My Morning Jacket
Evil Urges
2008

If you download one song, download: "Sec Walkin'"

I've been a My Morning Jacket fan for quite some time. Their 2003 album, It Still Moves, mesmerized me with its Allman Brothers-style rock. And 2005's Z solidified the band's permanent place in my rotation. The difference between those two albums of course brought Beck to mind, how he went from quirky folk to hip-hop back to weird party-rock to acoustic sadness back in the 90s. This was a great rock band, unafraid of twisting their sound and reinventing old ideas.

Evil Urges is pure 70s gold. It ranges from hot funk to smooth soft-rock goodness in the vein of England Dan & John Ford Coley. Personally, the smoovier songs are the best, with "Thank You Too!", "Sec Walkin'," and "Librarian" being the sweetest downloads. "I'm Amazed" is pretty goddamned good too, sounding like a track straight off that Bob Dylan album you never owned.

No review of Evil Urges would be complete without mentioning the infamous track 3: "Highly Suspicious," which sounds to me like a little bit of Prince mixed with a little bit of Cameo -- a far cry from the 70s classic-rock sound My Morning Jacket is known for. I have to say that ultimately, I love it. Pitchfork gives the album a 4.7/10 and calls "Highly Suspicious" "eye-poppingly annoying." I say: Fuck you, Pitchfork. You're a bunch of 23-year-old dickslaps who constantly play the "I-only-like-music-you've-never-heard-of" card as if we all haven't been painfully aware of that slant since way before Bread recorded "Make it with You" back in 1970. You're all virginal posers. Evil Urges is the shit.

At the top of this post, I recommended "Sec Walkin'" as the one song you should download. I still stand behind that, as it's the one song that sums up the album better than any other. But really if you want the triple threat, the best three songs on the disc, skipping right to the advanced level, I'd suggest downloading "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 1," "Smokin' from Shootin'" and "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 2."

If you need more convincing, check out "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 2" on Black Cab Sessions. It's freaking hot.

The Hold Steady
Stay Positive
2008

If you download one song, download: "Lord, I'm Discouraged"

Hold Steady frontman Craig Finn is a lyricist and a storyteller. When I saw them live at Pizza Lucé back in '05, I stood up front as Finn leaned forward into the relatively sparse crowd, shouting rather than singing, and his words more stories than songs. You couldn't dance to it, and it was hard to follow, standing there in a boozy pizzeria clutching a PBR tallboy. But shit, did it rock.

The Hold Steady is most frequently compared to Bruce Springsteen, and it's easy to see why. But Finn also lists John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats as a major influence. Two of the Hold Steady's four albums are bar-rock concept albums about three drugged-out Minneapolis kids named Charlemagne, Gideon, and Holly. The new album, Stay Positive, explores similar themes in a less structured way.

While I do love the rocked-out title track as well as the first single, "Sequestered in Memphis," I'm finding myself drawn mostly to the ballads. I'm tied for favorites between "Lord, I'm Discouraged" and the aptly titled "One for the Cutters." "Discouraged" is more attractive musically, the keyboard of choice being a piano as opposed to "Cutters'" harpsichord. It walks on familiar Hold Steady territory, as it's a love song for a girl who's spent a little too much time in the party pit:

She says that she's sick, but she won't get specific The sutures and bruises are none of my business This guy from the north side comes down to visit His visits, they only take five or six minutes

But while "Discouraged" is easier to listen to, "One for the Cutters" tells a more fascinating story about a well-to-do college girl with a dirty secret -- "When there weren't any parties, sometimes she'd party with townies." It's a downward-spiral situation somewhat similar to Looking for Mr. Goodbar. She never tells anyone about the townies, even her roommates, who remain clueless, until one night things when go horribly wrong. There's a fight, a killing, a cover-up. She lies in court and testifies as an alibi. The song ends with the verse:

Sniffing that crystal in cute, little cars Getting nailed against Dumpsters behind townie bars. It's a cute little town, boutiques and cafes Her friends all seemed nice, she was getting good grades But when she came home for Christmas, she just seemed distant and different.

Stay Positive won't be released in the U.S. until July 15, but the majority of the songs can be streamed on the Hold Steady's MySpace page (they had the whole album up for awhile, as of this writing, there's six songs up).

Wooden Shjips
Self-titled
2007

If you download one song, download: "We Ask You to Ride."

Whenever I put on this five-song EP, I just go right out to lunch. I remember the first time I listened to it. I was sitting in the corner at the Amazing Grace cafe, editing photos on my laptop and listening on my headphones. When the EP ended, I sort of jolted out of my trance. I'd completely forgotten where I was, and it was like the music hypnotized me for 45 minutes or so and I was totally absorbed in what I was doing.

It wasn't an anomaly, because it seems like this happens every time I listen to this EP. An obvious Wooden Shjips comparison would be the Doors -- the vocals sound very much like Jim Morrison's, though heavily reverbed and echoey. The bass lines are extremely repetitious, playing against the spacey, fuzzed-out guitars and Hammond organ. There's no jazz influence here though; this is pure psychedelia. The shortest song on the EP is 4:57. The longest clocks in at 10:18.

If you want a taste of what Wooden Shjips has to offer, go to their MySpace site and listen to "Clouds Over Earthquake" or "Loose Lips." They're a little slower and dreamier than the stuff on their self-titled EP (which I personally like better), but it's still damn fine music.

Back in 1983, ABC aired a TV movie called The Day After, which detailed the lead-up to and the aftermath of a nuclear war between the US and the Soviet Union. The school I attended (as well as many others across the country) sent a note home to parents warning them that they might not want to allow their children to watch the movie. My family didn't watch The Day After, not because it might be upsetting to my tender sensibilities, but probably because there was something better on another channel -- most likely The Exorcist was on Showtime that night.

So I never watched The Day After. The next day at school, it seemed that most of the kids who watched it were pretty freaked out. Some put on a brave face, shrugging and saying, "It was nothin'." I imagine that these kids got bored during the first hour, which consists entirely of character development, and either fell asleep or snuck off to poke through their parents' closets. Because The Day After is kinda disturbing.

The movie takes place in and around Lawrence, Kansas. All kinds of people -- Jason Robards playing a surgeon, Holling from Northern Exposure, Steve Guttenberg portraying a college kid, some black guy in the Air Force, John Lithgow -- are concerned about the fact that the USSR has stopped allowing people in and out of West Berlin (remember West Berlin?). For the next hour, this concern is played against the backdrop of typical life in Kansas. Holling's daughter is screwing some boy, and Holling hates that, but they're getting married so how can he really complain. Jason Robards' daughter, meanwhile, is moving off to Boston and he's gonna miss her. Robards' wife is reminiscing about the time they did it with the Cuban Missle Crisis on the TV in the background. You get the idea: You come to like a bunch of people, and then they get nuked.

That's where it gets crazy, because there's all this 28 Days Later-style chaos, with heavy decisions such as: Do you let Steve Guttenberg into your basement even though he has his own food or do you just blast him with your shotgun because this is World War III? That kind of thing. Meanwhile, cows and pigs and dogs and daughter's boyfriends are dead all over the place and people are dropping teeth and hair behind them everywhere they go. Yeah, it's like a zombie movie, except that back in 1983, we as kids had our teachers and principals and parents and the TV itself telling us every day that this was all real and would probably happen in our lifetime.

Sooner rather than later.

Some facts about The Day After [via IMDB and Wikipedia]

- After the movie's broadcast, ABC aired a debate between William F. Buckley and Carl Sagan about nuclear proliferation. Sagan compared the arms race to "two sworn enemies standing waist deep in gasoline; one with three matches, the other with five."

- Ronald Reagan wrote in his diary that the film "left me greatly depressed." After Reagan signed the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty with Mikhail Gorbachev, he sent the director, Nicholas Meyer, a telegram that said, "Don't think your movie didn't have any part of this, because it did."

- My favorite quote from the movie is actually a quote from Albert Einstein: "I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."

The Mountain Goats
Heretic Pride
2008

If you download one song, download: "Autoclave."

I'm pretty sure I'd heard of the Mountain Goats a few years before I downloaded this album. Either I read about them in a magazine or I had heard one of their songs on a mix that someone gave me. I'm not sure how, but the name was familiar before I decided to give them a serious try. The thing is, they didn't fit the predisposed auditory image I had set for them. I imagined something bluegrassy, more fitting of the name. The Mountain Goats aren't bluegrassy at all, and that's a good thing.

Heretic Pride is poppy and fun, and just a touch geeky. John Darnielle's vocals sound a lot like They Might Be Giants. In fact, you might say that the Mountain Goats resemble that band quite a bit, only scaled way back. The Mountain Goats sing love songs with smart and clever lyrics. They Might Be Giants perform nerdy songs with lyrics about being a mammal.

The songs themselves are enough to make me like the Mountain Goats (well, most of the songs...I could do without "So Desperate") but after listening to the album a couple of times, I decided to do some research on this band of which I'd kind of but not really heard. The things I learned made me like the album even more. I love how Darnielle recorded most of the early albums on a boombox, cranking them out extremely rapidly because that's how he wrote songs. And if he didn't get his songs recorded right away, he'd forget them as his mind flooded with the new songs he was working on. I love the themes that run throughout the Mountain Goats' songs. For example, there's a whole series of "Going to..." songs: "Going to Jamaica," "Going to Cleveland," "Going to Malibu," "Going to Wisconsin." But the series that intrigues me most is about an alcoholic couple constantly on the verge of divorce -- the Alpha series.

So intrigued was I at the Alpha series that I downloaded a second Mountain Goats album, Tallahassee, a concept album about this fictional couple moving to Florida to drink themselves to death, which is at least as good as Heretic Pride, if not better. My first-impression favorite songs from that album include "No Children" and "Game Shows Touch Our Lives." The whole thing reminds me of the short stories of Raymond Carver.

What it all comes down to in the end is that John Darnielle is not necessarily a great singer. He's not necssarily a great musician. But I would say that he's a great writer. And the fact that he loves what he is doing comes through in the music.

Bon Iver
For Emma, Forever Ago
2008

It's not surprising that this album is creepy and lonesome. Justin Vernon, a.k.a. Bon Iver (intentionally misspelled French for "good winter") recorded it in a remote cabin in Northern Wisconsin in the middle of winter, where he retreated for a period of solitude. He didn't intend to make an album, but faced with nothing else to do other than haul firewood and hunt deer, that's what he did.

The album is sparse and sad, focusing on heartbreak. Vernon sings in a high-pitched warble, and backs himself with guitars, the occasional drum kit, and self-harmony. The whole thing kind of reminds me of Iron & Wine meets Devendra Banhardt, but with more emotional vocals than either of those acts, and with very layered, orchestral production (which is amazing considering how and where it was recorded).

For the past week or so, I've been listening to this album more than any other. The first four tracks really suck you into the rest of the record. I like it quite a bit.

If you download one song, download: "Skinny Love"

Note: If you live near Duluth, Bon Iver is playing the Kirby Rafters on April 14.

So I've been listening to a lot of new music lately. For the past few weeks, I've been kicking around the idea of starting an album review blog, simply as a means to keep track of everything I've been listening to. Then I realized -- hey! -- I already have a blog, on which I've reviewed plenty of things in the past, and there's no reason why I can't just start reviewing albums on that in addition to all the other BS I write throughout the week.

I guess the reason I'm making this post is to pass out some caveats. I'm not an expert in the album-review field. I'll probably write about things you've already read about and listened to yourself. You probably won't even want to read my reviews. That's OK. Mainly I'm writing them for myself, and subjecting them to you people because that's the way I like it.

Frequently I meet people in their 30s and 40s who still exclusively listen to the same music they liked when they were 16. I don't get that. I mean, sure, I still like Guns 'N' Roses, but there's only so many times I can listen to "Sweet Child O' Mine" in a day. I've moved on since then, and I like new things. But I understand...people are kind of lazy. It takes time and effort to seek out new stuff, and most people aren't willing to undertake it.

So I suppose if these reviews are to have an audience, I'd like it to be those people. The ones who don't know much about contemporary music at all, and aren't going to nitpick my taste to death. Maybe I'll inspire you to try out an album or two. Whatever. I'm just going to have fun with this attempt to listen to music more thoughtfully.

I'll try to write a review every week or so. Starting ... now.

I have mixed feelings about the writer's strike being over. I started out this year's TV season with a bang, actually sampling all the shows and finding ones that I liked. Before long, I had a very long backlog of television goodness on my TiVo, and watching it all started to feel like a second job. For as much hardship as the strike caused people out west, it was a welcome break for me, the bogged-down couch potato. Faced with reruns and reality programming, I watched movies instead.

Reality TV for me is like a personal hell. Five minutes of MTV feels like someone is boring into my middle ear with an ice-cold potato peeler. Ten minutes makes me think I'm about to have a stroke. I can think of nothing more headache-inducing than the sound of vicious, entitled 20-year-old women in a constant state of screech.

This is where my girlfriend and I differ. Christa eats up MTV reality in big, hearty spoonfuls. Last night I came home and found her reading while The X Effect blared at full volume. I politely acted like it didn't bother me, but after about three minutes, I couldn't hide my inner conniption any longer. The X Effect had to go.

Conversely, there is one reality show I can stomach -- The Moment of Truth -- a show that is brilliant in its concept but fumbles pathetically in its execution.

Sitting on a stage surrounded by their friends and family, the contestants on The Moment of Truth answer questions relating to their lives. A lie detector indicates whether or not the person is telling the truth. If they answer all 21 questions truthfully, they win $500,000. It sounds easy. No one ever wins.

Christa has trouble watching the show without crying. The thing she hates about it is the same thing I love -- the questions truly are horrible. They start out funny and embarrassing ("When you worked as an underwear model, did you ever stuff your shorts?" "Are you a member of the Hair Club for Men?") but they quickly get serious ("Do you make racist jokes about your in-laws?" "Do you blame your father for ruining your life?").

All the contestants have been schooled to pause and think dramatically before answering each question. A robot voice does the same when it announces whether or not the answers are truthful. They're trying to create suspense, but it's nothing short of annoying. I watch the show with my finger on the fast-forward button. They play it like a baseball game. I want it to be more like ping-pong.

The great moments, however, come despite the drawn-out acting. Every now and then, the host asks a question, and behind the smiles and the feigned embarrassment, you can see that the contestant just loaded their pants with cinder blocks. You can't evade the question, and if you lie, the robot with call you on it. So look your mother in the eye and tell her what she doesn't want to hear.

This is the point that makes me cackle hysterically. Meanwhile, Christa hides her face and groans. I don't feel bad at all, because seriously, if you don't know by now that being on a reality show almost guarantees worldwide public humiliation, then you deserve whatever you get.

So yeah, I'm kind of glad the writer's strike is over. Because this reality crap brings out the worst in us.

I'm not being scientific about this, but it seems to me that most people over 30 are at least somewhat aware of the 1981 Dudley Moore/Liza Minelli movie Arthur. I remember the ads on TV as a kid, and I recall there being quite a bit of hype around the movie. It won two Oscars for best supporting actor (John Gielgud) and best song ("Arthur's Theme - The Best That You Can Do" by Christopher Cross), and was nominated for best actor and best writing. Bravo lists it as #10 on its "100 Funniest Movies," and the AFI lists it as #53 on its "100 Years ... 100 Laughs."

I'd never seen Arthur, and neither had Christa, so when we made it to 1981 on our chronological movie project last week, we decided to watch it.

Sweet mother of God, does that movie blow. I'm serious. This has to be one of the least funny movies I've ever seen in my life.

