Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor
Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.
Appetizer: Who is the easiest person for you to talk to?
Probably my Grandmother, because she never remembers a word. I could tell her the house has been surrounded by killer purple space monkeys bent on the domination of Earth, and 5 minutes later she’d be making me a grilled cheese.
Soup: If you could live in any ancient city, which would you choose?
Based on all the filthy, deviant sex portrayed on the new HBO series, Rome – uh, Rome. Friends, Romans, countrymen – show me your titties.
Salad: What is the most exciting event you’ve ever witnessed?
I saw a woman get fatally hit by a car in the old Combat Zone around 1989. What I was doing in the Zone at 14 years of age is anybody’s guess. But if you were to guess ‘procuring a fake ID’ you’d be correct. I was also at the Triumph the Insult Comic Dog DVD taping, and will probably be all over the new live Pixies DVD. Anyone who knows me is well aware of my vast library of stories. On a related note, stay tuned for the re-launch of my old “30 Tall Tales” feature. In the meantime you can read about Evil Inka and the Attack of the Spider Monkeys.
Main Course: If you were a celebrity, what would you do for a publicity stunt?
I’d grow a goatee, don some aviators and travel around New Orleans in a rickety boat – in 2 feet of water. I’d also make sure the boat was crammed with my entourage, including a photographer who would capture my impromptu selfless deeds for prosperity. There’d be so many people on board, casually documenting my narcissistic rescue efforts, that the boat would eventually sink – leaving me to look quite the soaking wet twat. Oh darn – someone beat me to it.
Dessert: What do you consider the ideal age to have a first child?
My parents had me when they were both 33, so I am using that as my benchmark. Which means I have exactly a year and a half to find my baby’s momma. Is that enough time to fall in love, copulate, spawn, fight and have a restraining order filed? I think yes.
There was a parcel on my desk when I got into the office this morning, and I eagerly tore into it knowing full well what it contained. Last week I decided I was in desperate need of a baseball cap, and after being upsold during the checkout process on lids.com I ended up with a blue Maple Leafs and red Canadiens cap. And they’re beautiful. And they’re XL. And they couldn’t be smaller and more ill-fitting around my ginormous skonz if I were Willie Mackenzie himself.
When football season started at Vermont Academy, even though I was a starter I had to go through hell week helmetless – because a large one had to be special ordered for me (private school). The year before at CCHS, I had to make do by jamming my head into the only helmet that came close. This left my chin fully exposed and subsequently got me knocked unconscious by Jodice during the WestPoint drill one day at practice (public school). So this sort of hardship is nothing new. But somehow, as I looked at the XL on the sizing chart last week, I figured I’d be OK – and momentarily forgot that if I’d been in Louisiana last week near one of the broken levees, I probably could have saved thousands of lives by simply nodding a few times.
I’ll send them back and get a refund. There’s a 30 day guarantee. In the meantime, I shall remain hatless – and will also try to block out the time I went up to my roofdeck for a smoke and it was mistaken by scientists around the world as a lunar eclipse. I’m here all weekend. Tip your waitress.
“Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking when I said, I’d like to mash every tooth In your head.” – The Smiths – Bigmouth Strikes Again
Where to begin. As far as I’m concerned, 1986’s The Queen Is Dead was the pinnacle of The Smiths‘ short lifespan. And I’m not alone: It regularly tops various ‘all time best’ charts with the likes of the Beatles, Elvis Presley or David Bowie. Everything the band is known and loved for – angst, humour, politics, wit – is best represented on this album. The first Smiths tape I ever heard in its entirety was Meat is Murder, which was given to me by Nick Allard in the parking lot of LPSS in 1987 (This was also the very first CD I ever bought) – but quickly transfixed by this strange Manchester outfit, I soon had all 4 of the proper albums and ‘The Queen’ strode to the front of the pack as my fast favorite.
Bigmouth Strikes Again is the first song on this album that will really grab you by the throat, but eventually I ended up preferring the title track. Still, Bigmouth is a great introduction to the band, and I don’t want Radio Pye to get too obscure. Truth be told, if I had to pick my favorite Smiths song, it would be a toss-up between The Headmaster Ritual and You Just Haven’t Earned It Yet, Baby. Truth be told, Morrissey would also probably prefer to grab you by the cock.
