A headline for the Seattle earthquakes: THE NEEDLE AND THE DAMAGE DONE.
As one who is prone to promoting the glories of the lowly sammich, I find it most titillating that the 11th Earl of Sandwich himself has accepted his manifest destiny as a merchant of the two-slices-of-bread foodstuffery. The earl, also known as John Montagu, and his son Orlando are now regaling London's financial district with daily deliverings of their namesakes, for a modest fee, of course. Reliable reports say it is not unusual for a man of his lineage to descend to trade; I personally cannot think of a higher calling. If I might be so brash, I would suggest that the Montagu fast-food cabal might want to consider offering sammiches of more rudimentary means, however. We all need a little baloney now and then.
February 26, 2001 at 21:56 | Permalink
If you didn't read my NBA All-Star Weekend piece, then this is an excellent taste of it:
Click Here And Click on 'Enter Flash Gallery'
It's a little slow if you're not on a T-1 or cable modem, but it's worth it.
I love the way Iverson comes in after a whole bunch of black-tie stuff.
February 24, 2001 at 03:01 | Permalink
Yeah, you heard this one here first, from my own brain. Let's say that a congressman has a problem with the U.S. Marshals Service. The ultimate superior of the service, I believe, would be Attorney General John Ashcroft. (I could be wrong.) But let's say the congressman complains about Ashcroft's handling of the problem within the marshals. The headline could be: "Congressman Raps Ashcroft Over Marshal Matters" Get it? "raps" and "marshal matters"? God, I'm hilarious. Thanks.
February 23, 2001 at 21:05 | Permalink
A look at the Country album charts in Billboard mag shows a riot goin' on:
1. Soundtrack: "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" Mercury. (Gold)
2. "I Need You," LeAnn Rimes. Curb.
3. Soundtrack: "Coyote Ugly." Curb. (Platinum)
4. "Breathe," Faith Hill. Warner Bros. (Platinum)
5. "Greatest Hits," Tim McGraw. Curb. (Platinum)
Not much unusual there, except for the fact that a disc of earthy proto-grunge is outselling every bit of Nashville's top-shelf "country" inspidity. If such a thought makes most country-radio programmers feel all oogie inside, my day is better. I'm sure the kissy-wissy between Hill and McGraw that riddled the Suckies show will propel their discs back to the top in due time, though. They should do a porno.
At least Shelby Lynne finally got her due.
February 23, 2001 at 16:55 | Permalink
Wake me when this whole Dave Eggers/Neal Pollack/McSweeney's thing becomes important. I genuinely want to read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," or whatever that psuedo-bio is called, but I still can't fathom why he's chased around the Web by every pop culture scribe looking for something of significance. I guess this is the latest, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna read any of it:
the original NYT piece
Whatever. Maybe I'm jealous.
February 22, 2001 at 15:30 | Permalink
Eminem thanked Dennis Dennehy after winning the rap album award. Dennehy did PR for Geffen back when it was the hippest thing in major-label-land, and now he's essentially the rapper's personal mouthpiece. He's one of the few flacks in the industry who seems to be a genuinely nice guy. I say "seems" because I only ever dealt with him on the phone. Dude always treated my low-rent writerly ass with proper respect, though.
February 21, 2001 at 23:47 | Permalink
Somebody made a neon sign to that lyrical effect for Bob Pollard, and few things have ever been so fitting. He drinks fewer Buds and/or Rolling Rocks per performance than in years past, and that famous leg kick has less vertical, but the man might be the King of Rock in an era when past kings are dead/retired/lame/burnt/bullshit. His newer songs have two different modulations: Kinda Loudly Melodic and Even More Loudly Melodic Still. Maybe it's that's he's surrounded himself with Ohio ax-men who like a kickass riff; I'm more inclined to think that he feels the need to holler because four-track subtletly and basement moxie only got him so far previously. Still, on Feb. 17-18, 2001, at the Black Cat in Washington D.C., the man dipped into his old shyte quite often: Only one song or two from "Mag Earwhig" [he mentioned something about being pissed off about a collaborator from that disc; earlier in the evening he took issue, perhaps sarcastically, with ex-Chisel frontman Ted Leo (or maybe one of his musically inclined brothers; the story was hard to decipher) for allegedly clocking him in the nose, but there's no need to incriminate anybody here; it could be a WWF-type thing for all I know. The skinny: Bob isn't afraid to diss anybody in hindsight], but there were PLENTY of necessities performed from Bee Thousand and Under The Bushes Under The Stars. (Take your pick.) The reve-fucking-lation of the evening, however, was "Teenage FBI" from the recently dismissed (however improperly) Do The Collapse -- the song is all about being old, and STILL not understanding why everybody back in the day (circa age 14) was so friggin' militant about ersatz coolness. It never had to be that hard -- just cop Kinks/Pere Ubu/Who/Buzzcocks poses in your basement. Alright, that's hard, but whatever. Anyway, he kept calling everyone "kids" throughout the night, which was deserved, because even if the ex-teach uses Grecian Formula on that pseudo-Caesar of his, he still looked slightly older than 99 percent of the crowd. Back to the neon: the part "THE CLUB IS" was blue and "OPEN" was red. The opening band the Strokes obviously recognized the importance of it all; if I had a kid who was incorrigible, I'd want him on Bob P.'s block instead of the basement some Illinois Nazi (Stacey Keach in American History X comes to mind as the anti-Pollard). The Strokes play '80s rock, Echo & The Bunnymen type shit, but blessedly rockin', I shit you not. But what really was the true-blue indicative/goddamn spiritual/stoppid for anybody newbie or oldie to GBV was the half-performance of the Who's "Baba O'Riley" at the end of the second encore. They didn't play the whole song, but GBV/Pollard's usage of it was at least, if not more, effective than those rippin' scenes in "Summer Of Sam." I await the new disc Isolation Drills (football practice reference there) with anxiousness, the first time in five years I've given a crap about the man's music. That's what closing your tour in D.C. will do, I guess. Drunk motherfuckers.