Arthur, for the blissfully uninitiated, is about an alcoholic New York millionaire whose family has arranged for him to marry a woman named Susan. If he doesn't marry her, he loses his entire inheritance: $750 million. The problem is, he doesn't love Susan, he loves a shoplifter from Queens named Linda (Minelli). Also Arthur, played by the then-46-year-old Moore, loves staying drunk, playing with toy trains, taking bubble baths, and taking hookers out to fancy restaurants. This sounds potentially funny, and I can understand how the producers accepted the pitch.

In practice, however, the movie is just a vehicle for Moore's character, much like The Jerk was a vehicle for the character Steve Martin invented. Here's the difference, however: The Jerk was hilarious, because Steve Martin is really, really funny. Dudley Moore was not funny. At all.

I'm not saying that Dudley Moore wasn't a good actor, because he was, and maybe that's why the movie fails. Watching Arthur is like hanging around with someone who's plastered when you're not. Drunk people think that they're funny. But when you're a sober onlooker, they're annoying. Arthur Bach constantly cracks jokes that fall flat, and then cackles maniacally after each unwitty jibe: "I wish I had a dime for every dime I had!" Yeah, buddy, whatever you say.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I literally laughed twice the whole time, and both of those jokes had nothing to do with Moore. One is where Arthur decides to break up with Linda, who takes it very well, but then the camera cuts to show her dad who is bawling his eyes out. The other is when Arthur tells his butler (Gielgud) to run a bath for him, and the butler says under his breath, "Perhaps you'd like me to wash your dick for you, you little shit."

That's right. I just spoiled the whole movie for you. Because I don't want you to watch it. I care too much about you.

I think we're over the hump with this movie project, and that the none of the rest of them will be as bad as Arthur. Then again, I don't hold too much hope for the 1985 selection, either. Maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised.

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I suppose it's weird to think of Jaws, a tremendous box-office smash from its inception, as an underrated movie, but that's exactly what it is. Jaws is like one of those pop songs you heard five-thousand times on the radio but never paid much attention to -- you know the tune and the chorus but none of the verses or what the hell the song is even about. But when for some reason you finally, accidentally, listen to it for real, you discover that the song is fantastic.

Likewise, sure, you saw Jaws way back in the day, and oh, you know all about it, don't you? Jaws. Yeah. Uh-huh. Sharks. "Dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun..." But seriously, when was the last time you thought about the movie? How old were you the last time you saw it? Or, since everyone knows the theme song and the basic idea and since the movie's been parodied in just about everything, are you certain that you've ever actually seen the movie at all?

Jaws is one of the most entertaining movies of all time.

The first time I saw Jaws, I was probably about 7 years old, which is a great age to see a movie about shark attacks. I remember that it was on cable, and that I asked if I could invite one of my friends from the neighborhood over to watch it. For two hours we sat there shrieking with glee, agog at all the violence and gore, but also I at least was enrapt with the characters, enough so that when I rewatched the movie just last night, I could actually predict some of the lines of dialog.

It definitely made an impression on me the first time, and almost 30 years later, it conjured up all of the same emotions. And even as I shrieked with glee again at the severed limbs and the terror and the suspense, the thing I liked most about rewatching the movie was Brody, Hooper and Quint, the three men who set out to kill the shark.

Brody is a NYC cop with a fear of water who's moved to the small island town of Amity to become its chief of police and raise his family in comfort. Hooper is an smart-assed Ivy League rich boy who funds his own shark research. Quint is a "sharker," a tough blue-collar fisherman who speaks with a New England accent and thinks everyone else is a joke. Seeing the three of them play off each other is part of what makes the movie so fun to watch.

The key scene, to me, takes place at night on Quint's fishing boat, the Orca. They've just spent the day hunting down the killer shark, catching him with a fishing rod, and attaching barrels to him with harpoons. None of this has phased the shark, but the men are exhausted. So they sit below deck insulting each other at first, before they start drinking and comparing scars. Before long, these three guys -- who all kind of hate each other -- are singing and joking around. Then Quint tells a story that puts a damper on their party. It's then that the men are all connected, for maybe a few superficial reasons as well as one fundamental one: none of them are sharks.

But the thing that really strikes me about Jaws is that when I really think about it, I doubt it's a movie that would be made today, mainly because there is no love interest. None. Sure, Brody has a wife, and she has some important lines. But American movies now (especially summer blockbusters) all require someone to fall in love. No one falls in love in Jaws. They just fall into the shark's mouth.

Another reason is that it's hard for us to take monster movies seriously. I mean, let's face it. Snakes on a Plane? Just because monster movies were cheesy back in the 50s doesn't mean they always have to be cheesy. And while the shark in Jaws doesn't look all that real (ok, it's pretty fakey) you hardly ever see the shark. It isn't how the shark looks that makes it terrifying. What's terrifying is that it's a shark. It eats people. You don't have to see it to know why the people in the movie are swimming for their lives.

If you think all monster movies are cheesy, you obviously haven't seen Alien.

Which brings me to the most important reason why Jaws would never be made today: CGI. It seems that whenever filmmakers can do something, they feel that the must do it. In a film made today, the shark would be the star of the movie. And the movie would bomb because of it. Originally, the plan while filming Jaws was to feature the mechanical shark heavily, but they couldn't do it because the shark was a piece of junk ("the great white turd" Spielberg called it). And so, they had to make the movie the old-fashioned way.

They had to tell a story. About people.

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Having been down and out with a cold for the past few days, I've watched a lot of TV. And after some steady research, I've come to the conclusion that Sue Johanson, host of Talk Sex with Sue, is drunk off her ass whenever she hosts her show.

Sue Johanson, for the uninitiated, is a 77-year-old retired RN who hosts a call-in show on cable TV, offering extremely frank advice for those in need. My favorite way to watch the show is to sort-of half-watch it while dinging around on my laptop, not really paying attention. It's fun to be unaware of the actual question, and just tune in long enough to hear Sue's advice.

It's not just the advice she gives that makes me think she's been hitting the sauce (can't get that ... uh ... substance out of your mustache? wear it like a badge of honor!). The evidence is more physical. The slurred speech, the slumped posture, the slow reaction time ... they all lead me to believe that this woman is sloshed. And that in turn makes me enjoy the show even more.

I like to imagine that I'm not watching a health professional giving medical advice on TV. I like to imagine that I'm at a dive bar on a Thursday night, and just above the sound of the jukebox I can hear this old lady at the end of the bar dishing out sex advice to some younger, less experienced barflies.

"You want to stop queefing? You can't! Why would you even want to? Just have fun with it!"

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I'm normally not a fan of reality television. I prefer my TV well-written, lurid, and lascivious. Think Aaron Spelling. Chances are, if Aaron Spelling produced something, I liked it. Right now, Dirty Sexy Money is my favorite show on television. Favorite, that is, if you don't count the reality show Kid Nation.

Whenever I watch Kid Nation, which I do religiously every week, I am certain of one thing: That night I will have intense and crazy dreams, and those dreams will involve at least one but perhaps all of the "pioneers" of Kid Nation. Every Thursday morning, I am certain to wake up confused and in a panic, wondering how Jared is possibly going to process all of that mail by himself! (Because Kid Nation dreams are never just about the TV show. They mix into my normal life and my weird dream life as well.)

Aside from my girlfriend Christa, I don't know anyone else who watches KN. The show, for the uninitiated, puts 40 kids ranging in ages from 8 to 15 without adult supervision in a ghost town known as Bonanza City. There, they have to learn to function as a society. They have a town council and jobs. They have four classes -- ranging from the upper class, whose wage is $1 for doing nothing unless they choose to, to the laborers who haul water and clean outhouses for 10 cents. They have a saloon where they drink root beer and do shots of some kind of clear pop. Someone cries in almost every episode, but this isn't Lord of the Flies. All of the kids are for the most part really nice to each other.

Some kids shine more than others, and the most talked about pioneer is easily Taylor, a 9-year-old "pageant queen" from Georgia. Taylor is, in a word, a bitch. New York Magazine called her "a world-class media whore," and that's about right. When I first heard that I thought, "That's terrible. She probably doesn't even know what that word means." Then I realized that she probably does, and that she probably uses it with surgical precision every day at school. I like Taylor quite a bit.

The aforementioned Jared is easily my favorite pioneer. Jared is also 9, talks in a gravelly voice, and is a bizarre kind of genius. In one episode, he teaches himself to patiently burn words into small pieces of wood with a magnifiying glass. He makes necklaces out of the decorated wood, sells them to the other pioneers, and makes a lot of money (almost $3) which he immediately blows on what can only be described as an Old West pimp outfit -- duster, broad-brimmed hat, huge lollipop that he twirls around in circles. In the most recent episode, he found a cow's skeleton in the desert, stuck the pelvis on his head, and shrieked, "Pelvis has left the building, baby!" His dream is to win the gold star so that he can go to college and get the education to build a teleportation device. His quantum physics theories are already convincing.

Speaking of geniuses, Alex, aka "Ol' One-tooth," is another 9-year-old favorite. One-tooth is only educated in certain matters. "Everyone calls them [two of the other pioneers] Paris and Nicole, but I don't really know what that means," he says. When One-tooth wins the gold star (an actual gold star worth $20,000 that the town coucil awards every few days) he says in his speech that $20,000 is both a lot of money and not a lot of money. "It's a paradox," he says, and in the background we hear one of the girls scream "HE'S SO CUTE!!!!"

Sophie, 14, comes across like she's 26 and a heavy smoker. She's disgusted and jaded about everyone who's around her. I like to think of her as the Ben Franklin of the town, because despite the many calls for re-elections in Bonanza City (the town council has gone through three different incarnations) she's never run, though she's obviously a leader. Understanding this, the council appointed her as sheriff. When she's not keeping the peace, she's usually conducting some kind of sociological experiment, such as roping off a few square feet of land in the center of town, proclaiming it as hers, and saying that no one can step inside of it, just to see if her theory that everyone in town will want to step inside of it is right. (it is.) Sophie is the kind of person who will be a lot of fun to hang around with when she's 30. Right now, though, she's a bit too intense and self-satisifying.

At 15, Greg is the oldest pioneer, and is suffering from some kind of jerk identity crisis, where he waxes between being an absolute doucheface to the nicest guy you ever met. Maybe that's called being 15. Greg was also suspiciously the first pioneer to get the cold sores, and eventually wound up on the town council with his buddy Blaine, with whom he has a little too close of a relationship.

There are many more incredible characters. Put all of them together, and just watch dynamic twist and morph before your eyes. Greg chops the heads off of chickens for dinner while Taylor stands by making sure that only the ugly chickens get killed, all the while screaming about the need for "animal make-up." Meanwhile, the completely useless Mallory (age 8) helps out by attempting to set up a daycare for everyone's stuffed animals.

Next week is Kid Nation's season finale, and I just don't know how to deal with this. The second season can't possibly be as good, and I doubt I'll even bother to give it a chance. If you've never watched KN before, don't bother with the finale. Wait for the DVD to enjoy it properly. Maybe then you'll have dreams like mine.

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I'd like to thank LIttle Caesar's Pizza for opening a new "Hot & Ready" take-out restaurant next to my workplace. Adding to other healthy eating establishments in the neighborhood such as Burger King, Quizno's, and the Spur station's day-old weiner rotisserie, Little Caesar's fills a vast gap in the West End's food scene. Because until the arrival of the big LC, absolutely none of the area's food smelled like balls.

In no way am I suggesting that the people who work at Little Caesar's rub, dip, or otherwise nuzzle their meaty scrotums into, on, or against any of the pizzas that they sell. This is not a problem with an individual pizza, or even with this individual restaurant. The fact is that all Little Caesar's pizzas carry the strong, cheesy aroma of the human testis.

I will go even further. Not only do the pizzas smell like fuzzy love-nuggets, but the restaurants themselves smell the same way. Additionally, the entire atmosphere surrounding each and every LC establishment simply reeks of manly gonadal oils.

Biting into a Little Caesar's pizza is like sitting in a men's locker room and swaddling your face in dirty athletic supporters. Every taste is a sensory explosion of greasy man-junk. Soaked into the crust, infused into the sauce, fermented into the cheese, and basted all over the meats.

Thank you, Little Caesar's. We are all ever so grateful for this testicularly delicious sensation you've created.

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One of the best things about life in 2007 is that pop music sounds like 1987. And another one of the best things about life in 2007 is that a band like Black Kids can make it big without even releasing an album.

After hearing about Black Kids, and checking out their songs on MySpace, I really wanted to buy their stuff, but I couldn't find it anywhere. So I read more about them and found out that not only is there nothing to buy, but their popularity is largely due to word-of-mouth, much like what you're reading here. And it's no wonder people are talking about them, because yes, they really are that good.

Don't take my word for it. Download their EP, The Wizard of Ahhs, for free at blackkidsmusic.com.

Earlier, I had "Hurricane Jane" on repeat, but then I got into "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyrfriend How to Dance with You."

It's nice that they're all, like, touring around the globe and stuff, but I can't wait until they release a full-legnth album. I'll buy it.

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I'm sorry that I'm posting so many Duluth-centric posts. But ... well ... that's where I'm at these days.

OK, so, in case you haven't noticed, Starfire Lounge has moved to Burrito Union, which is like two blocks from my house. You have no idea how much I would like this to succeed.

Things I Love About Burrito Union
- It is two blocks from my house.
- It is beautiful.
- It has burritos.
- It has beer, and other kinds of alcohol beverages.
- It has burritos.
- It is two blocks from my house.

Did I mention that is two blocks from my house? Oh. OK. Did I mention the burritos? And the vinyl records that Starfire plays? Or the records that I am sometimes, on certain occasions, allowed under certain circumstances to play as well? I did? OK, then.

Burrito Union is the only bar in the East Hillside, which, according to my own quick survey of "whiskey plates" in the neighborhood, is the drunkest neighborhood in town. So be safe and walk on down. It'll be fun.

Every couple of months, I like to go to Thai Krathong and get myself a plate of Drunken Noodles. Typically I'm not a person who likes to suffer for any reason. Give me an easy way out and I will gladly take it. But every couple of months, Drunken Noodles call, and, despite everything I know about them and what they're capable of, I answer.

If you've never had Drunken Noodles, let me explain. Drunken Noodles gets its name from that fact that after you eat one or two bites of it, you will immediately drink every type of liquid on the table while waiving your hands in the air, summoning the waiter for more. Water, soda, beer, vodka ... hell, if your table has one of those liquid paraffin candles, you'll drink that as well. Because Drunken Noodles is the spiciest thing you've ever tasted. And it's so fricken good that you can't stop eating it.

Normally, I'm skeptical of most ultra-spicy food. Don't get me wrong. I like spice. I love spice. But usually, there's a point at which the spice completely takes over, and all you can taste is the fire. This isn't the case with Drunken Noodles. Not only do you taste the fire, but there's a whole spectrum of flavors underneath the fire. The combination is incredible.

Last week as I was eating Drunken Noodles, a bit of it got on my chin, and I guess because I'd shaved an hour or so before, it burned my effing skin. Meanwhile, my lips were numb. The inside of my mouth was in pain. My stomach was already beginning to make noises that sounded like someone pulling rusty nails out of a board. While I ate, I kept wondering out loud why I was doing this to myself. But I knew why. It was pure bliss.

I think the waiter filled my water glass about 15 times, and I tried to stretch out my Thai iced coffee throughout the whole meal, but that was futile. I left happy, though feeling as if I'd been gargling with lit kerosene while someone slapped my lips with a wet leather belt.

