Dolly Parton's video diary entry on the parting of Michael Jackson:
As far as catch phrases go, this one has legs as long as a 5'11" stripper. Thank you Teresa, real housewife of New Jersey, for saying it. And thank you Danielle, real skank of New Jersey, for prompting Teresa to say it. The applications are endless. Use it on your housewives, your momz, your boyfriends, your kids, your bosses. Doesn't matter what the situation is. Burned your toast? "Prostitution whore." Windows Vista is acting up? "Prostitution whore." Somebody is watching a Bravo reality show while an important sporting event is on? "Prostitution whore." Don't let go, people. It's a keeper, and the world is full of prostitution whores.
There were a few years when "Michael Jackson" was punk code for "all that is wrong with the music industry." So, because the tag line of Yer Cesspool is ripped off from The Minutemen -- and I occasionally feel obligated to rep their shit properly -- I present D.Boon/Mike Watt/George Hurley, "Political Song For Michael Jackson To Sing." Now go make some loud musical noises, all you nostalgic sproutlings. The battle never ends.
The worst Michael Jackson impersonator needs nookie, too, y'all.
UPDATE: I realize why people are celebrating him so heartily in death. We finally get to remember him exactly the way we want to, without fresh heaps of bullshit getting in the way.
... I start to hear Enigma's "Sadness, Pt. 1" in my head.
That is, various chunks of this hot mess, such as this silly nugget:
... should be read aloud, and reverently, to this colossally unsexy '90s bullshit:
HE GOTS AWESUM BONERZ UNDERNEATH THA DESK.
Creeping toward middle age has increased my tolerance for things that originally had succumbed to my penchant for stereotyping. E.L.O.? I used to think they existed solely for the mustachioed cokeheads and partytime alcoholics that constituted the nation of "rock fans" in the late '70s. Now I'm down with Jeff Lynne. I mean, I'm not breaking out "Don't Bring Me Down" on a regular basis, but I totally get where the fuck it was comin' from.
10cc? Not so much. "The Things We Do For Love" came on the '70s channel this morning (on Music Choice, natch), and for a second, I was prepared to devote some revisionism to it. "Fuck, maybe this song is a stone classic of popcraft, and I should detatch myself from my long-held notions of it," I said to myself. Wrong. That shit is bugged-out and busy, and I found myself numbed by the process of analyzing its structure. If I had barbituates, I would have taken them.
I agree with most of what Christopher R. Weingarten says here about the net effect of tech on the act of gettin' critically wreck with rekkids. But I reserve a little boo-friggin'-hoo for the part where he talks about it not payin' moneys anymore. Dude, I've written about hundreds of records over two decades for nothin' more than a free copy and "a pat on the head." It kinda sucks, and it kinda doesn't, so welcome to the club. I guess I learned long ago that -- despite what teevee tells you -- not everybody makes a living at doing what they love. Maybe I was just afraid to take the plunge and do it full time. Maybe I had a hunch that the lifestyle wasn't for me. Or maybe life got in the way. Or maybe I wasn't good enough. Anyway, I'd like to think I was more "realist" than "sucker" or "wuss." (And for the times I did get paid good money to review a record, I'm eternally grateful, in hindsight.)
They want you to be able to smell farts.
And they want you to be able to smell dangerous, smoky farts.
But they don't want you to eat food that causes really awesome farts.
I'm writing a letter.
I hadn't noticed the Google Chrome thingy-ball until today:
I was gonna riff on the Pokémon similarity and the HAL 9000 similarity and the Hacky Sack similarity, because I'm a total fucking geek.