A was going to write a quick explication of the song, but surprisingly found a great one it’d be hard to top: A bombastic single with a powerful performance from Marr and a biting vocal. A speeded-up Morrissey occasionally accompanies the vocal proper, giving an eerie effect (this is credited to Ann Coates in the “The Queen Is Dead” sleeve, a pun on an area of Manchester). I’ve found that most people new to The Smiths initially pick this track as favourite, whereas later it tends to grate a little bit. Morrissey marries the old with the new in these lyrics, mentioning Joan of Arc’s Walkman, seeming to imply that the situation under discussion (i.e. the protagonist saying very much the wrong thing, like his thoughts of angered violence) has been going on forever and will go on forever. Of course, he is pointing out a similarity between him and Joan of Arc rather melodramatically, lending a quite comical tone to what could have been an empty vessel. Painting Joan of Arc’s talk of God’s communications as something that “just slipped out” is in stark contrast to his harsh sentence upon himself “I’ve got no right to take my place with the Human race”. The sleeve lyrics to this song provide one example of Morrissey’s Wildean propensity to capitalise nouns such as Human and Love.
If that wordy and pretentious take made any sense to you whatsoever, you desperately need to spend some time with the Smiths. If not – I think Motley Crue is coming back to the Worcester Centrum in November.
Bob Denver died today, and to say his time was up would be somewhat of an understatement. Earlier this year Bob underwent quadruple heart bypass surgery – and he has been battling cancer for ages. He eventually warmed up to the fact he’d be eternally Gilligan, and was harder to kill than an African cockroach. I’m glad he stuck around as long as he did – as he always made me smile.
“It was the mid-’70s when I realized it wasn’t going off the air,” Denver told The Associated Press in 2001, noting then that he enjoyed checking eBay each day to keep up on the prices “Gilligan’s Island” memorabilia were fetching.
Bon voyage, little buddy. And I’m sure it’s no shock that I’d easily pay upwards of $100 for a coconut radio. And by coconut radio, I of course mean Tina Louise’s bamboo gusset.
Royce and Bentley are a little hairy handful. Janet, Josh and I are over at our neighbor’s house today babysitting puppies. But they have jetskis (the neighbors – not the puppies). So the pooches are being sat upon in shifts, while the relief sitters rip around the Rideau on Sea-Doo GTIs. It’s a swell trade off. Swell.
This is our last trip up to Portland this summer, and although I frequently write about how exchausting it has all been, I will miss it. The rental units move back down to Florida for the winter in October, and I’ll be Canadaless until Christmas. No more poutine, no more creullers, no more campfires.
Luckily, I have enough Horton’s in my Boston kitchen cabinet to choke a moose.
Here is the message I found when I went to grab the Quizzlet questions this morning from my usual source: Please take the time you usually spend on your Feast to reflect upon your blessings and pray for the victims of Hurricane Katrina.
Is it wrong that I’m aroused by that scenario?
It’s hard to wax humorous in the midst of an anarchic natural disaster like Katrina. Here are some of my favorite headlines from the last several days. I have been watching the events unfold with an unhealthy persistence:
– How the hell do you lose Fats Domino?
– 2 women were given C-sections by doctors who had no water to wash their hands before or after the surgeries. I’m pretty sure neither of the babies will be named Katrina. Shaniqua, maybe.
– Normally, this is called Mardi Gras I thought.
– Patients are dying in droves because all of the hospital’s life support machines are off (there’s no power) but luckily there’s a sniper across the street to help speed up the process. Headshots are cheaper than healthcare.
– Fats! We were worried sick. Aaron Neville’s mole was also airlifted to safety.
Now that I’m officially going to hell, please donate $20. They make it really easy. I am seriously wearing the T-shirt I bought at Pat O’Brien’s today as an additional sign of inappropriate solidarity. Katrina is a filthy whoore. Hang in there people. Help is on the way.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a day more devoid of creative thought than I did on this Thursday the first of September, in the year of our lord 2005. So I’ll do what I’ve set out never to do – and write about not being able to think of anything good to write about. I’ve thought plenty today about my job, my coworkers, my clients, my new roomate – but not once about this website or it’s beloved readership. Not once about dead hookers or the many associated jokes. And for that, I apologize. But I’m glad to see I still have some sense of priority in my life. And a job.
