombie-like beings compelled to transform all around into facsimiles of themselves (a fallacy that Steinberg embraces with his contention that married people are "trying to help our single friends salvage what's left of their lives before the years pass, irretrievable.")
One has to wonder what would prompt such a outburst at people who's greatest crime against civilization is singledom. Steinberg is so quick to paint a profoundly rosy picture of matrimony and married people as some higher form of being (as though marriage were some transcendent act that elevates you to a high plane of existence) that one can't help but wonder if he's really lashing out purely out of jealousy.
I'd also like to hear what his wife has to say.

Bloggity blog blog.

Bunsen takes the piss out of the "_____ 2: Electric Bugaloo" "phenomenon". However, scroll down and you will see that the proprieter of the audaciously-monikered Greatest Blog In The World is stil buying into the whole "_____ is the new _______." Now that shit is tired in ways the word "bugaloo" can never be. Even though if you say "bugaloo" enough times, it kinda loses its meaning.

Bugaloo.

Bugaloo.


Bugaloo.




Bugaloo.


See?

What Ever Happened?

I was getting bored.

Bless me, dark father: I have sinned. I've done it before and I'll do it again.

To the morons who decided it would be a good idea to bring two four-year olds to a frickin' four-hour movie, where they predictably nattered away the entire time: I'm building a time machine right now for the specific purpose of going back in time and sterilizing the both of you. Mad props on the parenting skills, especially you, dad, for getting so fed up with your kids' constant stream of jibba-jabba that you took the bold step of moving to another goddamned seat. What. The. Fuck.

To the deranged bums who somehow wandered into the theatre and spent a good portion of the flick yelling incomprehensible things at the screen, smoking and arguing with each other: you put the "ass" in "class", motherfuckers. Here's hoping you freeze to death.

To my landlord: if you don't get cracking on that toilet problem soon, I'm gonna come down and shit in your bathtub.

To the lack of hot-water in my building this a.m.: you were not what I was looking for after a night of drinking and three hours sleep, but you found me nonetheless. Thank you for further sapping my will to live. When they find me swinging from the track-lights in the kitchen, the note pinned to my chest will blame you.

Finally, to the weather in this town: you freeze my eyelids shut, cause my testes to retreat into my abdominal cavity, and make venturing outside a matter of life or death. What did I ever do to you? Jerk.

(Despite the above dose of vitriol, I'm actually pretty chipper. That could have something to do with the upcoming jaunt to the coast for BSP and SFA or it could be that I'm still drunk.)

I ain't wasting no more time.

Jesus: what a weekend. (See also: "rollercoaster")

I don't feel much like making with the ha ha right now. It's too cold outside and I have a sick feeling in my gut.

It's alright Friday night to Sunday.

Lucky me, I get to bugger off early today. Added bonus: I get to spend the better part of the night watching the ceiling go all, like, "whoah".

Indie cred flawlessly maintained. Personal credit history, not so much

Sub Pop skewers Pitchfork. See what I did there? That was a play on words. Neat, huh?

Now if they'd go after Buddyhead, we'd be in business.

(Buzz shamelessly ganked from stereogum.)

Babe-rista!

Free coffeee=awesome.

Speaks for itself.

Troops and Tank Struggle to Save Beer

"After cooling off in a watery grave for more than three weeks, 10 tons of beer have been rescued from beneath the ice of a Siberian river with the help of a T-72 tank, Emergency Situations Ministry troops and six divers. Its fridge, a KamAZ truck, was not so lucky.

One diver was injured in the operation Tuesday, but the beer is good enough to be sold, if at a discount, said the beer's producer, Omsk-based Rosor, which is perhaps best known for its Sibirskaya Korona label."

You think that's bad? I know people who'd suck it off a coaster.

Life in the Oval Hotbox

This bit from the Spoonbender is so fucking funny. For some reason the thought of the most powerful nation on earth being run by a bunch of stoners is infinitely more comforting than the thought of it being run by, say, a cabal of incredibly wealthy, overwhelmingly white dudes with their tongues planted firmly in Corporate America's bunghole.