February 18, 2001 at 06:25 | Permalink
Soaking wet human being arrives at work cranky and anxious. Idiot wore sneakers in this weather instead of something more leathery and waterproof. Payday, though. Employee now more dry, but toes cold from losing blood-heat to evaporation process. Now he knows how Morrissey feels.
February 16, 2001 at 18:11 | Permalink
I'm having difficulty adding fresch bitz to this blog. It seems as if some of the settings I've changed won't take effect, either. Something so free can be so lame! But it's free.
February 15, 2001 at 18:07 | Permalink
I might've been among the first to declare that a Bush administration (that would be a capital A if this were the NYT) would be good for punk rock, and I still hold that opinion. It's obvious that the grassroots machinations of the pol-punk underground are bubbling with discontent, the kind that delivers good art at about a 5 percent rate, which is a much better ratio than we might have right now. But after watching "The Filth And The Fury" (I know, I know, this makes two consecutive blogs inspired by movies, F you, whatever), I crave a band that truly provides a fire-patch in the middle of the ultra-lefty noisemakers and the pist-punk drunkards, where all factions can dive with the sacred hope of partial immolation. But that's just me.
February 14, 2001 at 21:57 | Permalink
There's a scene early in "The Blues Brothers" where Elwood picks up Jake from prison, and they're on the way back to Chicago from Joliet, and Jake breaks out a pack of cigs, and he lights his first faeg with the push-in lighter in their recycled police car, and there's a filmic element soon after, check it: Jake THROWS THE ELECTRO-LIGHTER PLUG out the window, like it's a match and not a supposed regular feature of the sedan that once was a cop car and now isn't. The brilliance comes when you see the first 5 mins. of "8 1/2" and you realize that the dream sequence with the dude dying in the vapor-lock'd car features a few panning shots where the camera FOCUSES ON INDIVIDUAL FACES much like John Landis decided to freeze-frame a portion of Jake throwing the lighter-plug out the window.
February 11, 2001 at 03:21 | Permalink
If Bo Derek can allegedly date Rep. David Dreier, perhaps Britney Spears can find love on the Hill. She's probably in town already for the NBA stuff this weekend; I'm positive DJ Kid Capri is holed up in the 22nd St. Marriott. A bunch of kids were sitting on a railing outside the hotel, waiting perhaps for a basketball stud, Capri, or one of the other entertainment gigantes in town to act stoopid for the weekend. I guess if Puffy weren't in the legal hot seat, he might be here waxin' J.Lo's azz at 2K9 up off U. St. The grande Ritz Carlton also was buzzing outside with limos, tall people on cellphones and other parasitic entities. That place is a hoot -- it looks more like a landing dock on the Death Star than an upscale place to tarry & feast. Over the driveway is a semi-circular hood that emanates a cobalty light -- all it needs is a Tractor Beam and a few stormtroopers to complete the effect. As for Cobalt itself (the hotel's ridiculous-looking restaurant) -- that place has a few wilted orchids in the window. Last, but not least (and not all necessarily parasitic), the stocky dudes in suede sweatsuits milling up and down 22nd were an entertaining break from the usual yuppies, panhandlers and car-parkers.
February 09, 2001 at 17:51 | Permalink
Supposed to be 65 Fahrenheit on Friday here in DC, like that crazy Jan. day in State College back in the early nineties. It was 70, skin everywhere, the earth all mushy, dogs, frisbees, hippies ... ah, forget it. Anything that makes me think of State College hippies has to be inherently annoying. Better weather memory: State College as the land of the ice and snow, lake-effect style, nordic mornings trudging off to an 8 a.m. geo-sci class, so cold that no amount of clothing can make a difference. Dry, too. State College had that mountain dryness that sucked the moisture off your body the minute you stepped out of the shower. Whenever I got a zit, cold sore, fat lip, brushburn, eye-sty (sebacious contagious), ingrown toenail, or whatever, that stuff took WEEKS to heal, man. No ointment powerful enough.
February 08, 2001 at 18:17 | Permalink
The first thing I heard today upon reaching the top of the GWU Metro stop was a radio broadcast of somebody speaking calmly about the south end of the White House grounds. It didn't start to make sense until I got to Washington Circle across from the hospital, where a pile of media trucks were setting up. Initial thought: Cheney had another heart attack. That's where they took Reagan, after all. The shooting is No. 2 on the Most Memorable Video Images From The Reagan Years, right behind Challenger, which is actually more of an audio file in my databrain -- my principal delivered the news whilst I sat in Sister Boyle's English class. Anyway, I'm somewhat impressed that the Secret Serve guys blasted Mr. Depressed Gunman in the kneecap; call it a Tarantino Moment ... but if they were so friggin' cool, they would've shot the gun right out of his hands, Country-Western style. Mr. Crazy Cry For Help has nothing on Russell Weston Jr., though. Maybe they'll end up in the same cellblock.
February 08, 2001 at 02:03 | Permalink