What a Fool Believes

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Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:21:00 -0500

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Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:20:22 -0500

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Sun, 08 Nov 2009 13:19:49 -0500

Pavement Best-Of on the Way?

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 10:58:00 -0500

Pavement Best-Of on the Way?:

There are two rock and roll bands, who’ve released four or more albums - which I believe is the amount that would warrant consideration - that I can say without a doubt a Best of compilation is completely unnecessary and just plain wrong. Those bands are the Velvet Underground and Pavement.
You know what Pavement’s Greatest Hits are?
Everything.
Every work in their oeuvre is essential. You need all five of their studio albums, the early EPs collection Westing (By Musket & Sextant), and every other EP, every B-side, every Peel Session, every Session track, every Compilation track, etc., etc.
Everything.
Now I realize the argument for a Best of would be, ‘What about a primer for new fans? Something to get them interested in the band?’
To that I say how about Slanted and Enchanted? How about Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain? How about you just save up a bunch of money and buy everything? If someone has a modicum of interest, they should listen to a song online and if they like it, just get it all. It’s fuckin’ Pavement.

I was trying to think about what other bands - with the four albums or more rule - a Best of would be unnecessary/wrong. I didn’t come up with a whole lot. The Beatles’ early albums had tracks that were too similar to other songs they did or bands of that time. The Stones have been around for so damned long and made so many albums - most past Tattoo You having little more than a song or two to offer and their early albums, like the Beatles, have the band finding their way and making some missteps. Radiohead has Pablo Honey which, other than “Creep”, isn’t good. The Stooges, had they released the songs they had been working on post-Raw Power could have been included - I am pretending The Weirdness does not exist. The Talking Heads past Speaking in Tongues is quite spotty.
Another I came up with was the Pixies. Come On Pilgrim, Surfer Rosa, Doolittle, Bossanova, Trompe le Monde? You should have all of those.

Who am I missing?

Neon Shop

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 23:50:35 -0500

Neon Shop

Long Island City

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 23:47:46 -0500

Long Island City

Another Apology

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 12:08:55 -0500

We would like to apologize for our last two pieces: The Chanty Wrassler Roger Moore Goes to the Bank and Reasons Why Roger Moore Is a Jessy Bas. As stated in our previous apology, the next few pieces were to be written Roger Moore. This did not occur. Sean Connery, disguised as Roger Moore, snuck into our office and wrote the last two pieces. We are very disappointed with Mr. Connery’s deceitful and immature behavior. We extend our apologies to Mr. Roger Moore and understand why he has removed himself from our publication.
We have decided to no longer work with any authors who have played the character of James Bond. We admit to the idea being far too idiosyncratic and rather passé. Our apologies to Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and Daniel Craig. We will no longer be publishing your collaborative essay The 15 Sexiest Tailoresses in Portugal.

Thank you.

The Editors

Reasons Why Roger Moore Is a Jessy Bas

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 11:51:20 -0500

The bawbag’s from Stockwell which has nothing to offer but a boggin bus garage!
The daftie made a video with PETA that protested foie gras - which is ferr barry!
He farts aboot with Danish Royals! Danish!
His Bond was a wee feartie-cat and windae-licker!
Just swatch tha slumph!

Roger Moore enters.Roger Moore: Good evening.The Bank Teller...

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 11:27:05 -0500

Roger Moore enters.
Roger Moore: Good evening.
The Bank Teller looks up from desk.
Bank Teller: …
Roger Moore: I’m Roger Moore.
Bank Teller: …
Roger Moore: Charmed, I’m sure.
Bank Teller: Sir you cannot be in here without a shir—-
Roger Moore: Just being disarming, darling.
Bank Teller: …
Roger Moore: I would like to make a deposit. (Grins.) I imagine you can help me out with that.
Bank Teller: Sir, please. You will have to—-
Roger Moore: Provide my account number? 007.
Moore raises an eyebrow.
Bank Teller: Mr. Moore I’m going to have to ask you—-
Roger Moore: For my telephone number, darling?
Bank Teller: (Looks right.) Guard?
A Security Guard approaches Moore.
Roger Moore: Looking for a box, are we? This one won’t be a safe deposit.
Moore slowly throws a punch at the Guard. The Guard steps to the right and avoids.
Roger Moore: Check this, darling - I’m about to provide a routing number.
Moore slowly makes several karate chops at the Guard. The Guard avoids them all.
Roger Moore: (Panting, to the Guard.) I’ll just be going then. (To the Teller.) You’ve got my information on file, love. I register that we’ll be making a transaction tonight…around 8?
Bank Teller: …
Roger Moore exits.

Apology

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 10:26:55 -0500

We would like to apologize for our last piece George Lazenby: On Her Majesty’s Singular and Transitional Service. The piece was far too obscure and self-indulgent even for this establishment. The author of the piece, George Lazenby, has since been let go from his position. The next few pieces, to be written by Roger Moore, though not as action-packed, will be much more suave and sexy.

Thank you.

The Editors

George Lazenby: On Her Majesty's Singular and Transitional Service

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:38:00 -0500

George Lazenby, thanks to his portrayal of James Bond in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, has become known in pop culture as a symbol of singularity and transition, though most often in a derogatory sense. What most people do not know is that Lazenby has played several other singular, transitional roles in- and outside of the entertainment industry. Below are the five most interesting roles:

Host of E!’s Talk Soup for one month in late 2000 (between Hal Sparks and Aisha Tyler).
Vocalist for the legendary experimental rock band Can (between Malcolm Mooney and Damo Suzuki) for one song on the 1970 album Soundtracks. He provides “Scorpion Screams” on “Soul Desert”.
Husband of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis for one year (1966). The First Lady went by Jacqueline Kennedy Lazenby Onassis until 1971 when she developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from writing her name. The doctors told her she would have to remove at least one name to save her wrist. Lazenby got the axe.
Played the character of Becky Conner on the sitcom Roseanne for one episode in 1993 (between Lecy Goranson and Sarah Chalke). In a blonde wig he was a dead ringer for Goranson but the show just couldn’t continue with the “Becky has a cold” excuse to explain the much lower voice for more than an episode.
President of the United States of America (between Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford). It was shortly after he was sworn in by Chief Justice Warren Burger that the staff realized he was an Australian. With much reluctance, it was decided that Vice President Ford would have to woken up and sworn in now.

perpetua: Weezer with Kenny G“I’m Your Daddy”AOL Session...