The place is dead as heaven on a Saturday night.

It's been strangely quiet round these parts over the last little while. Too quiet.

My big brother (the one who's working in Libya and looking more and more like an Arab everytime I see him) took me out for supper last night at Dadeo's. Them's some tasty sammiches. I pitched the idea of buying his pretty much mint queen sized mattress off him, since it's doing nobody any good in storage and he's going to be out of the country for the better part of the year. So I might be one step closer to getting that bed problem taken care of (and not a minute too soon: I've been sleeping very badly lately).

Um. I might go see the Salteens play tomorrow. But then again, I might not.

I'll get back to this if things get exciting.

A classic case of lack of will.

A quick rundown of the past few days. Friday, the lovely Miss Ali F. was in town from T-Dot, which meant pints at the Savoy and much reminiscing. I really need to pay that girl a visit (even if she does live in Hogtown. Blah.)
Saturday was suppossed to be a large night, but two of my fellow travellers on the road to Largeness were sidelined by illness, so i picked up the slack with a visit to the same old fucking place, where I had the following exchange with the bartendress:

Moi: "One vodka and 7, please."
Bartendress: "You know, singles are $4.00, but doubles are $6.50. It makes more sense to get doubles."
Moi: "Boy, you saw me coming, didn't you?"

You can figure out the rest.

Bitchin' ad campaign, waiting to happen.

Visit tropical Canada.

My standard break from life is in order.

With work commitments circling like an army of PCP-crazed Shriners in tiny cars, my daily blog perusal and witty commentary here shal be severely curtailed. But on the plus side: soon I'll be drunk.

Two Horsemen of the Apocalypse Discussing the Whereabouts of the Other Two

This week's Onion is a welcome return to form. From I'll Have You Know I have Several Black Friendsters to U.S To Give Every Iraqi $3,544.91, let Free-Market Capitalism Do The Rest it looks like the reigning champ of web satire is back on it's feet after playing the milquetoast for the better part of 2K3.

That's all I've got. Daily blogging is hard.

Certain Foods and the Individual Utensils It Is Difficult to Eat Them With

McSweeny's lists are the shit.

Two steps forward, two steps back.

It's actually supossed to be a nice day here. Which means I should probably go and get drunk tonight. I know it's only Tuesday, but January days where you can get soused without fear of freezing to death on the way home are few and far between and, as such, should be capitalized upon whenever possible. If anyone needs me, I'll be at the bar.

Je suis comme ci comme ca.

"JANUARY 2004: Your dog's wearing an ugly ill-fitting sweater you would've thrown into the East River. Your throat, virus or not, is permanently full of a hunk of phlegm. Your "hot" water takes 10 minutes to reach "less cold". Your food all tastes like shit. Your increased alcohol consumption puts a complete kibosh on the happy electro-chemistry from your anti-depressants. Your hair looks like a dried-up mop that's been sitting in a scuzzy bucket for 10 years. Despite obsessive moisturizing, your thumbs each sport small but abysmal cracks that hurt like a motherfucker. Bally Fitness has changed its hot, sweaty, thongy, squishy-titted soft porn TV campaign. And no amount of "Cool New York" events or WinterFuckingFest fun can change the fact that we're ALL on a slippery slope ending with a face plant on Valentine's Day."

Why even try to come up with some clever, when you have people like the Black Table to do it for you?

All you ever wanna do is drink and watch TV.

First, the obligatory weekend wrap up. Friday's Johnny Cash/Clash tribute night was marginally enjoyable, though the first two acts were weak enough to prompt a friend to quip that he expected the ghosts of Johnny and Joe Strummer to descend and dispense divine retribution, chicken-fight style. On the other hand, 7 and 7 Is' schmoking rendition of "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" made it all worthwhile.

The less said about Saturday night, the better, for it involved ample amounts of alcohol and entirely too much bad white blooze. Also: dim sum is probably more enjoyable when your head's not lolling against the restaurant window.

And now it's a new week.

I just can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read.