Of course, the next day, you get to experience the mirror image of the whole experience, only with none of the pleasure whatsoever. That's OK. The pain is the kind of pain you forget. Like childbirth.

I'll be back in a few months.

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The music industry is laughing at you.

For some time, I've suspected that the writers, producers, and performers of top-40 music absolutely despise their fans, and are secretly ridiculing them. Back in February, I wrote about Fergie, and how she claims she is "tastey" [sic] as in "T to the A to the S-T-E-Y." Since then, I've continued to check in with the top-40 charts here and there. Officially, I am convinced.

The music industry is laughing at you.

First, there's the countless ripoffs. Every other song on the radio is a repackaged rewrite of another song from the 70s or 80s. I'm not talking about sampling. I'm talking about songs that borrow not only the music from other songs, but also *almost* all of the lyrics.

While P. Diddy & Faith Evans stole the Police's "Every Breath You Take" on "I'll Be Missing You," (changing the lyrics from "every breath you take, I'll be watching you" to "every breath you take, I'll be missing you), Avril Levigne's lifted the more obscure song by the Rubinoos, "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend," when she "wrote" her hit song "Girlfriend."

Obviously, these artists knew what they were doing. They also knew, however, that the majority of their fans, who are all about 14 years old, would never recognize the original. It's like buying a Kmart store brand. You're walking around wearing $20 jeans bearing a logo almost identical to the $200 brand, only you're too mentally vacant to get it.

Meanwhile, the music industry counts its money and snorts, "The little dumbasses don't even know the difference."

Of course, one could argue that rock stars have been ripping off other people's songs for decades. Take Led Zeppelin, for instance. They covered songs by destitute blues artists, and claimed the songs as originals time and time again.

But the music industry doesn't defend itself with words. It defends itself with songs. It takes the above argument and ironically releases Sean Kingston's "Me Love," a ripoff of Zep's "D'yer Mak'r." The song quickly tops the charts, because 14-year-old girls don't know who Led Zeppelin even was.

The song that absolutely convinced me that the top-40 music industry hates its own fans is Timbaland's "The Way I Are," currently positioned at #5 on the Billboard charts. The song's premise is simple: a man doesn't have much money, but even so, his woman still loves him. That seems nice at first, but check out the chorus:

The girl says:

Baby if you strip, you can get a tip 'Cause I like you just the way you are

And then the guy says:

I'm about to strip and I'm well equipped Can you handle me the way I are?

So not only is he poor, but he's also functionally retarded. Or rather, the songwriter is laughing hysterically at everyone who's going to listen to this song. Are we really supposed to believe that he couldn't come up with anything to rhyme with the word "are"? And then, not only did he write that line and keep it in the song, but actually went on to use it as the song title?!

Clearly, this is intentional, and clearly, the music industry is laughing at you. They're giggling, saying to each other, "Do you realize we're writing words for people who routinely spell without vowels? Let's see how dumb we can make the lyrics and still turn a song into a hit."

The song's content gets even worse if you examine the lyrics, which I unfortunately have done. There are plenty more non-rhymes that just use the same word such as, "Baby girl, I don't got a huge ol' house / I rent a room in a house." (Am I old for remembering when hip-hop artists actually BRAGGED about being able to rhyme?) and the guy is even worse than we first imagine. Because in addition to talking her into screwing him even though he can't (or won't) take her on a date, he's going to screw her ...

... wait for it ...

... even though she's fat.

"Your body ain't Pamela Anderson," he says, then, more graphically, "It's a struggle just to get you in the caravan." What a gentleman.

And the girl, who is just as dumb, takes it as a complement. "I don't need the cheese or the car keys / Boy, I like you just the way you are." It's a match made in heaven. Let's hope they're using birth control.

The music industry is laughing at you. But once you realize it, it's hard not to laugh right along with them.

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Regarding the new Radiohead and this discussion on PDD: I hate CDs. To me, compact discs are just a lame vehicle that I use to get the music into my computer and from there into my iPod. The truth is I haven't bought a CD in months if not years.

In my opinion, either you want to just listen to the music (in which case you should just download the MP3) or else you want to have the whole aesthetic experience (in which case you should buy the vinyl LP). Vinyl LPs offer an incredible music experience: the spindle fits throught the centerhole, the disc spins, the diamond hits the groove, and you hear the music. You hold the sleeve on your lap and everything is well and good. It's amazing.

None of this means that music on its own is worthless. Far from it. Most of the time, I just want to plug in my iPod and go.

However, the thing is, a lot of albums just don't come across properly on vinyl. A lot of older albums have too much treble. Or else, there's just too much information for the whole analog process. It sounds like mush, and I just wish I could hear it digitally.

Here are the vinyl albums I listen to on heavy rotation. I list these in hopes that you will either comment or email me suggestions for more. I like listening to music with all kinds of crackles and pops, holding a huge sleeve on my lap.

• "Loaded" by the Velvet Underground
• "You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having" by Atmosphere
• "Moon Safari" by Air
• "Devil Woman" by Marty Robbins
• "Trinity Sessions" by Cowboy Junkies
• "Inspiration Information" by Shuggie Otis
• "Rumors" by Fleetwood Mac
• "Young Americans" by David Bowie
• "Anthology" by Gladys Knight & the Pips
• "Deltron 3030 (Instrumental)" by Deltron 3030
• "I Walk Alone" by Don Gibson

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Last week I wrote about some of the pilots and premieres happening on network TV. Here's some more. (Damn I watch a lot of television.)

Pushing Daisies

This very well might be the most chaste TV show ever made. A pie-maker named Ned can bring dead people back to life with by touching them. But if he touches them again, they die forever. When he brings his childhood love interest back after she is murdered, they immediately fall in love again. But they can't touch each other or, God forbid, kiss. The whole thing is told in a fairy tale style, much like the movies Big Fish and Edward Scissorhands. It's cute and I'll keep watching, but I can't help feeling that this will be cancelled about halfway through the season and become a cult classic on DVD.

The Big Bang Theory

I want to like this show, but it falls way short. The premise is simple: Two overeducated dweebs live across the hall from a hot, but stupid, chick. One of the dweebs is into her but he's too dweeby to pull it off. The problem is this: *that's the entire show*. The nerds, as well as their nerdy friends, are completely interchangeable. The only difference is that one of them (you can tell who he is because he was Darlene's boyfriend on Rosanne) likes the girl. All of the dialog is lifted straight from your high school physics book, and really, it's a one-joke show. Plus the hot chick really isn't even hot.

I removed it from TiVo.

Dirty Sexy Money

Holy freaking mother loving Jesus! This is definitely the best show of the season. That guy from Six Feet Under is reluctantly acting as lawyer to COMPLETE EFFING LUNATICS. The pilot begins with a montage of all the beautiful people you will meet, and from first glance you know who they are and what they are all about, and it's fantastic. Plus, Seth Cohen's non-Summer girlfriend from The O.C. plays a Paris Hilton clone, and she's our favorite, don't you agree? Scratch what I said earlier - this isn't just the best show of the season. This is the best TV show the grace the airwaves since Dynasty.

Chuck

As I mentioned before, it's amazing that I can suspend my disbelief long enough to enjoy this show. But the fact remains that I just like Chuck. No parkour this week, though.

The Office

I have to admit that I don't like the new hour-long version of the Office. Sure, it's just as funny as it always was, but unfortunately, there's the same number of jokes per episode. That means that while it used to be an incredibly dense, laugh-filled riot, it now feels watered down. Diluted. Jim and Pam are together at last, so be prepared for a breakup in the season finale.

30 Rock

Yes! Not even a cameo by the mouthbreathing Jerry Seinfeld could taint this premiere, because Tina Fey is constantly funny. Perfect delivery, references to Tay Zonday, Alec Baldwin ... this show has it all. Plus, it's 30 minutes long, the way comedies were meant to be. I want to marry this show, while wearing Tina's pathetic spinster wedding dress.

The Family Guy

Worst. Episode. Ever. An hour-long parody of Star Wars? With 80% of the jokes relying on intricate knowledge of Star Wars? Laaaaammme. (And trust me, I have intricate knowledge of Star Wars ... it was the first movie I ever saw on the big screen.) Typically, The Family Guy is easily the funniest show on TV. The premiere? Uh, not so much. Luckily, they're so far in the black jokewise that it doesn't matter.

The Sarah Silverman Show

Christ. See 30 Rock.

Heroes

Hiro Nakamura is *still* in ancient Japan, and is *still* acting like a total dipshit. He used to be one of my favorite characters. Luckily, Peter Petrelli has really stepped up to the plate, preventing me from writing this whole series off as a bad Star Trek flashback and giving up.

Now, I watch a lot of TV, but it's been a long time since I've watched a brand new show from the airing of its first episode. I accidentally saw the pilot of House when it aired and liked it a lot, but circumstances beyond my control prevented me from watching any further. This is how it always is for me. Sure, I see pilots from time to time, but I'm more of a wait-for-the-DVD-and-watch-them-all-at-once watcher than a wait-for-next-week's-episode watcher. In fact, when I think about it, the only TV show I've ever watched in its entirety as it aired, from pilot to finale, was the first season of A.L.F.

This year, however, things are different. Armed with a TiVo machine and notes taken from someone else's copy of Entertainment Weekly, I've managed to record many pilots and premieres from the Fall TV season. So now, the only problem is figuring out which shows to keep watching, and which ones to flush.

The Bionic Woman
I suppose its a testament to my maturity level that I said "Wow! She's got some bionic boobs, that's for sure!" about 12 times during this pilot, but that's beside the point. I hate to admit liking this show. But yet ... I do. It's got two of my favorite actors from Battlestar Galactica in it, and like that program, this is a 1970s remake that actually benefits from 30 years of wisdom. Plus, there's a lot of running and jumping. Yeah, it doesn't take much to please me.

Reaper
This one, I'm really not so sure about. I really liked the short-lived Grim Reaper comedy Dead Like Me when I watched it on DVD. And truthfully, how many Grim Reaper comedies can the world handle? This one is directed by Kevin Smith of Clerks fame, and it kind of shows. This is the story of a 21-year-old guy whose parents sold his soul to the devil before he was born, so now he has to bring escaped souls back to Hell as kind of a bounty hunter. Some of his loser co-workers help him with his duties. He also likes a girl. We'll see.

Chuck
Honestly, Chuck has two things going for it: 1) I really like the characters, especially Chuck himself. 2) There's a lot of parkour, which is really fricken cool. On the downside, the whole concept is megadumb. Chuck's college roommate, who was always way cooler than him, ended up being a rogue CIA agent, who also ended up somehow "downloading" an email containing all of the government's supersecrets DIRECTLY INTO CHUCK'S BRAIN. I simply can't suspend my disbelief. Honestly, if they can come up with these great characters, they should be able to come up with a better way of bringing them together. And how can this series have any kind of staying power? Those secrets are going to become stale in a few months or maybe a year as everything changes. What then? Drum up another character to "download" more secrets? Ugh. Just let Chuck date the cute CIA girl and make it an I Dream of Jeannie kind of thing -- we'll love them no matter what. Is it so hard?

Heroes
Not a pilot, but a premiere here. Last year, I watched Heroes sporadically. Sometimes, I couldn't get enough of it. Sometimes I barely paid attention. I watched the episodes out of order on a combination of NBC and the SciFi Channel, and I caught about half of them.

Naturally, I assumed that I had to watch them all in order before I could be truly hooked. The DVDs proved that I had been right all along: Three-fourths of Season One was absolutely fantastic. One-fourth was fine, but boring.

The one episode I hadn't seen was the finale. If you haven't seen Season One of Heroes, here's one spoiler you should read: the finale shits the bed.

It's incredibly difficult to understand how they could make such fantastic episodes mid-season, but make the most important episode -- the finale -- utterly suck. But then ... then they come back with a premiere that is EVEN WORSE! Please. Hiro Nakamura is in ANCIENT JAPAN now!? And his idol is not actually a samurai, but some British douchebag? The writers of this show need to realize that writing a major TV drama is not the same thing as DMing a game of Dungeons & Dragons over three bags of Cheetos and a case of Mountain Dew.

Still, I'll probably keep watching it. I'll probably keep watching all these for a while. And on top of that, there's still more to watch (I'm particularly looking forward to the Pushing Daisies pilot next week.)

I'll keep reporting.

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The American sense of humor is coarse, crude, and sexual, not to mention juvenile. A lot of people don't like to admit that, because despite their boisterous nature, Americans are also reserved and embarrassed about who they are as individuals as well as who they are as a society. Think of it like putting out the guest towels. We desperately want everyone to believe we actually use those frilly things, when as soon as the guests leave we go back to drying our hands with rags. Meanwhile, the guests themselves don't feel worthy of using them either, and choose to wipe their hands on their pants rather than stain the beautiful, fake towels that they know the hosts only put out for show.

Back at the dinner table, everyone perpetuates the facade. Lovely towels, Francis. Why thank you, Jane, you're too kind.

(You bet your ass you're too kind, you lying slut.)

Huge swaths of society would love nothing more than to pursuade everyone to pretend they've never heard a dirty joke. Even though, according to what we love to consume on television and in movies, we can't get enough of them. When people do talk about raunchy comedies, they blushingly admit it as a "guilty pleasure." They can't stand to be a part of the 98% of America that thought the masturbation-contest episode of Seinfeld was hilarious when it aired. Admitting that would suspend their membership to the 2% of funsuckers who are "above such things."

I love our dirty American humor, and I'm proud of it. And whenever I find myself in a room with even one of those funsucking killjoys, I feel like cramming my genitals in a garbage disposal and flipping the switch on the wall.

One could chalk all of this up to Americans being repressed about sex, but personally, I think Americans are more embarrassed about comedy. They hate to admit to enjoying anything simply because it is funny. Look at the Academy Awards, for example. In the entire history of the Oscars, only five Best Picture winners in my opinion could by any stretch of the imagination be attached somehow to the word "comedy." And even then, the funniest of these movies (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, The Apartment, American Beauty) are simply not comedies. One movie that could be considered a comedy, Forrest Gump, is not funny, and was obviously selected for its nostalgia quality, not its humor. Which leaves Annie Hall as the only true comedy ever to win Best Picture.

Then again, maybe the only reason Annie Hall won was because Woody Allen didn't dress up like a sperm cell in it.

When I was in English major in college, one of my professors used a word I will always remember: "climbers." Climbers, by his definition, were people who tried to use the English language to make themselves seem like something they were not. Climbers want you to believe that they come from the upper crust, when they are probably just lower middle class, like everyone else. There used to be lots and lots of books written to help climbers appear more sophisticated and worldly, to make them appear to have grown up rich when they actually grew up poor. Our whole system of grammar that we learn in school is based on these cheap books from the 18th and 19th centuries, and the books were deeply flawed. You can't simply learn to talk rich, mainly because trying to sound sophisticated nearly always makes you sound stupid, exposing you as a climber. It's always best to speak simply and honestly.

Americans are, for the most part, climbers. Devoid of the long history and perspective of Europe and Asia, they feel embarrassed and ashamed. Instead of accepting the truth like adults, they choose to behave like children acting as adults. Of course, European tastes are more sophisticated and highbrow. Take the Benny Hill Show, for example. How can you not feel intimidated by that?

Benny Hill isn't even funny. You know who is funny? Charlie Sheen.

One of the highest-rated shows on network television, Two and a Half Men, is also one of the raunchiest sitcoms I have ever seen, and is also one of my favorites. Consider the episode entitled "Repeated Blows to His Unformed Head" which is about a woman who likes to have sex when she is pregnant. See? The title alone is hilarious, not to mention offensive on at least two levels. And every week, millions of Americans -- men, women, couples, families -- sit down on the couch and laugh their asses off. Because it's dirty and it's funny.

