1. It's highly possible that Pete Wentz has busted Tony Romo's balls at least once.
2. Fall Out Boy emerged from a series of shameful compromises.
3. True, unassailable talent only gets you a pack of dogs, a warehouse lair and a show on Nat Geo.
4. At least one Simpson sister has the elemental intellect required to protect an infant from obvious dangers. (Tha Mrs. says, "Barely, though.")
Putting aside the general frustrations* that come with being a Philly fan, I would like to make specific note of the Eagles' 10-3 loss to the Washington Redskins yesterday and their 13-13 tie against the Cincinnati Bengals about a month ago. Both were soul-sucking events of alarming and unusual proportions. To be sure, I'm willing to watch my team fail, and with gusto. I've done it many times, and turned off the television or radio** afterward with a sense of clarity about the product on the field. The Washington and Cincinnati games, however, produced only vast, useless numbness -- and a solitary thought: Watching this is a waste of time. Noam Chomsky would be like, "word up."
* The Phils' World Series triumph, though savory, is more of a "cosmic equalizer" than a "psychological cleansing."
** When the Baltimore Ravens clobbered the Birds the week after that Bengals' game, I had the good fortune of hearing Mike Quick and Merrill Reese eloquently bemoan the state of the franchise on WYSP-FM during the second half. It was awesome.
For years, we've been trained to think that our biggest fears are aliens and asteroids and terrorists and earthquakes and diseases and robots and creatures and hackers. Fuck that -- if the allegations against Bernie Madoff are true, then it's safe to assume that the underbelly of our macroeconomy is rife with epic-sized bloodsuckers. They are the zombies -- they are takin' the life out of you. We just haven't found 'em all yet. But, alas, there has been no high-finance Jack Bauer or Mulder/Scully or teevee-style CSI unit or [insert hero here] on the case. (It's safe to assume so, because a $50 billion cloud of vapormoney shouldn't condense without somebody noticing.) Do I want a new Elliot Ness or a "FraudFiles" show on CBS? Hell no: I want Madoff -- if he's guilty -- to be locked up like Hannibal Lecter, and then he'll do nothing but explain the ways that douchebags can game the system: Tell us what they've been doing, Bernie. And it'll be on teevee.
Both sides of yer Poppa's head are chock full o' nuts. This means I can't "enjoy" music. And watching TV becomes an act of high-volume sound-terrorism against others in the house. But I'm now pumped full o' meds, and I'm trying to sleep it all away. When I feel better, the Cesspool shall overflow, and the childrens shall rejoice with the glee of Hate. Until then, eat a dick.
UNRELATED ADDENDUM: In the shoe-toss video, I'd love to see a Fox PitchTracker box around Bush's head. Of course, PitchTracker was so shitty, it would show both shoes as balls, not strikes.
SUGGESTION: Back in the day, "Not Necessarily The News" would have shown the two tosses, then cut to a (staged) shot of the guy rolling on the ground, and he'd have three legs, and he'd be trying to get the shoe off the third leg to throw it.
I typically just dish you straight to some mp3 files. Not today. I am not Santa. And I'm sick, so don't bitch if any of these links don't work.
"Kilo (Remix)" -- Ghostface Killah Feat. Raekwon and Malice of Clipse, via a Mediafire link.
Mixtape of 2008 indie rock from Four Paws Media, available as a stream.
"Tomorrow Morning" -- song by Aesop Rock, art by Jeremy Fish, on Def Jux site.
Oh, OK, here's one normal freebie: Mike Bones, "What I Have Left" (mp3)
My dad had a recipe for sardines that was intended to mask most of their smell while not totally diminishing their fishy pungency. He made the dish on intuition, like a hobo, with no official measurements. It went something like this:
• A can of the humble minnows (in plain water, not in oil or mustard)
• Some raw onion, diced
• Some vinegar
• A little salt
• And "more black pepper than you think you can stand."
That last bit of instruction was not to be ignored: After the first four ingredients were in the bowl, he'd forcefully shower the grayish mash with a significant dusting of pepper, to the point where the sneezy condiment was the only visible substance. Then he'd stir it all up and we'd eat it on saltine crackers.
It was totally a Depression-era snack, a way to turn very cheap protein into something zingy. He might've learned it in the Navy, or it might've been passed down through the coal miners and steel workers in the family. I've forgotten those details. Dad, for his part, saw it as a minor test of one's manhood: eat this ... it'll put hair on your chest. And he typically reserved it for times when we were all around the TV, watching sports on the weekend in the dead of winter.
We consumed it during Larry Holmes fights or while watching ABC's Saturday afternoon lineup, which began with professional bowling and ended with "Wide World of Sports." That show, hosted by Jim McKay, was the early booster for the Ironman triathlon, which seemed futuristic and mind-boggling back then.