Ryan Adams gets (probably justifiably) raked over the coals by Jim DeRogatis. Read all about it.

Adams freaks out, leaves phone message for critic:

"And like what is your problem? You have to come after me... You do this to me every time I come to town... You know, fuck you -- Fuck you, you asshole. I'm like giving you a Courtney Love call, but nobody's interested in your bullshit... You obviously have a problem with me -- not the music because you can't refute it -- obviously, because it's too fucking good, you know it is or you wouldn't write about me. You would just like let it go -- but you write about me every chance you get...which is shit man. Just get somebody else, who gets it..."

Than posts poorly written explanation here.

Ryan, Ryan, Ryan: what's up? Do you not grasp the concept of "critic"? Aren't you the same guy who goes around talking shit about other bands, like, ALL THE TIME? Have you been getting so used to the (totally undeserved) critical fellating "Rock N Roll" has received that you can't take a little bad ink? Seriously, dude: you know you're in trouble when you cite the populist appeal of creative dreck like John Mayer and Dave Matthews to try and make your point. My advice to you, my friend, is to get Whiskeytown back together, stat. Or at least ditch the rock star trappings (including Parker Poseur) and the enfant terrible attitude (which was cute when you were a 19-year old songwriting wunderkind, but is getting a little stale as you inch towards 30) and get you're head in the game. The time has come to, put bluntly, shit or get off the pot, creatively speaking. Otherwise you risk artistic irrelevance or worse: commercial success.

You gave and you gave without taking.

Holy shit: the new Mandy Moore joint "Chasing Liberty" is a remake of the Audrey Hepburn classic "Roman Holiday". In light of the fact that I rented the latter last weekend (though have yet to watch it), I'm considering this confluence of events as a sign that I (A) must go see "Chasing Liberty" and (B) will enjoy a lifetime of bliss and sexual satisfaction with the lovely Ms. Moore. I'm more than willing to compromise on the first point.

Gonna play with the brains that you came here with tonight.

Wow. I have absolutely nothing to say this morning. I could use some 'tussin, though. Anyway, here's an interesting link that asks "Was Saddam Hussein really captured?" Waitaminute: you mean the whole thing may have been an elaborate and hollow propaganda ploy cooked up by the Bush administration to score easy political points in the run-up to the 2004 presidential election? Say it ain't so, Georgie!

(I'm aware that this isn't the best medium for conveying sarcasm, but in case you missed it, the above was an example of such. Thank you.)

I'm counting on the heart I know by heart.

Wilco is in the studio again, with a new album slated to drop in spring. Finally, something to live for (other than Kill Bill Vol. 2, of course).

Not so cunning a linguist.

Just when we thought we were oh-so-fucking-clever for "inventing" the term "ridonkulous" (that is, when something is so beyond ridiculous to the point of being completely abstract), it pops up on "The O.C" last night. A quick google search this morning (your tax dollars at work, kids!) reveals this lovable adjective is already entrenched in the lexicon (As demonstrated by it's double appearance in the Urban Dictionary. Seriously, though, what dipshit came up with that first definition? ) Oh well. I guess there really is nothing new under the sun. Ridonkulous: it belongs to the world now.

Oh. Mischa Barton done up rock-chick style: noice.

It's different now that I'm poor and aging.

It's cold and my throat hurts. Here's the Observer's list of ways to make yourself better in '04. Good call on the vodka, though if I ever met someone who referred to themselves as "quirkyalone", I'd knee them square in the business.

Not that you needed one, really.

Here's another reason to love Willie.

(Oh, grow up.)

This is it?

Lately I've been thinking more and more about burning this whole town down and salting the earth upon which it stood. Maybe I just need to take more naps.

Y2K4 is in the motherfucking HOUSE!!!

So this is a new year. I'm exactly one day into sober January and all I want is a drink. And it's, like, 10 a.m. Fack. Although, there's something to be said for lucidity and there's few fates worse than becoming a parody of oneself. Of course some might say that particular ship has sailed, but those people are all total fags ("fag" being the "it" slur of the big Oh-Four.)

Blah.