Maybe if Americans stopped repressing their humor -- boxing it up like a stack of tacky porno rags beneath their adolescent bed -- their humor could grow and ripen.

So let me be the first to say it.

My name is Barrett Chase. I am an American. And I know two things to be true:

1. I love nothing more to laugh at things that are funny.
2. Nothing is funnier than butts and weiners.

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So it's about 1:00am, and we're about to watch a movie, and there's two to choose from: Cache and Sexy Beast. "I'm not really in the mood to watch subtitles," I say, referring to Cache which is in French, I think.

"What's Sexy Beast about?" says Christa.

"It's about a British gangster who ..."

"Sold!"

Sexy Beast it is.

About five minutes into the film, I'm already questioning our choice. The movie looks really cool, but I'll be damned if the characters are speaking English. "I think the only word I've understood so far is 'crocodile,'" I say. Christa tilts her head toward the screen and pumps up the volume.

I decide that the characters are indeed speaking English, but it sounds like English spoken by someone who has an entire pork sandwich crammed into their mouth. Someone who's just been to the dentist and shot full of novocaine, and has since spent the past two hours drinking glass after glass of whole milk.

After ten minutes, we've determined that they're in Spain. Someone wants the main guy to do a job, but he doesn't want to do it. There's also a rabbit that looks like the rabbit in Donnie Darko, only worse.

Eventually, I fumble around with the remote and manage to call up the closed captioning. Looks like we're watching a subtitled movie after all.

I give it 3/5 stars.

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As if I didn't feel old enough, a couple of days ago, I looked down at a Rolling Stone magazine and noticed that Guns N' Roses' Appetite for Destruction is 20 years old.

There are very few sure things in the life of a teenage boy. Mostly, you spend your time trying on different personae, and seeing which ones feel right. You have very few original thoughts. You like things because your friends like them, or because certain celebrities like them, or because you don't know any different and have never thought about any alternatives. But the moment I saw the video for "Welcome to the Jungle" on MTV, I instantly knew that I liked Guns N' Roses. Without hesitation. This was something I could get behind: a meaningful soundtrack to my thickly mulletted Beavis-and-Butthead lifestyle.

I think I saw the video two, maybe three more times before rushing off to Kmart to buy the album. From then on, Appetite, dubbed onto a crappy Walgreens Tonemaster cassette, was what I jammed into my GE knockoff Walkman when storming out of the house in my black jean jacket to go hang out in front of the Jet gas station.

But the question on my mind 20 years later, after high school and college and all kinds of Midwestern adventure and routine, is why did I like Guns N' Roses so much in the first place? It's not as if I wanted to be anything like them. You got the feeling watching GN'R that if not for rock & roll stardom, these guys would've ended up running the Zipper at the county fair.

I didn't identify with their experiences, either. On Appetite at least, their songs seemed autobiographical, peopled with characters out of their own sordid lives. They sang about big-city nightlife, drug addicts, crack whores, desperate party girls, and cramming too much experience into a short life. And absolutely none of it seemed glamorous or even desirable to me.

At the time, Motley Crue was busy riding in Jacuzzis in the back of limos, singing about their favorite strip clubs, and trying to play the game that Van Halen had been perfecting for years: Presenting themselves at the ultimate party animals. Living the life that the average 19-year-old factory worker dreams about as he scratches off his lotto tickets.

Mainly, the attraction was that Guns N' Roses seemed to be the genuine article. Even I, a stupid 14-year-old, could see that. Axl Rose seemed like a tough Midwestern kid who'd left the trailer park for the West Coast to be a rock star, and gotten himself into some very fucked up situations in the process. It worked out for him, but listening to the lyrics on Appetite, you got the impression that that was a fluke.

Around the same time, Poison released their hit single "Fallen Angel," about a small-town girl who went off to find fortune and fame but lost her soul. While the song undeniably rocked, it was, at its heart, about a girl who succeeded. She became a famous actress, but forgot her roots. Boo-fucking-hoo. GN'R's similarly themed "My Michelle" makes you want to take a Silkwoodesque shower after listening to it.

I don't remember what my favorite song off Appetite was back then, but the one that has stuck with me through the years is "Nighttrain." There are three love songs on the album, and two of them are about women. "Nighttrain" is an ode to the most vile beverage ever concocted. Here is a full-fledged rock star singing about his adoration of bum wine and the entire lifestyle surrounding it. "Wake up late, honey, put on your clothes and take your credit card to the liquor store." These are the lyrics that are blaring from your truck's sound system when you finish your shift at Wal-mart and peel out on your way to party in Proctor. If there was any question as to whether or not Axl is a white trash redneck posing as a West Coast struttin' one bad mother with a rattlesnake suitcase under his arm, this song is it.

When Guns N' Roses' EP, GN'R Lies came out, I considered it nothing more than an extension of Appetite for Destruction, but by the time Use Your Illusion I & II hit the shelves, I didn't feel the magic anymore. The songs were still autobiographical, but I didn't care. I had no interest in what Axl thought about Bob Guccione Jr. from Spin magazine, or vice versa.

I don't even want to discuss The Spaghetti Incident.

Then again, maybe I should give 'em another shot. After all, I'm obviously much older.

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The fact that I even remember Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman being on the air back in the late 1970s should tell you that it's not an ordinary TV show. I didn't remember what the show was about. I only remembered the look of the braided, red-haired woman who played Mary Hartman, and the fact that the show was very, very slow-moving not to mention beyond my understanding, and of course I remembered the opening theme -- a sweeping, dramatic crescendo with Mary's mom shrieking "Mary Hartman! Mary Hartman!" over the titles.

A few years back I was at a really lame party whose only saving grace was that a couple of the cool people there were discussing MH2 and how awesome it was. "You've got to see it to believe it," was the consensus. However, at that time it was nearly impossible to see since it hadn't been released on DVD and the videocassette version was very difficult to find.

Now, however, the first 25 episodes of the show are out on DVD, and I've been watching them.

Essentially, MH2 is meant as a satirical soap opera, and as such it aired five nights a week. At the series' beginning, Mary is a disgruntled housewife who hasn't had sex in five weeks. In the very first scene, she stands in her kitchen with her sister, debating whether or not the floor has a "waxy, yellow buildup." Her sister insists that it does, but Mary denies it, using the claims on the can of floor cleaner as pure evidence. She wonders what all the sirens are about, and her sister jokes that a mass murder has taken place a block away. At the time, they don't realize that this is exactly what has happened.

As the series progresses, we meet the other people who inhabit Mary's life. There's Mary's impotent husband, who's kind of a jerk. The next-door neighbors -- a 44-year-old man named "Baby Boy" and his 22-year-old wife Loretta -- are constantly saying sweet and supportive things to each other. Mary's parents, who live two doors away, are the classic 70s sitcom couple: the grouch and the dingbat.

While the show is a comedy, it really doesn't feel like one. Like a soap opera, there's no studio audience and there's no laugh track. Instead, the show is full of long, pregnant pauses and tight close-ups. The characters frankly discuss everything from menstruation to masturbation, with a backdrop of mass murder and adultery. While some aspects of the show are definitely funny (such as the inflatable donut Mary's father always sits on, emblazoned with the words "Hooray! Daddy's Home!") others fall into a gray area. Instead of provoking laughter, a lot of scenes provoke strange expressions and vague feelings of discomfort.

I've probably seen about 15 episodes as of this post, and only 25 of the original 325 episodes are available. Already, the show's pace seems to be catching up with itself. Jokes are repeated, and even though the episodes are only 20 minutes long, often one episode will begin with the last five minutes of the previous episode. The writers found a great way to mask their laziness, however. They just add in a voiceover explaining, "Sometimes we repeat a scene for those who may have missed it." That's kind of genius. Lazy genius, but still.

I'm not sure whether I want them to release more episodes or not. Because right now, I can't stop watching.

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For a long time, Fergie's "Fergalicious" held the #1 slot in my mind as the most ridiculous song on the top-40 charts, a song which, for the unfortunately uninitiated, is all about how Fergie is "tastey" [sic] as in "T to the A to the S-T-E-Y."

But these days, Fergalicious has easily been ousted by Ludacris and Mary J. Blige's very special "Runaway Love," a tale of three different girls who are all "forced to think that hell is a place called home." The song is crazy on its own, but the video pushes it way over the top. It's always great when pop stars decide to exploit those who deserve to be exploited. Like abused runaway children. Yeah, that's fantastic.

00:17 Looks like they recycled the set from "The Lost Boys"

00:32 First example of child abuse: That girl's hairdo

01:00 A cameo by Michael Rapaport? Has his career sunk this low? "The War at Home" ain't working out so well? Whenever I see scenes like this, I always think of the casting call. "Perfect! You are SO believable as a child molester!

01:16 Here, I think of the directorial process: "Michael, when you're tugging at the 9-year-old's pajamas, could you stick out your tongue? Awesome, dude."

01:44 Running away, running away, running away...HOLY SHIT WAS THAT MARY J. BLIGE?...running away...

01:48 Wait. Wait. Wait. Nicole is a little bit developed to be "only 10 years old."

01:52 Again, wait. If "she's not pretty and nobody seems to like her," why do they get a future model to play her in the video?

01:55 You can tell the stepdad's an alcoholic, because he's carrying a big bottle of booze around with him.

02:03 Pay attention, kids. If you have to hide, hide under the bed. No one will ever think to look for you there.

02:55 OK, so they can show little Erica popping pills, but they have to censor the word "pills." Alright. That makes sense.

03:05 I always bust out laughing at the "glove" line. Because little Barrett is 14 years old.

03:30 Yeah, cuz that will make everything better.

04:07 "I will run away with you"? Easy, Mary J. Maybe when you're singing to distraught 9-year-olds, you should stick to promises you can actually keep.

04:29 "Ladies"? Ludacris, don't call 9-year-olds "ladies." That's just...yuck.

04:39 "Picture us running away together"? Double yuck.

04:46 Who knew this was all a mass hypnosis experiment?

One last note. While I was writing this, I decided to You Tube the video for Soul Asylum's "Runaway Train" to get a little background on the runaway genre. Don't ever watch that video again. While "Runaway Love" is over the top and mildly gross, "Runaway Train" is freaking disgusting. Hey, here's an idea, let's portray gang rape in our music video, then flash pictures of actual missing children. Because that'll be good for everyone.

Ugh.

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Grandma's Saloon & Grill has a new slogan for their shrimp dinners: "Shrimp Happens."

I propose that their next slogan should be, "We went to Mexico and came back with a case of the shrimps."

Cub Foods Macaroni & Cheese Dinner
Price: 50¢
Additives: 1/4 cup butter, 1/4 cup 2% milk
Synopsis: Right down the middle

Here's a macaroni & cheese secret: Cub Foods has two styles of macaroni & cheese. One is in a plain box with just a picture of noodles and sauce on the front. The other, this one, is endorsed by a cartoon dog in a tank top. But not only are both of these selections exactly the same in content, they are also sold in Super One stores under the Flavorite brand -- also in two box styles, with and sans cartoon dog. Once again, it's all the same stuff inside. All four are distributed by Supervalu, Inc. out of Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

When one thinks of the standard macaroni & cheese, one immediately thinks of Kraft, because Kraft is the brand we presumably all grew up on. But the truth is, Kraft doesn't taste like Kraft anymore. Kraft has branched out into "premium" varieties, "alfredo" and "white cheddar" sauces, the Supermac varieties, and so on. It's hard to find plain Kraft macaroni & cheese these days. Not Kraft Thick & Creamy, not Kraft in Spiderman shapes. Just plain mac & cheese like the kind you had when you were a kid.

However, these four versions of the same thing are that standard mac & cheese. The kind you ate when you came home from morning kindergarten, with hot dogs cut up in it (the wrong way, of course, the choking way, because this was back then and no one knew better) while you were watching Mr. Rogers show you how bubble gum is made.

So while it's nothing special, it certainly isn't bad. Kudos to Supervalu, Inc. for keeping the dream alive.

Kraft Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese Dinner
Price: $2
Additives: None
Synopsis: Delish

For the return of Mac & Cheese Monday, I've chosen our first-ever nontraditional box of pasta and sauce. This ain't kids' macaroni and cheese. This is the serious stuff.

While Kraft Deluxe is more expensive than most of the standard powder-mix varieties, it does not require any additives at all, since the cheese sauce comes in goo-form in an aluminum pouch, rather than in the dehydrated form we all know and love. There are two distinct advantages of this. The first, obviously, is that Kraft Deluxe can be made at any time by anyone, even someone such as myself who often does not keep perishables such as "milk" and "butter" readily on hand at all times. But more important than that, since the sauce is not made from a powder, it lacks any kind of graininess at all. The sauce is simply smooth and creamy, without being soupy, and with a relatively delicate flavor. I liked it quite a bit.

Also, the noodles are larger than the standard size, which I guess is supposed to give it more of a homemade quality. Some skeptics will tell you that macaroni is macaroni, and that it doesn't matter what it's shaped like since it's all made of the same stuff. These people are wrong. Just ask any person such as myself who deeply prefers shells to elbow macaroni, or ask any 4-year-old screaming in the boxed dinner aisle because the store is out of Shrek-shaped noodles.

Moreover, Kraft Deluxe also delivers in quantity as well. For the same price as Simply Organic mac & cheese, you get not only a far superior product, but far more of it. The servings-per-box rate is "About 4" and I'd say that that is right. I ate until I was full, and there was still plenty left over for later.

All in all, you can't go wrong with Kraft Deluxe. It's a welcome return to Mac & Cheese Monday, indeed.

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Simply Organic Macaroni & Cheese Dinner
Price: $1.99
Additives: 3 Tbsp. butter, 1/4 cup skim milk
Synopsis: Not worth it

Last week, Purple asked me to review either Annie's or Nature's Crazy Bug Dinner. Well, I didn't have either of those lined up, but I did have another spendy option: Simply Organic Macaroni & Cheese Dinner.

I wonder who this Mac & Cheese is made for. Because really, if you care about eating healthy that much, I think the chances are probably slim that you would be eating mac & cheese in the first place. And second, if you're going to give this to your kids, well, they're going to hate it. Look at that box.

I've mentioned before that I hate soupy mac & cheese, but so far none of the candidates have turned out soupy when made according to the instructions. Simply Organic is our first soupy dinner. If I were to make this again, which I'm not, I would make it with about half as much milk as was specified.

The noodles were good, and the cheese (organic white cheddar) was decent enough. It was surprisingly sweet, and when I checked the ingredients, sure enough, sugar was one of the top ingredients. None of the other options I've tried contained sugar. Mac & cheese does not need to be sweetened. I've never been eating macaroni and thought, "You know what this needs? Syrup." Ick.

"Health" foods are often like this. They take out the fat and cholesterol, maybe make it organic, and then replace the fatty flavors with sugar. So what you get is a carbed-up protein-free dessert entree that will leave you hungrier than when you started.

When it comes to organic food, I'm sticking to vegetables. And when it comes to mac & cheese, give me something orange.

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Wacky Mac

Price: 84¢
Additives: 1/4 stick butter; 3 Tbsp. 2% milk
Synopsis: Noodles & butter

I was excited to try Wacky Mac, not only because it is my first reader-submitted mac & cheese, but also because the box claimed, "it's all mixed up and it's crazy!" Wacky Mac has "shells, wagon wheels, spirals and tubes" in the very same bowl. INSANE.