The February 1982 version of the race was particularly dramatic: Julie Moss, a college student, was leading during the marathon portion. She was a newbie -- a total underdog -- and it was an inspiring moment. Dad, perhaps sensing the drama, made some sardines. We settled in with our fish and crackers to watch the final moments. Moss, looking tiny and vulnerable, was wavering. Her body was rebelling. She collapsed. She stood up again. Her pants were wet. Something dark was running down her leg. As she crawled to the finish, Kathleen McCartney passed her to win the women's division. Moss eventually finished, filthy and dazed. Her effort was a defining moment in sports history. In my house, we looked at each other. We looked down at the sardines. We didn't finish them.
I still make 'em a few times a year, though.
(read the complete and ongoing Secret History here)
You only see this one when you've committed to some blank-stare VH1 Soul viewing. It's kinda sullied by all of that Wild-Style-lite animation, though. I would've watched 3:30 worth of nothing but Brown and Bambaataa just workin' those puffy mics. Hindsight is a muh-fucker, ain't it?
Alex Battles is a longtime friend of the Cesspool who likes to wear a cowboy hat and sing country songs in front of the pasty, overmedicated whitefolk of Brooklyn, N.Y. Women sometimes find him attractive, which is probably why he started a festival. Then again, maybe he's just kinda lonesome. But remember that Eddie Murphy line about Teddy Pendergrass bein' so macho that as soon as he opened his mouth and started singing, women ran from the theater, holding their vaginas*? Alex's "Concentrate On Fun" series is kinda like that, at least for me. Does that make me weird? Don't judge. AND KIDS, DON'T DO DRUGS. Volumes 1-3:
*Eddie actually said "pussies."
I get a few million bucks to make a movie. I hire a writer/director and ask for a story that contains these mandatory details: Stacy London and Sarah Silverman are sisters. They share an apartment. They hate each other. When they fight, they pull each other's hair a lot.
NOTE: Do not make knee-jerk assumptions about whether this is a "fantasy," an "artistic vision" or an "entrepreneurial concept." If anything, the plan officially puts some distance between me and the subject material. Silverman probably would be game; London might require some persuasion.
It's official: Busta Rhymes videos serve only one purpose: to confront you with how porky he is. Then he tries to distract you from that reality, via high production values. But that pot-belly keeps stickin' you in the eye. It's brutal. And that, my friends, is what deserves a fatwah-wah-WHOO-HAH!
BONUS FAT: the remix
In a perfect world, Nickelback would never leave Sturgis. They'd turn it into their own Branson or Vegas. They'd do pyrotechnic, bombastic, bikini-tastic shows every Thursday through Saturday, with a Sunday matinee on holiday weekends. (Y'know, for the kids.) That, my friends, would be some (highly quarantined) economic development that we all can live with. And Nickelback can put out a DVD every year, just so we know they're still alive. Y'know, because they're Canadian, and it's a national security issue.
Let's call it "porn creep" -- the slow dispersion of fleshy flotsam and jetsam onto pages that otherwise should be visually benign. Like, say you've chosen to download some music from Nah Right -- you know you have a folder of like 8,000 shitty tracks from there, so don't even give me a hard time -- and they serve the mp3 via zshare. The download page sometimes will be plastered with harmless auto or gadget ads.
And then sometimes you get this:
Anybody eyeballing your screen is gonna see barely-contained breastices, ass-up poses and "WHO IS HANNAH MONTANA'S FATHER?" On the same page. You're a total fucking perv.
Now, this isn't an anti-porn rant. My glass house has lots of nasty smudge marks on the windows. There ain't enough Windex in the world to clean that shit up. I am totally exaggerating. But I wish zshare would eliminate that titties ad.
I don't wanna see some dark, distorted shitphone clip of you shouting "WHOOO!" to his squish of that Big Country song and "Whoomp! There It Is." (That ass-clappin' sounds just like a bagpipe.)
No, I want the lights on, I want angry whitefolk, and I want Girl Talk to, y'know, talk. Maybe shout a little. It's some of his most affecting work. Why didn't I know about this earlier?
All I want for Christmas is USC against Penn State in the Rose Bowl. Oregon State can eat a dick. Oregon, too. But college football's operating system starts to barf-up lots of user-errors if Missouri beats* Oklahoma in the Big 12 championship. In that scenario, USC could end up at No. 2 -- and a land a slot in the BCS championship game -- which means Penn State would get one of the Pac 10's dregs in Pasadena. Fuck, I hate the Pac 10.
From my inbox:
This is Nick Prueher writing from the Colbert Report in New York. On Friday, Dec. 12th and Saturday, Dec. 13th, I'll be bringing my national touring show, the Found Footage Festival, to the Montgomery Cinema & Drafthouse and Arlington Cinema & Drafthouse as part of a 2008 North American Tour. My fellow curator Joe Pickett and I, whose credits also include The Onion and the Late Show with David Letterman, are excited to bring our brand-new lineup of found videos and live comedy to the D.C. area for the first time. ... Here's a link to the trailer.The official press release is pasted below. ... Thanks!
Pop Cesspool has a highly unethical payola scheme for promoting this kind of thing. An invoice is in the mail. On good faith, I've provided portions of the press release after the jump: