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?
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
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.)
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.)
Monday, January 26, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, January 23, 2004
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
Thursday, January 22, 2004
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.
"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.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, January 16, 2004
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.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
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.
That's all I've got. Daily blogging is hard.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
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?
Why even try to come up with some clever, when you have people like the Black Table to do it for you?
Monday, January 12, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
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 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.)
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
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.
Oh. Mischa Barton done up rock-chick style: noice.
Monday, January 05, 2004
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.
Friday, January 02, 2004
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.
Blah.
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