A gift has been bestowed upon me, methinks. And that gift is the ability to keep ‘er going, copy-wise. I can write about anything and make it somewhat funny and interesting. But today I feel like I’m on some sort of brainwave blocking medication. I got a ton done at work – one of the most productive days in a while. But I feel like I’ve been lobotomized. Instead of wasting time running around like a smacked arse, I got a little work done today. So please forgive me – this doesn’t happen often.
A Canadian friend sent me this clip a few months ago (right-click the link to download the MP3 as I couldn’t get this file to work properly with the Radio Pye software). I can’t find a single mention of it on the interwebnets, and I’m not sure if it’s been in wide distribution or what. But it cracks me up beyond belief and I wanted to spread it around. In short, it’s a recording of a railroad employee named Doug Seibert who is being telephoned and asked to come into work. Apparently he knew he was on call but decided to roll the dice and get extremely intoxicated anyway. If I had a nickel.
Warning: Doug, whoever he is, swears like a pirate. Put your headphones on or wait to listen to this until you get home from work tonight. That having been said, here’s what I’m able to explicate from repeated listens:
– Doug works for the Canadian Pacific Railroad.
– Doug’s friends dropped in and they decided to go ski-dooing.
– Doug and friends drank 5 million thousand gallons of whiskey whilst ski-dooing.
– Doug and friends are ‘gooned’.
– Doug’s supervisor is going to have to mark him down as being ‘sick on call’.
– Doug’s probably not going to have a job in the morning. But that’s OK – because life don’t mix with the railroad.
I dare you not to listen to this 3 times and laugh your skidooing ass off. Jesus, do I ever want to get gooned with Doug.
Saturday, Nick and I were sitting in the living room eating jalapeno poppers and watching Waiting for Guffman. It was, quite simply, heaven on Earth. The girls who live above me had been moving out all morning, and when we heard a loud ‘bang’ as a piece of their furniture hit the pavement outside like a jumper, I thought nothing of it.
Nick got up and went outside to smoke a post-popper lung rocket, but quickly poked his back inside the door. “Dave, you’d better get out here”. I’ve been hucking furniture, showing apartments, typing up leases, making keys, painting, visiting the bank, waiting for repairmen – all as part of my new building manager duties. I knew August would be a rough month when I took the job, but I really thought I was over the hump. In short, the words “What the fuck is it now!?” quickly flashed through my brain like a Times Square marquee.
In their haste and deplorable moving wisdom, my lovely ex-tenants decided to lower a large boxspring off of their fire escape. And by ‘lower’, I of course mean ‘drop’. Said heavy object then bounced backwards towards the building and shattered both panes of my bedroom window. The window frame itself is bent beyond repair – to the point where I couldn’t even remove all of the broken glass. I took a deep breath, nodded profusely and affirmatively when they offered to pay for the damages, and covered the mess with cardboard and duct tape.
What would Schneider do? I mean, besides try to sleep with both of them?
Another whack of photos from my folks’ place in Ontario. Highlights include eerie campfire pics, killer ponies, newfies, funny hats, jetskis and my insane father’s many costumes. Have a wee peeksie and stay tuned for an imminent batch from Triconi’s wedding.
I think we’re taking one last trip up there this weekend, and then I can lay down in a bus station somewhere and expire. I feel like a nomad, a gypsy, a transient or maybe even Roger Miller‘s trans-continental-backseat-bus-trip-conceived lovechild. I’m tired, see? And I don’t wanna go nowheres for awhile.
Do any of my Boston peeps need, or know someone who needs, a decent blue/grey 2-piece leather couch? I also have a coffee table and a kitchen table available – more info here. The former tenant left in a hurry, and the new tenant has her own furniture.
I am giving this stuff away for free. I just need it out of there. Let me know. Nice couchy.
Still loved as much as he was on the day he died, Chris Farley has been given a star on the hollywood walk of fame. I wrote about Farley 4 years ago – and the bit still holds water – so I won’t retread too much of it here. Regardless of his excesses, Farley was, during his time on Earth, the funniest man on it. I’ve never been more saddened by a celebrity death. He is sorely missed.