"But," the box also states, "it's great fun to eat." So don't worry, folks. Wacky Mac might be wacky and crazy, but that doesn't mean it isn't fun.

I prepared Wacky Mac as instructed, and sat down prepared for some downright lunacy.

If someone else had prepared the meal for me, I probably would have accused them of forgetting to include the cheese mix. Most mac & cheese is bland, but this stuff is supremely bland. Even looking at the picture, it seems as if it's a bowl full of noodles, butter, and milk.

But that isn't necessarily a bad thing. There's nothing wrong with Wacky Mac. But frankly, if this is your idea of wacky, maybe you ought to get out of the house a little bit more often.

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Pasta Leonardo Macaroni & Cheese Dinner

Price: 25¢
Additives: 4 Tbps. butter, 1/3 cup 2% milk
Synopsis: Absolutely dreamy

To be honest, I had a completely different mac & cheese lined up for this week. But then, I noticed Pasta Leonardo in the supermarket. I didn't know about Pasta Leonardo. Having just reviewed Pasta Louigi and found it to be less than desirable, I thought I'd give brother Leo a try and see if he could do any better.

Ladies and gents, Pasta Leonardo is spectacular.

The sauce. Oh, the sauce. This is good mac & cheese sauce my friend. Part of this, I believe, has to do with the 1/3 cup of milk as opposed to the usual 1/4 cup. Pasta Leonardo's sauce is "saucier" without seeming milky or diluted. The term on the box is "cheezier," which means nothing because every grocery product containing cheese claims to be "cheezier" or maybe even "cheesier," if it dares claim to contain actual cheese.

These days, I'm not sure if the "Z" in "cheeze" is just cool factor for the kidz, like the corporations are trying to market to the AIM set, or if it means that the cheese is fake, so they have to spell it differently a la Cheez Whiz.

But I digress.

The texture and consistency of Pasta Leonardo is damn near everything I want in a macaroni & cheese dinner. The flavor, however, is a bit bland, which is OK because this is comfort food after all. And it's doubly OK because of the last step in the instructions:

"Season to taste."

Yes.

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Pasta Louigi Macaroni and Cheddar Supreme Dinner

Price: 27¢
Additives: 4 Tbps butter, 1/4 cup 2% milk
Synopsis: Sticky business

I was excited about Pasta Louigi because it seemed like a very grown-up version of macaroni & cheese. The word "pasta," the specification of "cheddar," and the wholesome-looking farmer on the box (whom I can only assume is Louigi himself) all indicated that this would be one classy box of noodles. And at less than half the price of a candy bar, how could I go wrong?

This time, I paid attention to the macaroni as it was boiling and cooked it to perfection. I added the milk and butter, stirred in the cheese powder (which was surprisingly fluorescent orange) and got ready for some seriously adult dinner.

Hm. I don't want to give this a thumbs-down, exactly, but I can't justify a thumbs-up either.

"Sticky" is the best adjective I can come up with to describe Pasta Louigi. I don't think there was one single separate piece of macaroni in the whole bowl. Everything clumped together in pasty lumps. I hate soupy mac & cheese, so this was fine by me. But the texture of the sauce was definitely off. I don't know how something can seem both sticky and grainy, but that's what this was like.

Don't get me wrong: The flavor was quite good. And I liked the noodles, which were smaller than most macaroni noodles. I did love the consistency. But the texture left a lot to be desired.

I'd recommend Pasta Louigi for anyone on an extreme budget who perhaps can't afford to pay 50 cents for a decent box of mac & cheese, or to anyone who really likes their cheese sauce to be thick. To everyone else, I'd say to skip this brand, dig another dime or two out of the couch, and splurge on something better.

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Welcome to the first installment of a new feature on The Product: Mac & Cheese Monday. The concept is simple: Every Monday, I will post a review of a different brand and/or type of macaroni & cheese.

Here are the rules. The mac & cheese must be prepared precisely according to the instructions on the box. In the event that there are several sets of instructions, such as "light" preparations or "extra flavor" preparations, we will adhere to the standard preparation. No adjuncts such as hot dogs or peas will be allowed.

OK, let's get on with the review.

Shoppers Value Macaroni & Cheese Dinner
Price: 44¢
Additives: 1/4 cup butter, 1/4 cup 2% milk
Synopsis: Bland, but rather nice

When conducting any experiment, there is always the potential for human error. Such was the case while preparing this particular boxed meal. While I was boiling the water, the phone rang. I continued talking while adding the noodles to the water, but then I lost track of time. The noodles were overcooked, as opposed to the al dente texture I prefer. Undaunted, however, I continued to make the meal.

The cheese flavor of Shoppers Value leaves a lot to be desired. It's fairly bland compared to what I was expecting. However, here is where the human error turns into a "happy accident." The ultra-soft noodles, in combination with the buttery, bland flavor made for a very soothing meal. This was pure comfort food, and its psychological effect was noticable. This wasn't a crazy duck in sunglasses surfing on a tidal wave of cheese. This was naptime in a bowl, and I enjoyed it.

Fourty-four cents well spent. I give Shoppers Value a thumbs-up.

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Yesterday, I heard REO Speedwagon's "Keep on Lovin' You" on the radio. Y'know, I always knew Speedwagon was a bunch of pussies, but holy shit is this song, well...yeah. The dude's girlfriend slept with a bunch of other guys, and I think she's probably pregnant, too ("But you never bled"). Yet still, he's gonna "keep on loving" her. What a retard.

You should've seen by the look in my eyes, baby
There was somethin missin'
You should've known by the tone of my voice, maybe
But you didn't listen
You played dead
But you never bled
Instead you lay still in the grass
All coiled up and hissin'

And though I know all about those men
Still I dont remember
Cause it was us baby, way before then
And we're still together
And I meant, every word I said
When I said that I love you I meant
That I love you forever

And I'm gonna keep on lovin' you
Cause its the only thing I wanna do
I don't wanna sleep
I just wanna keep on lovin' you

(solo)

And I meant every word I said
When I said that I love you I meant
That I love you forever

(chorus)

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Noticing that all of the jeans I own have worn-out holes in them, I went looking for some new ones. But I came home empty-handed because I literally couldn't find one new pair of jeans that didn't have the exact same kind of worn spots as all of my old cruddy pairs.

So I guess I don't need new jeans after all.

ZeFrank has a contest for, and some seriously complex thoughts about, ugly MySpace pages.

"In MySpace, millions of people have opted out of pre-made templates that 'work' in exchange for Ugly. Ugly, when compared to pre-existing notions of taste, is a bummer. But Ugly as a representation of mass experimentation and learning is pretty damn cool. Regardless of what you might think, the actions you take to make your MySpace page Ugly are pretty sophisticated. Over time, as consumer-created media engulfs the other kind, it's possible that completely new norms develop around the notions of talent and artistic ability."

Yikes.

[link via Fimoculous]

I joined MySpace several months ago because I didn't get it. I didn't understand why it was so popular, and I didn't understand what all the hype is about. I suspected that MySpace was incredibly lame. But I also suspected that I was wrong.

I have to admit that I had a lot of fun setting my MySpace page up, inviting friends, and exploring the whole thing. But after that initial glow disappeared, I realized that I was right all along.

MySpace is stupid. It is clunky. It is ugly. It is unbelievably slow. It makes otherwise intelligent people look like morons. Sure, MySpace seems to do something for bands, but it would do more for them if it wasn't so broken, ugly, and slow.

I hate it with an almost perfect hate.

Time will prove me right. MySpace is a terrific fad right now. But you just watch. MySpace is the Zubaz of this decade. There is no way that anything this dumb could ever last. If it does, then I need to become more of a recluse than I already am.

Currently, I am attempting to delete my MySpace account, but the connection keeps timing out. I rest my case.

But I understand the lure of connecting with other people over the Internet. And lucky for me, the lovely and talented Sarah Brown hooked me up with a brand-new system that I think might be what I'm looking for. That system is Vox, which is owned by Six Apart, the company that owns Movable Type, TypePad, TypeKey, and Live Journal. I've had a longstanding relationship with Six Apart and Movable Type, and they've been nothing but fantastic. I e-mail them all the time regarding the multitude of issues that surface regarding Perfect Duluth Day, and they are always extremely helpful.

What does Vox do? First and foremost, Vox establishes a social network with other Vox users. It also allows you to tag them as Neighbors, Friends, or Family. Plus, it allows you to create a blog, and to make your blog posts visible to the World; just Friends and Family; just Friends; or just Family. This is very important.

Vox also integrates with your Flickr, Photobucket, iStockphoto, Amazon, and YouTube accounts. It is their ambition to integrate with every significant Internet resource there is, allowing you to easily make posts about everything you want to. Personally, I hope they integrate with Netflix sometime soon.

Remember back in the '80s when Steve Jobs said to Bill Gates, "Our computers are better," and Gates said, "You don't get it. It doesn't matter"?

Vox is better. Way better. Everybody on the planet might have a MySpace account. But Vox is better.

And, MySpace is the Zubaz of this decade. Go ahead and wear them if you wish.

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Today I got a piece of mail that said on the envelope: "URGENT!! MEDICAL EMERGENCY!!"

I don't know about you, but whenever I have a medical emergency, I use the phone. But that's just me. Other people, it seems, hire a graphic designer to design an envelope stating the urgency of the matter, then wait 2-3 days to have the envelope printed, and then send it out via third-class mail.

What really strikes me is that the junk mail was coming from a church. The first thing I'm looking for in my religious leadership is an organization that breaks a commandment right on the envelope. I don't want to trust my religious leaders for 20 years only to find out that they're child molestors or money launderers or gambling addicts. I want them to say right off the bat: We're liars. Don't believe a word we say.

That saves me a lot of time on Sunday mornings.

So yesterday, I went to the local sandwich shop, where I had the most amazing experience.

There was nobody at the counter. For a long time. There was one guy waiting in front of me and a vague voice from the back room, but no one was there to make sandwiches or to take orders.

After about five minutes, a girl came out and took our orders. When she took my order, she told me my total, which was about $5.38 or something, and I gave her a ten. She took out some bills, paused, then put the bills back into the cash register. I waited. She just stood, staring at the open drawer. Conservatively, I think I could have counted to 30.

Finally, I peered over and noticed that there was only two dollar-bills in the till. She couldn't make change, and, not knowing what to do, was just standing there frozen.

"You can't make change? You don't have enough ones?" I asked. She nodded. "Well, I think I have a five and a one," I said, pulling out some cash. I handed her the money and she slowly accepted it.

More time passed.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.

Wow.

"Give me back my ten and make change from the six dollars I just gave you," I said. "That won't require any ones."

She gave me back my ten, deleted the transaction from the register, and re-entered it so that it would calculate the correct change from $6. Then the phone rang, so she went back to answer it. Meanwhile, we waited for her to finish talking, so that she might return and make our sandwiches.

Luckily, she was pretty good at the sandwich-making part of the job, so eventually when she finally got around to making them, it was relatively quick. Still, the whole process took about 20 minutes.

Kids these days.

Just as it was when I attended high school, there are three high schools in Duluth. There are also high schools in the neighboring towns of Superior, Proctor, and Hermantown. Of these six high schools, my alma mater, Robert E. Denfeld High School, is the only one that had its very own hairstyle for girls.

It's not that none of the girls at the other high schools had Denfeld Hair. (Good Lord, they certainly did up in Proctor!) I'm saying that it was at Denfeld that this hairstyle was perfected. Also, the term "Denfeld Hair" was coined not by students of Denfeld, but by all the other kids in the community. Also, at the time that I attended Denfeld, nearly 98% of girls in attendence had some version of Denfeld Hair.

My introduction to Denfeld Hair began not at Denfeld, but at Morgan Park Junior High, when certain girls were secretly apprenticed by older, much-cooler girls who taught them the art. These girls immediately became, and continued to be, the most popular girls in school. The message hit hard and it hit during the most formative years of adolescence: If you are a girl and you want to be popular, then this is the hairstyle that will be required of you.

In junior high, classes began at 7:45am and most students had at least a 30-minute bus ride. If you were a girl and you wanted to be popular, you'd have to get up at at least 5am to prepare your Denfeld Hair.

My high school yearbooks show nothing of the secret rituals, but the junior high yearbooks do. There are frequent snapshots of girls posing proudly with cans of Aquanet, much as later in life they'd pose proudly with bottles of Seagram's Golden Wine Coolers. There are also photos of girls sitting on the floor next to their lockers using curling irons which had been clandestinely plugged into the school's power supply. This was a common site back then. I'm sure that these days such behavior has been outlawed.

How to describe Denfeld Hair? It was often but not always long, and certainly curly. But the essential part was the bangs -- an enormous roto-tiller of bangs complete with cantilevers and flying buttresses, somehow defying gravity and hanging above the girl's beautiful, twinkling eyes. A few girls had straightish hair on the sides and in the back, but many went even further and spread the grandeur all about the entire head. The only other place I can think of where you might find hair like this is at a beauty pageant in the state of Texas.

Some of the worst days of my secondary education occurred on humid, rainy days. Days when Mother Nature deemed that Denfeld Hair would be difficult, if not impossible, to accomplish. On these days, girls would come to school with "flat" hair. They would scream at you for the smallest indescretion. They would cry constantly. It was horrid.

There is one memory of high school I will always carry, and that is of a certain hockey game I attended in my junior year. It was Denfeld against Central. There was this girl from Central there; I remember that she was blonde and was wearing a letter jacket. One by one, we all noticed her. We'd motion to her and say, "Wow." Then, when it was established that she was white hot, we started talking about why she was white hot, because it's not like we could make out her body and it's not like she was any prettier than most girls.

It was the hair. She didn't have Denfeld Hair at all. Her hair was straight, blonde, with very little product. She certainly didn't use hairspray or a curling iron. If you were to touch this hair, it would feel soft. You could run your fingers through it without getting them all snagged up in it. And if she liked you, you could imagine that she'd actually let you touch her hair. Unlike with a Denfeld girl, touching her hair would be an act of affection. It wouldn't be a ceremony for a fat lip.

This (our adoration of this girl) was to me, one of many indications that the world I'd grown up in was changing. I've heard that Denfeld Hair hung on for many years after I graduated, but considering my memory of the incoming freshmen girls, I don't believe that it hung on for all that long.

Very rarely, I still see West Duluth women with Denfeld Hair, just as I still see guys with mullets and people wearing acid wash. But it's rare.

If you're gonna do it, you might as well go all the way. If you're gonna make yourself look like something from Falcon Crest, well, then you better well own it. Make the whole fricken metropolitan area name it after you.

I'm so proud. DHS, muthafukka. DHS.

\m/ UH!

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I received this in the mail today. I have no idea what's inside of it, but already I can tell you that I think this sort of promotion should be illegal.

From a postal worker's point of view, this piece of mail is ridiculous. Note the words Priority Express Letter. This skirts on being unmailable. It would have costed them $4.05 to send this Priority. For Express, it would have been $14.40. But if you look at the postage, you can see that it was mailed Standard, which costs something like, oh, the lint in your front pocket. This is a mass-mailing sent out to thousands of people. There is nothing "urgent" in it. It is an advertisment.

Also, check out the personal note to the postmaster to "deliver directly to recipient listed above." Oh, thanks. We were thinking of delivering it to a tent in the Mojave desert before bringing it to the person on the front of the envelope, but since you insist, we'll just do what we do with every other piece of mail.

OK, now that we've established that the contents of this envelope are "EXTREMELY IMPORTANT," let's open it and see what's inside.