Instead, here's a video of gibbons that barely delivers what it promises to deliver:
After reading his Phawker interview, I can say this: There are many joys to having a delusional friend. Sure, it sucks when the asshole makes egotistical or narcissistic decisions that infringe on the logical flow of things or simply violate your sense of good taste. But true douchebags also tend to be pretty tough. Strangely loyal, even. You can make fun of them and fuck with them, but if they have decided your friendship is worth maintaining -- for whatever unfathomably narcissistic reason -- they will keep coming back. You can't count on them for anything, but their need for attention allows you to be exceptionally cruel, and they'll probably savor it, because your cruelty only means that *they* don't have to expend any energy being self-critical. You're a sub-contractor. Your compensation is the freedom to say whatever you want about that person, to put it on the record, to laugh at how accurate you are. The awesome asshole Arthur Kade has given this opportunity to you, and if you don't embrace it, you are a terrible friend.
If you're speaking in a relatively formal or professional setting to a group of people (or you're talking to somebody about his or her colleagues or associates), please don't refer to the group as "you guys," especially if there are females in the mix. It makes you sound clumsy and lazy.
But if you casually use "dude" in a gender-neutral way, I'm fine with that.
WRONG: "Do you guys think you'll be done picking a new pope today?" or "What are you guys doing about that genocide thing?"
RIGHT: "Dude, did you get an epidural when you were in labor?" or "Dude, your boobs are awesome."
If I'm gonna listen to a talking head go off on some political/media/academia/insider shit, I want it to be this sassy every time, even if it's just a pissing match. Here I am now, entertain me. That said, I wouldn't want Ill Doctrine to roll the way Star & Buc Wild do. I can't fill my day up with hard-boiled haters. Only part of my day. Vid:
I'm not sure how long this has been out there, but when I watch it, I get sad, because I see dozens of people doing a distracting dance with baggy pants on, and as far as I can tell, none of them are shoplifting anything.
I would've at least left with a pair of boxers or socks or something like that.
I'm mostly doin' this because I went to the thing, but I didn't see the whole thing, and I wanna make sure I look at all of this stuff eventually:
Jon Valania's review for Rolling Stone.
Phawker's photo set.
Philly City Paper posts: * | * | * (From Critical Mass blog)
Review from The Boombox.
Dallas Penn on XXL.
Roundup from The Tripwire.
Video of Kid Cudi's performance from 2dopeboyz.
Always Hustle: photos | video
From Philly.com: * | * | * | * | *
Blurt magazine review.
Found another one? Add it in the comments.
YAY! PIZZA PARTY!
I'm thinking that maybe it's time to go out like Mike Schmidt, y'know, shut this shit down while I'm still in mid-season form. I'm definitely too lazy to do some sort of wistful retrospective. (It also doesn't help that I fired the marketing department in 2004.) But I can recite the career arc pretty easily. Since I birthed this beast way back in the Land Before Lolcats, this has how things have developed:
1. WTF! INTERNET WEIRD THING!
2. INSPIRATION TO SEVERAL NASCENT BLOGGERS
3. WHY IS HE STILL DOING THAT BLOG?
5. FUCK YOU, I'M A HAPPY AUTONOMEDIA PRACTITIONER
6. PEOPLE ONLY READ IT IF I PUT THE LINK ON TWITTER
7. AT LEAST PEOPLE ARE READING IT
THE CRUX: How is your blog doing?
THE CONCLUSION: The Cesspool is a cute little mole on the ass-end of the Internet, and if I cut it off, it'll just grow back. It's like a möbius strip of co-dependency up in here, I tell ya.
Come back and keep me honest, yo.
|He's like Ice-T, after the "Cop Killer" years, but before the "Law & Order" gig really got going. That is, OBL is the tuckered-out supervillain who has been bogarting the microphone because no other MC has taken up the mantle of "scourge of the Man." Cap'n Qaeda needs an Eminem* to shake him loose so he can stop faking the hardass front.|
* Eminem, meanwhile, needs to find his "Law & Order" gig.**
** This begs the question, "Who is Eminem's Eminem?" I didn't think about that.
Posted this comment over at Summer Bleeding:
I'll admit it, I've broken out the "I Got The Hook Up" soundtrack at least once in the last 6 months.