Awesome. It's a MasterCard. Oh, wait. It isn't a MasterCard. It's an ad for Benna Ford of Superior. The back of the card reads "THIS IS NOT A CREDIT CARD" and "FOR PROMOTIONAL PURPOSES ONLY". There is no letter or anything else inside the envelope -- just this card, which has an 800 number on the back and the instruction to "Call for details."

Nice marketing, Benna Ford. You have just admitted to being deceptive. To being shady. To being the type of business that uses tricky language and techniques to dupe people into buying your products. I'm not exactly sure why you've chosen this type of campaign, or this type of image. Car dealerships already carry the stigma of being dishonest. Any intelligent person will look at this advertisement, see it for what it is, and then look upon you with disgust.

Your marketing people should be fired.

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Alright, KQDS. I'll admit that I have you programmed in as a preset on my car stereo, and that I often listen to you as I drive to work. But lately I've noticed something that irritates me to a level you will probably never comprehend.

For some unfathomable reason, you've decided to put "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum into heavy rotation.

Listen: It's nice that you've decided to showcase a famous Duluthian. But please realize three things: 1) NO ONE wants to hear a song about child abuse, 2) That song is the song that ruined Soul Asylum, which was a pretty good band previous to that song, and 3) I've used two colons in this sentence, which is just plain wrong.

If you want to showcase a famous Duluthian, showcase Bob Dylan. Hell, showcase REM for all I care. I'd rather listen to "Shiny Happy People" 47 times in a row than read a blog post that contains the words "Runaway Train" in nonsequential order.

Oh, sweet Jesus, how I HATE the song "Runaway Train." I remember how it played on MTV approximately every two mintues. And while I've come to grips with some of the other songs that MTV ridiculously overplayed (e.g. Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer") I will never, ever be able to listen to "Runaway Train." The song goes against everything I love about rock 'n' roll. I hate it. And I can't possibly imagine anyone having a legitimate reason for liking it.

You INFLICT this song on us, KQDS. And worse, you do it many, many times per day.

If my car stereo didn't only play radio (and badly at that) I'd ... I'd ...

I don't know what I'd do.

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My favorite cover of all time: "Kingsport Town" performed by Eleni Mandell, originally by Bob Dylan.

My least-favorite cover of all time: "You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Man" performed by Rod Stewart, originally by Aretha Franklin. Sort of.

Discuss.

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Leahpeah interviewed the Byrneunit and right off the bat, Brian Byrne said something very eloquently with which I immediately agreed, and mentally screamed YES!

The question was "Why do you blog?"

His answer was as follows:

A few reasons. For one, I’ve always felt I needed the practice writing, and I don’t know about you, but I can’t keep a journal for shit. I’ve tried time and again, and I always run into the same fundamental problem: Who the fuck am I writing this for? I’m sure as fuck not gonna go back and read it, and I’m sure as sure as fuck not gonna let anybody else read it, so why the fuck am I not watching “The Core” on Showtime Extreme West Coast right now? For real, Aaron Eckhart and Hilary Swank can’t keep the planet from disintegrating if I’m not watching. It’s true. I asked them, and they told me.

For another, beyond needing practice writing, I think blogging helps keep me from going off at the mouth (keyboard) too much, as I have a tendency to write thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words when all I’m trying to say is, for example, that I tend to write very long sentences. Seven words are important, but just to be on the safe side I’ll pad them with an extra few hundred. Just to keep them from breaking during shipping.

For yet another, I am an extremely lazy writer, and I did find that having a blog, with its implied throngs of five (dare I dream, ten?) readers out there in Internetsville, was a solid enough prompt toward actually finishing things — small things, in manageable doses, and with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Entries like that strike me as legitimately good writing practice, assuming you can actually pull one off and not just spend all your time posting photographs of your television. (Cough.)

AAAAand finally, blogging has helped teach me to edit myself on the fly, and to ask myself one all-important question: Is what I’m writing the least bit entertaining? Because if not, it’s basically a journal entry, and look, I’m okay with baring my soul and all, but I apply the same (previously) unspoken understanding to the blog that I do with most of my friends: I am perfectly happy to hear what’s troubling you on a deeply felt emotional level. Just not that often. Because — and this is very important — I’m friends with you because you’re fun to drink with and you’re smart and not irritating and you make me laugh. I’m also pretty sure that’s why most of my friends are friends with me. I’m thinking an absolute maximum of maybe one bout of soul-baring every month or two is about as much as I feel comfortable foisting on my real-life friends, and thus the same goes for the Internets.

I agree wholeheartedly with all of it, but the final paragraph hits a sweet spot. Bloggers need to realize that they are publishing what they write. This means that the moment they hit "Publish" or "Save" or whatever, their words are no longer their own. Their words belong to those who read them. I've always hated writers who say, "I only write for myself." Please. If it really was only for you, then you'd write a fricken diary. When your words become available to me, you're writing for me, jackass. And if you're wasting my time, I'm gonna resent it.

This is why this blog is called The Product; to always remind me to keep the bullshit to a minimum. This blog is indeed constructed for me to crank out a couple hundred words here and there because I love recreational writing, but it also has a readership, no matter how small. And if it doesn't appeal to them, then why don't I just keep my rants about the latest processed food product to myself?

Yes, I'm a narcissist. I've never denied that.

Anyway, read the whole interview because the Byrnes are beautiful and charming.

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They sell these in the vending machines at my workplace, and apparently, people buy them and eat them. I can't imagine why. If you can't read the label, the description is "cheese, beef, chicken, and textured vegetable protein product wrapped in an artificially colored tortilla." Mmmmmm.

The list of ingredients is intimidating. Let's just say that I'm uncomfortable consuming any product where, in the ingredients list, green pepper has a parenthetical sub-list of ingredients.

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If I were rich and famous and people wanted me to endorse their products, there are several products I could endorse with full conscience. Sharpie markers. Bose headphones. The Mac Powerbook. And, if they advertised, granny smith apples.

As it is, I will endorse all of these products for free, since they are top of the line and have improved my life with their greatness. Here's the latest: Sweet Mother of God, Coca-Cola has made one fantastic beverage. And that fantastic beverage is called Coca-Cola Blak.

See, Coke Blak consists of my two favorite drinks in the world: Coca-Cola and coffee.

Let me repeat: Coca-Cola and coffee.

It's a lot like iced coffee with lots of milk and sugar, only it is mildly carbonated and it tastes somewhat like Coke. It is manna from heaven.

If this sounds gross to you, it probably is. But if, like me, you have trouble deciding which source you're going to get your fix from, get yourself some Coca-Cola Blak.

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Recently I had the pleasure of trying a vanilla-flavored Tootsie Fruit Roll candy. I am so pleased! Finally, I now know what it is like to eat a scented candle.

Fruit Rolls come in five flavors: cherry, lemon, orange, vanilla and lime. If you're like me, you're probably wondering by what stretch of the imagination is vanilla a fruit flavor. But you know what? It turns out that vanilla is the fruit of an orchid.

Here's where we get serious. You have no idea how much joy this exotic news gives me. I've written before about how vanilla has always been my favorite ice-cream flavor. In 8th grade, we had ice-cream in one of my classes on the last day before Christmas break. We were all supposed to say our favorite flavors, so I said vanilla, and everyone booed. Booed. Apparently, since my favorite ice cream wasn't Chocolately Chocolate Chocolate-Chip Cocoa Destruction With Extra Fudge, the villagers saw fit to get out their torches and pitchforks. Well, now I am vindicated, muthafukkas! The fruit of an orchid. Ha!

Vanilla is also a key ingredient in the world's favorite beverage, Coca-Cola, which uses more vanilla extract than any company in the world. When New Coke was introduced in 1985, the economy of Madagascar crashed, and only recovered after New Coke flopped. The reason was that New Coke used vanillin, a less expensive synthetic substitute, and purchases of vanilla more than halved during this period.

Vanilla, people. Vanilla. It isn't synonymous with "plain." It is beautiful.

And exotic.

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You know how great it is when you're digging in your closet and you find a great shirt you used to like but completely forgot about? It's like getting a present. That's how I currently feel about Flickr.

Remember Flickr? Remember when everybody suddenly had a Flickr account, and you could upload photos easily and become contacts and look at your contacts' photos, or just look at other people's photos by clicking on tags and it was really cool? Then people like me went on to the next fun Internet invention, and kind of forgot about the whole Flickr thing.

Well, here's some amazing news: PEOPLE STILL USE FLICKR! And it's truly spectacular.

So recently, I've become re-obsessed with other people's photos. I like clicking around at random until I find something I really like, then viewing that person's whole photostream.

This teaches me. Play with all of your toys. Not just the new ones.

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Let me just say:

- Ron Howard plays "Genius," a 12-year-old who is fooling around with his chemistry set when BAM! he suddenly invents a substance which turns cats and ducks into giants when they eat it.

- Beau Bridges heads up a gang of teenagers so CRAAAAZY! they will go-go dance in the fucking rain at the scene of a car crash if need be. They will go-go dance anywhere, man. They will go-go dance in the mud.

- Toni Basil (Yes, THAT Toni Basil. "Oh, Mickey, you're so fine" Toni Basil.) plays Red, who has red hair and is hot. More importantly, in real life she CHOREOGRAPHED ALL THE GO-GO DANCING.

Obviously, when you mix these elements together, things are gonna explode. Because when you're 30 feet tall, no one can tell you what to do. Yeah, man, when you're 30 feet tall, your measurements are 200"-100"-200". You can go-go dance all night long, and the adults have to show YOU their ID card.

Jesus. I need some air.

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I checked out a book from the library today called Posters of the WPA, and you know what? I could look at this stuff all day. We need more posters. Posters for every occasion.

This is why I should never leave the house. I have about 10 projects on the burner, and all I want to do is make posters.

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So I purchased a new stick of Degree deodorant today, and when I removed the cap, this is what I saw.

Risk?! What is this risk of which you speak? A hideous rash? An allergic reaction? Cancer? Is it cancer?!

(Active ingredient: aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrex GLY ... um, yeah I guess it is.)

Listen, people of Unilever: I don't want any risk involved in my personal hygiene products. And I don't know of anyone else who does either. What are you thinking? What is this even supposed to mean?

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These days, all the punk rock bands seem to just scream and make a lot of noise. Which I appreciate, don't get me wrong. But I've always loved the "New York" style of punk that was linked to '50s rock 'n' roll. I cut my punk teeth on the Ramones, and I never got over it. To me, this style of punk is all about giving you everything you need in 2.5 minutes. So here are some punk songs I love, and I really wish there was a local punk band that played like this. Nonetheless...I wait.

Cherry Bomb | The Runaways
How can you go wrong with an all-girl band that featured both Joan Jett and Lita Ford? (pictured above)

Sleeping Aides & Razorblades | Exploding Hearts
One album and a fatal car crash. Rock history is made.

Sheena is a Punk Rocker | The Ramones
The definitive song.

Brain Massage | The Mumps
I like a good brain massage now and then.

Goggles On | The Suburbs
I liked this band for 15 years before I found out they were from Minneapolis. Duh.

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I was probably 12 years old the first time I heard Wild Man Fischer. It was on the Dr. Demento show, of course, and the song was "My Name is Larry," of course. I played Wild Man Fischer all the time. And to tell the truth, my family even began to like his work. My mom sometimes would ask me to play "that Larry song."

Now, I learn that they've made a documentary about him. It's about time.

Wild Man Fischer was a paranoid schizophrenic street performer in the 1960s. In addition to being hilarious and charming, he created some incredibly catchy songs, which leads one to believe that he had significant musical talent. However, he belted out every in the most atrocious bad-karaoke way possible, not that there was such a thing as karaoke in those days. If you watch the trailer at the above link, you also get an impression of how while he was a great songwriter, he was indeed schizophrenic, and that is not funny at all. It's a very sad story.

In 1968, Frank Zappa produced a double-album entitled An Evening with Wild Man Fischer. Recently, through Metafiler of course, I found a limited-release download of this album, which has never been released on CD. I am in ecstacy.

So, as my New Year's present to you, I give you a Wild Man Fischer song. Here it is:

Wild Man Fischer | Merry-Go-Round

Might I hazard to say: This song embodies what rock 'n' roll is all about. I am not being facetious.

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Awhile back, I wrote about the pseudo-Monte Cristo sandwich I had at the now-defunct Park Place diner in the West End, and how delicious it was, and how I sort of wanted to try a genuine Monte Cristo sandwich sometime, even though it's pretty much a heart attack on a plate.

To recap, a genuine Monte Cristo sandwich consists of a normal ham, turkey, and swiss cheese sandwich which is then dipped in an egg batter and deep fried. Usually, it's served with some type of raspberry cream sauce.

Well, you can probably guess by now that I ate a genuine Monte Cristo today.

I hated it.

This particular culprit was served to me at a diner in Superior called the Kitchen. Usually, I like the food at the Kitchen quite a bit. I go there often and will certainly go there again, because the place rocks. So when I saw today that the special was the Monte Cristo, I had to get it. The waitress described the sandwich as being breaded with egg batter and cracker crumbs, and that sounded perfect. But boy, was I disappointed.

I was expecting a thick, hearty sandwich with slabs of meat and cheese, glistening with wonderful grease. But, surprisingly, if I picked one word to describe it, that word would be "dry." Inside, I found huge pockets of air. Most of the cheese had melted to complete liquid and either had run out of the sandwich completely or was absorbed by the bread. I couldn't tell, but it seemed to be a triple-decker, with three slices of bread. There wasn't much meat to speak of, so really, the whole thing was just bread, bread, bread. And breading.

I don't enjoy eating deep-fried bread.

Perhaps I'll try to find another restaurant that serves Monte Cristos and try one there. But I hate to waste a good diner experience. I love diner food tremendously. Give me a hot turkey sandwich smothered in gravy any day.

Hell, EVERY day.

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For the award of the worst line in the history of screenwriting, I would like to nominate this particular selection from the very -- ahem -- brilliant movie, Young Guns (1988).

It occurs very early in the movie, when Terence Stamp decides to take Billy the Kid under his wing. The other Guns, some of whom haven't met Billy, are discussing the decision. Durmot Mulrony sneers at Lou Diamond Phillips and says, "Hope it ain't another Mexican," and then (here it is!) Lou Diamond Phillips yells, "MEXICAN-INDIAN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

It's a line so bad it makes you wince. You get a sour feeling in your stomach. And your head aches as you realize that not only did someone actually write that line, but that no one else demanded that it be removed from the script.

We all know, of course, that outlaws in the Wild West held three things very dear: rotgut whiskey, Chinese whores, and political correctness.

It should come as no surprise that Palindromes, the latest movie from Todd Solondz, is bleak, disturbing and challenging. It seems that each movie he makes goes deeper into this territory, and this movie is his bleakest yet. I think it might also be his best yet.

Palindromes begins with the funeral of Dawn Wiener, the central character of Solondz's 1995 film, Welcome to the Dollhouse. It isn't clear how old Dawn (aka "Wienerdog") was when she died, but her little sister is now the mother of an infant, which probably puts Dawn somewhere in her 20s at least. To anyone who's seen WTTD, it should come as no surprise that Dawn committed suicide. Rumor has it that she was pregnant from a date rape, and she couldn't bear the thought of bringing another Dawn into the world.

But this movie isn't about Dawn. It's about Dawn's cousin Aviva. And Aviva is afraid of ending up just like Dawn.

Aviva, 13, wants to have a baby, because if she has a baby, or as she puts it, as many babies as possible, she'll always have someone to love. She tells her mother that she has no interest in ever having a boyfriend, and her mother asks if she thinks she's a ... but that's not the case either. Aviva just wants to have a baby, and sets out to do so.

I said that this movie is difficult, and here's how: the part of Aviva is played by eight different actresses.

Sometimes she's a bit homely, sometimes, she's quite pretty (ironically played by a boy at these times). Sometimes she's an obese black woman. Sometimes she's played by a haggard looking Jennifer Jason Leigh. But she's always a 13-year-old girl and she always has the same personality.

Roger Ebert, I believe, completely missed the mark in his review of the movie. Aside from misinterpreting the plot, he seems to believe the movie is a statement about the abortion issue. He writes, "We look for a clue in the movie's title. A 'palindrome' is a word which is spelled the same way forward and backward: Aviva, for example, or madam or racecar. Is Solondz saying that it doesn't matter which side of the issue we enter from, it's all the same and we'll wind up where we started?" Then he goes on to talk about Teri Schaivo.

I think the point of the movie rests in a monologue delivered by Mark Wiener, Dawn's brother. Mark, now a balding, wrinkled adult with the exact same personality he exhibited in Dollhouse, tells Aviva, "People always end up the way they started out. No one ever changes. They think they do, but they don't. If you're the depressed type now, that's the way you'll always be. If you're the mindless happy type now that's the way you'll be when you grow up. You might lose some weight, your face might clear up, get a body tan, a breast enlargement, a sex change ... makes no difference. Essentially, from in front, from behind, whether you're 13 or 50, you'll always be the same."

The point, it seems to me, is that Aviva can't blame her problems on being pretty or ugly, black or white, boy or girl. It's who she is that matters. And she can't hope to change that.

Which leads me to the question that's driving me nuts: Is Mark Wiener a reliable character? Are we supposed to accept his voice as truthful, or are we supposed to reject him? I can't figure it out.

It may seem like I've given a lot about this movie away, but I really haven't. There's all kinds of subplots and weird characters who lend to the entire story. If nothing else, the movie is worthwhile just for watching two adults, five girls (one of whom is about 6) and one boy portray the same 13-year-old girl. And for me, a gigantic fan of Welcome to the Dollhouse, it was worth it to see another side of that movie, to see some of the characters as they aged, and to hear them speak again in a differnet context.

Anyway, if you've seen Palindromes, let me know what your take is. It isn't a straightforward movie by any means.

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Warning: That title may be a bit deceiving. The sandwiches I'm about to describe only seem gross. In real life, they are manna from heaven.

Open-Faced Mystery Meat & Cheese
When I was a kid, this sandwich was one of my favorite meals. I would request it all the time, and it was a mighty special day when my mom got out the broiling pan and set to work on these babies. Which shows you the kind of ghetto upbringing I had.

OK, here's how they're made. You take a bunch of hamburger buns, separate them, and put them crust-side-down on a broiling pan. Crank the oven up to "broil." On top of each bun, put a slice of Spam and a slice of Velveeta. Then put them under the broiler until the whole thing is melty and toasty. I haven't had one of these things since I was about 11, so I can't vouch for its goodness. I liked Spaghetti-Os back then, too, so consider the source.

The Mashed Potato Pancake Sandwich
When I got a bit older, this became one of my favorite meals. There were few times when all the elements came together, but when they did, oh boy.

See, as most people know, teenagers often get incredible hormonal fits of uncontrollable hunger. If you're 15, it's no big thing to sit down and eat an entire box of Cinnamon Life. But no matter how hungry you are, this sandwich can fill you up in a matter of seconds.

Whenever my mom made a lot of mashed potatoes, she'd make these sort of pancake things out of the leftovers and fry them in butter. They were delicious. But on the rare occasion that we had leftover mashed potato pancakes, as well as leftover meatloaf, man I was in for a special treat. A mashed potato pancake, a slice of meatloaf, and some ketchup on bread. That's an entire homecooked meal in sandwich form. And sooooo good. Whenever I finished one, I'd want another right away, but there's no way I could ever eat two.

The Monte Cristo
Just a few months ago, I was at a diner with a friend of mine who was taking a long time to choose an item from the menu. I announced that I was just going to order something I'd never heard of, ask no questions about it, and just accept it when it came. I'd never heard of a Monte Cristo, so I ordered that.

"Just so you know," the waitress said, "we don't deep-fry our Monte Cristo. And we serve it with plain jelly, not fruit sauce." What the hell was I getting myself into?

Later I did some research. A true Monte Cristo is a ham and turkey sandwich which is then dipped in a egg-based batter and deep fried. As the waitress indicated, it's usually served with a sauce made out of currents.

The Monte Cristo I got was amazing. It was a ham and turkey sandwich, with Swiss cheese, served on French toast. That sounds disgusting but it was fantastic. I didn't bother with the jelly, as I hate jelly and jam in all forms. I should mention that this was at the Park Place diner, which doesn't exist anymore, and that they made the greatest French toast in the world, so that may have altered my experience some.

Sometime I would like to try a real Monte Cristo. If my arteries could handle it, that is.

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In the opening scenes of Hardcore (1979), we see idyllic winter shots of children sledding in a typical Midwestern town. It is Christmas, and after the titles, we enter the happy home of a devoutly Christian family. There's the turkey, there's the caroling around the piano, there's the happy children.

The Van Dorn family is large, and it's a little confusing at first what the dynamics are. Dick Sargent (the second Darrin from TV's Bewitched) appears to be one of the family patriarchs, but George C. Scott (the general from Dr. Strangelove) is the man at the head of the table. He does not have a wife, but he does have a teenage daughter, Kristen.

We learn that shy little Kristen is headed on a church trip to California, and when she gets on the bus, the whole Van Dorn clan is there to wish her goodbye. A few days later, George C. Scott gets a phone call saying that Kristen is missing. No one knows where she went. A trip to California and a talk with the police leads nowhere. The only thing to do is hire Peter Boyle (Raymond's dad from Everybody Loves Raymond) as a private investigator.

Weeks pass. Eventually Peter Boyle ends up in the Midwest. He takes George C. Scott for a walk, and asks him if he knows what hardcore pornography is. I think you know where this is going, sort of. Boyle then takes the oblivious Scott to a XXX theatre and shows him -- with no verbal preparation mind you -- a porno film starring his very own daughter. The scene progresses predictably.

So here's where the film really begins. Scott must descend into the bowels of Los Angeles and into the inner workings of the porno industry so that he may find Kristen. And it is indeed gritty and lurid. We meet the people who make the stuff, and it is hardcore indeed.

These days, porn is ubiquitous. But I imagine that in 1979 you could live your life without ever encountering it. "It's legal in all 50 states," the Peter Boyle character says, dating the film severely. Also, these days, I think a movie about the seedy side of porn would probably work a lot harder to shock you, when it doesn't even have to, because in the glaring light of day, porn by its very nature is shocking and disgusting. You want to see people having sex? Well, here you go. You want to see something sick? OK, that's easy, too. You want to see something sicker than you can even imagine? Well, it'll cost you, but it exists. What makes it shocking is that these actually are real people in the real world.

My point is that Hardcore doesn't really work that hard to shock, yet it still does, and I think that is its value. It shocks with common sense facts. Here's George C. Scott in a peep-show booth. What do you think the condition of the booth is?

When David Lynch made Blue Velvet, he said that all film is voyerism, and that was his approach with making movies. You want to know about the things you are afraid to delve into. It's a natural curiosity. While Hardcore certainly isn't as good as Blue Velvet, its appeal is the same principle. You certainly don't want to go there and you definitely don't want to see for yourself, but you do want to know. So here it is.

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Chasing Windmills is a simple yet extremely addictive videoblog out of Minneapolis, and I'm love with it.

In the same way that I (among others) object to vlogs being called "video podcasts," I also (in a pickier way) object to vlogs being thought of simply as blogs on video -- because that is a limiting thought. Video on the internet can be anything, and just because our culture is currently obessed with reality and memoir and the like, that doesn't mean we can't add some fiction as well as some slick editing and some well-acted scenes, because the end result (the "product" -- see?) is untruthful by its very nature anyway.

Crossing Windmills shows quasi-real depictions of mundane life, much like Jim Jarmusch's movie Stranger Than Paradise. We see a typical couple. They watch bad movies. They fret about their looks. They go grocery shopping. Stories are told, but not really. It's all the general mish-mosh of life.

So watch. Subscribe. Patiently await the next episode. I do.

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You can call me a late bloomer if you want, but I've recently discovered that the Who fucking rocks. Like any good West Duluth kid, I loved the classic rock while I was growing up. Mainly I loved Led Zeppelin, and quite a few of the 60s-70s "hard rock" bands enjoyed heavy rotation on my boom box, and later my CD changer. The one band I felt that I should love, but couldn't, was the Who. I'd put 'em on and I just didn't get it. But all of that has changed, baby.

I liked Zeppelin because of their super-cool lyrics and because of Jimmy Page's guitar work. And while the Who has none of that, they rock so, so much harder. It's difficult to imagine a band that could possibly rock harder than the Who.

See, while it's very, very cool to reference Gollum in your lyrics, and to rip off obscure greats like Robert Johnson (if you're gonna rip someone off why not rip off the best), and to play 20-minute ballads about knights and vikings that make you actually want to listen to them in their entirety, rock ain't about that shit. It's about picking up the guitar and kicking some goddam ass.

One of the things that has me jaded about Zeppelin is that I'm sick to death of Robert Plant's vocal stylings. All the ooo-ooo-ooos and push-push-pushes are tiresome after awhile. I feel the same way about Guns N Roses and that ego-case Axl Rose. I loved that band as a teenager, but I just can't listen to that kind of showboating any more. Someone needs to cover those bands immediately, so that I can enjoy those songs once again. They're bitchen songs.

Something I will never get tired of, however, is the way Roger Daltry screams "YEEEEEEAAAAAAAAH!!!" at the end of "Won't Get Fooled Again."

What does it mean to "rock"? Rock is something that is understood by the lowest, most reptilian part of the brain. It raises goosebumps on your skin and makes you want to drink, fight and fuck. But there's no way you could define it and put it into a formula.

"Baba O'Riley" is the definition of rock. There is a great scene in one of my top-5 favorite movies, Summer of Sam, where the soundtrack is "Baba O'RIley" and all the craziest shit is going down. It is spectacular.

And speaking of the Who in movies & TV, probably the best episode of Freaks & Geeks is when Lindsay wants to see the Who in concert. Her dad wants to know if they play wild music and and Sam points out that The Guinness Book of World Records lists the Who as the loudest band in the world.

That's rock, my friend.

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If I could endorse one product and one product alone, I would have no trouble choosing. I endorse Abreva, without hesitation.

But let me back up.

Since the age of five when I naively put my mouth on a public drinking fountain, I have been a sufferer of cold sores. Now, before you get all excited about making a comment about how "cold sores" is just another name for oral herpes, let me save you the trouble. I know this. Everyone knows this.

Some of you may remember last year when I had an outbreak, and I slept for more than 50 hours in three days. This happens to me. I don't just get the crusty sore: I also get feverish, and I feel as if someone has drained about half the blood from my body. This really jerks my frog, because it's only about 20% of the carriers that have recurring outbreaks to begin with. Not only do I get the sores, I also get sick. Thankfully, it usually only happens once or twice a year.

Anyway, a few days ago I felt that familiar tingle, and as directed, I immediately applied Abreva. This is the first time I've ever done that. Last year was the first time I'd heard of the product, and then it was a few days after the cold sore started to set in. This time, it was a matter of minutes.

BAM! That fricken thing is history. It got a bit red, blistered a little, and then just melted away. I was prepared for about 10 days of virus-induced ugliness. Instead, I only have to deal with the usual ugliness. Such as the shirt I'm currently wearing. And of course, I'm still exhausted and weak and I just want to sleep even though it's a rare day off for me and it's warm and sunny outside.

Finally I'd like to point out that if I'm not glamorous, fashionable, female, or animated enough to talk to you about cold sores, then maybe you should check out Hot Tips From Tina Dot Com. She wants colds sores "to go away, like, yesterday."

Double You Tee Eff.

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Every October, I like to write a little something about horror movies. I watch them all year long and I've been obsessed with them all my life, but a lot of people only watch them during the Halloween season. Which is natural. I guess.

This time, I'm not going to tell you about mundane things like how you really need to re-watch the original A Nightmare on Elm Street, and how Johnny Depp is hilarious in it, and how I still have the hots for Heather Langenkamp, even though people in the know have told me that in real life she's somewhat less than dreamy.

I'm going to tell you about the movies that either scared the bejeezus out of me, or else disturbed me to no end.

There WILL be spoilers. You have been warned.

OK. Here we go.

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

I never saw (no pun intended) the 2003 remake, as I really don't believe in remakes, especially of movies that were incredibly successful to begin with. As a whole, I became really engaged in the characters of this movie, which is what makes a horror film horrible. Not many people realize that; it has nothing to do with special effects or surprise endings. The audience has to care about the characters, so that anything that happens to them affects the audience on a gut level. (Stephen King is the master of this. He tells a regular story about intriguing people...then, BAM! he drops in a smidgen of the most gruesome horror. It's sadistic of him, it really is.)

Anyhow, I think this movie attracted a lot of attention because of the extreme gore and whatnot, and then it inspired the whole slasher genre, which is some of the worst horror ever since it ignores the stuff that makes horror scary to begin with.

My point is, however, the gore of Texas Chainsaw never really got to me so much. What nailed me was the ending.

The scene is a deserted highway at dawn, where there has been a high-speed chase that resulted in a crash. There is, I think, one or two survivors left. They are begging for their lives, as the sun is coming over the horizon. The last remaining cannibal, Leatherface, cuts them apart with his chainsaw in the middle of the road, then swings the saw triumphantly around his head as we hear its incessant buzzing.

Roll credits.

This is one of the only horror movies I can think of where evil prevails in the end, except for all the cheesy endings which are obviously a setup for a sequel.

Ringu

Here's a HUGE pet peeve of mine: for the past several years, Japan has been putting out incredibly awesome horror movies. And Hollywood has been reshooting and repackaging them. Apparantly, we can't handle subtitles, movies without superstars (though I love Naomi Watts) or movies without love interests.

I thought The Ring was incredible, until I saw Ringu

Once again, it is about the characters. Ringu is about a divorced woman, a reporter, who is investigating strange cirmcumstances involving a video tape being passed around by teenagers. When you watch the tape, you get a mysterious phone call. Seven days later, you die.

Without revealing too much, the woman's interest in the story results in the endangerment of a loved one. She enlists the help of her ex-husband (this is an incredibly true-to-life detail that Hollywood just couldn't cope with) to investigate the story. The result is bizarre and horrifying.

Here's an interesting note. In Western horror, the evil person is always male. In Eastern horror, the evil person is always female.

Also, if you are familiar with Ringu, and would like to see a hilarious video of a bunch of Japanese teenage girls watching the climax from the movie, shoot me an e-mail and I'll give you the link.

28 Days Later

OK, this movie turned my stomach. It wasn't the fast and crazy zombies that freaked me out. It was the non-zombie humans.

Released in 1968, Night of the Living Dead was a movie about a group of strangers locked in a farmhouse surrounded by zombies. We witnessed their tension as their personalities clashed under extreme pressure. It was great entertainment.

28 Days Later had to go and make the whole thing realistic.

Here, we have not only zombies (created by a virus released into the population by animal-rights extremists) but even worse, we have ordinary people responding to anarchy. One thing I will always remember about Alexandr Solzhenitsyn's account of Stalin's concentration camps is that (to paraphrase) good people did not survive.

In 28 Days Later, we have several conflicts. 1) Zombies want to kill people. 2) People cannot get along. 3) The people with the most power (i.e. soldiers) demand something in exchange for protection (i.e. sex slaves).

The whole thing is shot on digital video, which just makes it more realistic and therefore even grosser. I saw this movie in the theater and literally felt nauseous afterward. It's not good to take horror TOO far.

Twin Peaks

Now don't get me wrong: Every episode of Twin Peaks is spectacular (well, except those that were directed by Diane Keaton -- those are wretched). But there's one moment in Twin Peaks that made (and still makes) my soul leap out of my skin. It's the moment when Laura Palmer's mom realizes who her daughter's killer is.

She's going crazy. She has a flashback, which she doesn't quite understand. She remembers the morning her daughter went missing, and mentally retraces her steps. In her mind she goes upstairs, opens the door to Laura's room, finds that Laura isn't there...

... but barely ... just barely ... we see that hiding behind Laura's bed ... is ... BOB.

Holy Mother of Jesus. I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight.

I need to quit doing this now. Maybe I'll have more for you before the month ends. But these are the biggies. I'd like to hear yours, if you have 'em. Because I'm a masochist.

Just don't tell me you were scared of Friday the 13th. I'll lose all respect.

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OK, apparently no one is else is going to say it, so I guess I have to. Christ, I'm always the one to be the asshole. Well, I guess that's my lot in life.

STOP WEARING TRUCKER HATS, YOU FUCKING MORONS. THAT WENT OUT OF STYLE LIKE SIX YEARS AGO.

OK. Maybe I'm not the one to talk about this. I wear the same work clothes everyday, cuz I'm a fucking ADULT who busts his ass and gets covered with grease for a living, and then has to drink beer to cope with the awfulness of it. But I used to be heavily involved in the trends back about '98, '99, '00 when I was skinny and when I was young, and when I decided it was cool to buy the latest clothes. JESUS H! I still see kids downtown wearing the same crap I saw them wearing when I was in college, and that was like, 10 years ago.

Also, you think those track jackets at Target are cool? Check out this picture of Ben from Everything But the Girl. Think that's retro? That album is 10 years old. I wore that fucking jacket in middle school, bitch.

So, just knock it off. Or, rather, stop knocking it off. Trucker hats, tight sweaters, bowling shoes, track jackets: out of style as of 1999.

Baggy pants, wallet chains? Out of style as of 1997

Technicolor hair, out of style as of 1983.

Irony: out of style as of right now.

Why can't you kids come up with your own style? Let's see something from this century. Please.

PS: Yes, I'm going to regret this post when I have kids of my own. But for now...

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I want to talk about this album, because it's been one of my favorites for about 12 or 13 years, and because I have always known that whatever it is about this album that appeals to me, it will not translate to others at all. I would never recommend this album to anyone, and I would never make a copy of it or put any of the songs on a mix. Yet I have been obsessed with it for over a third of my life.

The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking was the first solo album from Roger Waters after he split up wth Pink Floyd, and in fact, Roger Waters presented the idea to his bandmates at the same time he presented them with The Wall, but they rejected it. Like many of the Pink Floyd releases, this album is a "concept album." Each of the songs titles is a time followed by a parenthetical subtitle, beginning with the first track, "4:30 A.M. (Apparently They Were Travelling Abroad)" and ending with "5:11 A.M. (The Moment of Clarity)" The songs unfold in real time, and tell the story of a man having a dream.

It's a dumb idea, yes. Yet somehow, Roger Waters convinced Eric Clapton to rip it up on guitar, which he does incredibly.

The dream starts with the man and his wife travelling on a road trip through Germany. They pick up a couple of hitch hikers, and somehow, when the wife and the guy hitch hiker fall asleep, the guy screws the hot girl hitch hiker. We hear the great/stupid line:

"Fixed on the front of her Fassbinder face was the kind of a smile that only a rather dull child could have drawn while attempting a graveyard in the moonlight."

Suddenly, then, we're thrust into a chase scene with "Arabs with Knives at the Foot of the Bed," which somehow eventually morphs into a great single, "4:41 A.M. (Sexual Revolution)," that contains the ultra-sexy line:

"Hey, girl, as I've always said I prefer your lips red, not what the good Lord made, but what he intended."

And yet ends with the line:

"I awoke in a fever
the bedclothes were all soaked in sweat.
She said 'You've been having a nightmare,
and it's not over yet.'
She picked up the doggie in the window,
the one with the waggily tail,
and she put him to bed
between two bits of ... bread."

WTF? After the word, "bread," we hear the sound of the woman eating a sandwich. I repeat, WTF?

"4:50 A.M (Go Fishing)" is by far my favorite song on the album, and even prompted me to take a road trip to Devil's Tower back in 1996. In this portion of the dream, the man packs up his wife and kids, and "a trunk full of books about everything: about solar devices and how nice natural childbirth is," and moves to the wilderness of Wyoming. They build a cabin, and rough it:

"We cut down some trees, and trailed our ideals through the forest glade. We dammed up the stream and the kids cooled their heels in the fishing pool we made. We held hands and we exchanged bands and we practically lived off the land."

Things soon go south for the young couple, however. The kids catch bronchitis, which probably marks the first and only time the word "bronchitis" is ever used in a rock song. The wife has an affair with a "friend from the east, rot his soul." The couple splits up, they abandon the cabin, and the man sets out on the road, hitch hiking of course.

After the song with the best title, "4:58 A.M. (Dunroamin, Duncarin, Dunlivin)," we get another single, "5:01 A.M. (The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking)" wherein we meet a Hell's Angel (portrayed on the album by Jack Palance, who at the time this album was recorded was also aptly hosting "Ripley's Believe it or Not" on TV) and a housewife from Encino with "sweet vodka and tobacco on her breath ... another number in your little black book." The man thinks about suicide, encouraged by Yoko Ono, despite that fact that he is "too scared and too good-looking." After some samples from the movie Shane, we're ready for the denoument.

Aside from the generaly weirdness of it and the rippin' Clapton guitar work, there's also the ongoing, barely audible dialogs provided by Palance and a crew of actors, not to mention the female background singers, sound effects, and even more general weirdness.

Since releasing Pros and Cons, Waters has put out two other albums: the severely dated Radio K.A.O.S which doesn't do it for me despite the fact that it contains the greatest verse ever*, and Amused to Death, which by all appearances seems to be about watching TV. He has a new album due out at the end of this month. You can bet I'll buy it as soon as it's available. And you can bet it will be unintelligible, difficult to listen to, and weirder than hell. Who are these albums made for? Me, I guess.

I'm not proud of that.

* "You wake up in the morning, get something for the pot.
Wonder why the sun makes the rocks feel hot.
Draw on the walls, eat, get laid.
Back in the good old days.

Then some damn fool invents the wheel.
Listen to the whitewalls squeal.
You spend all day looking for a parking spot.
Nothing for the heart. Nothing for the pot."

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I have to admit that when I ordered this album, I was pretty damn drunk. However, the reasoning behind my order was sound. I loved the Wanda Jackson tribute album, Hard-Headed Woman, put out by Bloodshot Records. And my favorite track on the album was easily "Weary Blues from Waiting" by Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter. That night, sitting at my computer, listening to this song, I couldn't believe that I didn't have any Jesse Sykes albums. So I ordered one.

And completely forgot about it.

When it arrived, I tried to remember what I had ordered in a drunken state (which is how I order most of the things I get through the mail). I knew it was something awesome. Then it hit me. I tore the sucker open, eager to hear the sweet, sexy voice of Jesse Sykes.

Man, was I disappointed.

See, "Weary Blues from Waiting" is a great song originally performed by one of my favorite artists. And when Jesse Sykes sings it in her weird husky drawl, backed by guitarist Phil Wandscher of another of my favorite bands, Whiskeytown, and violinist Anne Marie Ruljancich, who has worked with yet another of my favorite bands, The Shins, it's just exquisite. Every line is delivered with a velvet hammer blow; I can't stop my mind from repeating "The snow falls out my window/But it can't chill my heart/God knows it died the day you left/And my dreamworld fell apart."

So the build-up was great, and at that particular moment, in the hubbub of a gorgeous day with happiness all around me and the bright afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window, the reality fell short. But I wasn't ready to give up.

Sitting in a desk chair, hunched over, pouring over the lyrics sheet is simply not the way to listen to Jesse Sykes. It wasn't how I fell in love with her Wanda Jackson cover, and it certainly didn't work for this album. I gave it a few days. And then I listened to it again, at 4am, drinking coffee next to a dim light, dreading the thought of going to work. And this time, yes, it was beautiful.

A person could compare Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter to a lot of other bands. Mazzy Star immediately comes to mind, as does Iron & Wine, Cowboy Junkies and Wilco. It's "dark Americana" music--dreamy, sad, and, yes, slightly prententious, with a countrified edge.

Sykes' voice is what holds it all together. Somewhere back in the recesses of my memory, I recall the notion that Anglo-Saxon ballads evolved into country/western music by way of the people who sailed across the Atlantic and then headed off into the Appalaichan wilderness to live life on their own. They brought the old music, they brought the old culture, and they kept it alive. A native of Upstate New York, Sykes' accent is at once hillbilly and UK, bringing to mind Billy Bragg's renditions of Woody Guthrie songs that he did for Mermaid Avenue.

This isn't music for just any time. But at the right time, it's luscious. And perfect.

When a good friend of mine described Sufjan Stevens as "bridging the gap between arty and wacky," and "hometown proud," (this last uttered in a breathless sigh of admiration) I knew it was worth hopping over to the iTunes Music Store to hear some samples of his latest album. Boy am I glad I did.

You know that saying about roller-skating through the art museum? How, if the painting doesn't grab you in the time it takes to roll past it, you shouldn't be interested? That's how I feel about Sufjan Stevens. Ten seconds into my first 30-second sample clip, I knew I was going to buy this album. (Luckily, I chose "Chicago," which is a single currently being played on college radio.)

Entitled Sufjan Stevens Invites You to Come On Feel the Illinoise, this album is currently driving me insane with its awesomeness. Reviewers always make musical comparisons when they talk about new music, and if I were to do that, my comparisons would be:

1. Stereolab (Sufjan employs choirs, trumpets, xylophones, and rounds, but not always)
2. Iron & Wine (the soft singing style is quite similar)
3. Devendra Banhart (funky name and long, long song titles; my favorite is "To the Workers of the Rock River Valley Region, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament, and it Involves an Inner Tube, Bath Mats, and 21 Able-Bodied Men")
4. The Postal Service/Death Cab for Cutie (that whole arty-but-poppy thing)

Illinoise is Sufjan's third album, and the second in a 50-album series about the 50 states. Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lakes State was the first, and you can bet it's on my wish list.

Right now, I listen to Illinoise in two ways. The first is to just put it on as I'm doing other things, and during these times, I like the upbeat songs the best, songs like "Chicago" and "Casimir Pulaski Day." But when I really listen, I like the soft acoustic songs, which are somewhat -- no ... very -- creepy.

"John Wayne Gacy, Jr." is nightmarish tribute to one of the worst serial killers who ever lived. "He dressed up like a clown for them, with his face-paint white and red. And on his best behavior, in a dark room on a bed, he kissed them all." The most lurid verse is the last one: "And in my best behavior, I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid."

My favorite song is "The Seer's Tower," a piece of American Gothic mythology that transforms the mundane into the phantasmigorical: "In a tower above the earth, there is a view that stretches far, where we see the universe, I see the fire, I see the end."

Another great song is "They are Night Zombies!! They are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back from the Dead!! Ahhhh!" which has the important historical figures of Illinois rising from their graves for fear of being forgotten: "We are awakened with the ax. Night of the Living Dead at last. They have begun to shake the dirt, wiping their shoulders from the earth." All the while, harmonizing women sing, "I-L-L-I-N-O-I-S." Could it get any better than this?

No. No, it couldn't. Buy this album. Now.
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Mark Madden, a 23-year-old shopkeeper, collects books, with a special interest in "the best books ever written by and for men." Nick Hornby's About a Boy, Chuck Palahnuik's Fight Club, and (with tongue in cheek, hopefully) David Bowker's From Stockport with Love rest in a special cabinet in his book shop. The shop, which Mark's father financed for him, is failing miserably. And by all standards of manhood, so is Mark. He is clumsy and obsessive-compulsive. Like his hero Rob Fleming from Nick Hornby's High Fidelity, he is prone to making top-five lists as a way of distancing himself from the world around him. At the age of 17, he walked in on his girlfriend, a drop-dead gorgeous girl named Caro, having sex with their art teacher. This is what you need to know.

So, at the age of 23, with ruin upon him, Caro steps back into his life with definite opinions of what it means to be a man: "As you know, I used to be into all that feminist shit," she said, blowing smoke across the table. "But now I think women have thrown the baby out with the bathwater. Sure, it's useful to have a man who can wash and iron clothes. It's also useful to have a man who keeps calm in a crisis. A man who would kill to protect his family."

Mark's father, whom Mark has always wanted to please, has a less diplomatic view: "You've got to fight your own battles in life," said Dad. "The only man you can depend on is you. Your grandfather worked in the stone quarries at Weymouth. Day after day, a dozen blokes breaking rocks with bloody big hammers. Now, they were hard men. There weren't any women there, women couldn't have done the job. You wouldn't have got Granddad talking about his feelings. He may have cried sometimes. If he did, he kept it to himself. That's what a man does. He does what he has to do."

And while Mark has this attitude in his soul and these words in his ears, the gorgeous Caro proposes this offer: That she, the one dream of his life, will finally be his, body and soul, if he will kill three men -- her father, her ex-boyfriend, and Jesus.

It's little to ask, really.

Bowker's writing style is light and fast, nimbly sketching unlikely characters and thrusting them into the crime genre. There is no complexity here, and that works because none is called for. At its root, this is a crime novel about an inept Bonnie & Clyde, and Bowker does a fantastic job of arranging its few elements with balance and artistry, not to mention humor.

The one hole in the book is the question I kept asking all along the way, which remains unanswered: What is it about Caro, aside from her looks, that makes her worth killing for? In most ways, she's downright dispicable. She shows no traces of the kind of loyalty she demands from Mark. And while Mark timidly learns to be a man of action instead of a man of words, no one ever brings up the second aspect of what it means to be a real man. Sure, a real man "does what he has to do," but also, he doesn't walk through life blindly following his prick.

This is a minor flaw, however, since it belongs more to the characters than it does to the writing. In fact, Bowker's talent for making us care about what happens to these ridiculous people is impressive.
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>> Starfire on Zip Zap Zop

I love Zip Zap Zop -- a daily news show hosted by a naked freak with a guitar. Today's episode features a question from our very own Starfire. Awesome.

>> New Addiction: Crash Test Kitchen

Crash Test Kitchen is a cooking vlog that's informative and entertaining. These people know what they're doing, but they're certainly not professionals.

>> New Discovery: This or That!

Finally, there's This or That! an independent burlesque game show with comedy strippers, rauchy games, and other forms of good, clean fun. Prolly not safe for work.
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It seems that while I'm out drinking and singing karaoke with my landlord and my ex-girlfriends, other people are making some fine Internet video art. This is vlogging the way it should be.

- Lordhelpus ... Bullemhead is back in Indiana for more huntin/fishin/cussin action.

- Ryanne's latest video is outstanding.

- Hello? posted a great video of Deva, an all-female Devo cover band. I'm so turned on.
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I'll be back with new posts as soon as I recover from watching this. Videoblogging at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. Oh, yeah, there's lots of profanity, so be careful.
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