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 12:16:00 -0500

perpetua:

Weezer with Kenny G
“I’m Your Daddy”
AOL Session 2009

Rivers Cuomo has Lil Wayne guest on his record, jams live in session with Kenny G, and is selling his new album as a bonus gift with a Weezer-branded Snuggie. He exists in a continuum of irony and non-irony so hilarious and confusing that if he’s not the new Andy Warhol, he’s at least rock’s answer to Jeff Koons.

I was waiting offstage at the AOL Session while Weezer tore…? - is that what people say? ‘Tore through’? I was waiting off stage while Weezer tore through “I’m Your Daddy” and you won’t believe it, but I, Kenny G, Grammy Award-winning soprano saxophonist and creator of the best-selling instrumental album of all-time, was nervous.
I’d played my part on this song a bunch of times. That wasn’t the problem. I knew I could just stroll out when it was my turn and solo sweetly all over their modern rock song. The problem was what Weezer’s Rivers Cuomo had suggested we do at the end of the song: high-five.
I was backstage in my dressing room breaking in a new reed when I heard a knock on the door. I told my assistant Sheila to answer it. It was Rivers.
‘Hello Kenny! Oh wow. Did you bring all of these - what kind of flowers are these?’
‘They are gladioli. Beautiful, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah. There’s so many of them.’
‘I always have two hundred of them in my dressing room before any performance. It’s in my rider. Their resemblance to my soprano saxophone inspires me and my playing.’
‘Wow. Um, so Kenny, I had an idea for the end of the performance.’
‘Oh?’ I shot a secret glance towards Sheila.
‘Yeah. I thought maybe we’d high-five after the song.’
‘Oh…uh, high-five?’
‘Yeah. Nothing crazy. Just a simple “up top”.’
‘Uh, sure, yeah. That’d be, uh, great.’
I smiled at him through the mirror and he left my dressing room. Immediately after I felt Sheila’s stare. I almost told her about my high-five-less existence but thought otherwise. She’d no doubt give me one of those pity laughs and think it her duty to teach me. No Kenny G, I thought, you’re flying solo on this one.
It was time for my solo and I strolled out onto the stage. My part was perfect of course but I was even more nervous than before. I hadn’t felt this way since my first jazz band performance at Franklin High.
The end of the song quickly approached, I adding a few graceful touches of sax along the way, and I hoped that my hair wasn’t becoming frizzy - which it does when I’m very nervous.
Then the song was over.
Rivers turned to me, grinning. During my solo I had made the decision to simply mimic what he did, so I turned to him, and grinned right back.
His hand went up. It hung there in the light awaiting mine. I raised my arm slowly.
Just tap your hand against his, Kenny G, I told myself.
But what if I mess it up?, I suddenly thought, doubt filling me and then turning to dread. I had to fight it.
YOU’RE KENNY G. YOU’RE KENNY G. YOU’RE KENNY G.
I pushed my hand forward towards his. They met gently, palm against palm.
I, Kenny G, just had my first high-five.

Shadowhands: Just say still for a moment, Burt. I’m not...

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 16:13:40 -0500

Shadowhands: Just say still for a moment, Burt. I’m not going to hurt you.
Burt: (Hidden behind a stack of books.) My parents said, ‘Never talk to strangers. Especially if they are nothing more than a pair of giant shadowhands.’
Shadowhands: Well your parents are very right, Burt, but I’m not a stranger. I’m Ol’ Shadowhands.
Burt: That does nothing to allay my fears. I think I will just continue to hide behind this stack of books until you leave.
Shadowhands: You don’t have to do that, Burt! Look at the sun setting on the ocean. Isn’t that beautiful? And the birds?
Burt: I think those are vultures.
Shadowhands: Wow, you’ve got great eyesight, little guy!
Burt: Yeah, I’m kind of known for it. ‘Burt with the Eyesight’ is what everyone calls me—-Wait! Why am I providing personal information to a pair of giant, hovering shadowhands?
Shadowhands: You’re being friendly. We’re being friendly. Now why don’t you just peek your adorable little mug out from behind that stack of books?
Burt: (To himself.) Why do I get the feeling that I’m in a World of Photoshop?
Shadowhands: What’s that little buddy?
Burt: What are you going to do if I peek my head out?
Shadowhands: I’m so glad you asked! I just want to make a heart with my hands, around your cute visage, and then take a photograph. It’s for a poster I’m making called ‘The Philosophy of Love’. With your face, my hand-heart, the sunset, the birds and the stack of books, it’ll be beautiful!
Burt: I don’t get it.
Shadowhands: Really? It seems pretty simple to me. I’m just taking your pic—-
Burt: No. I don’t understand why these parts equal ‘The Philosophy of Love’. If not completely incongruous they’re certainly trite.
Shadowhands: What’s that?
Burt: (Louder.) Why do these parts equal ‘The Philosophy of Love’?
Shadowhands: I still can’t hear you, bud.
Burt: (Peeks head around stack of books.) I said—-
Shadowhands makes a heart and takes a photograph.
Shadowhands: Gotcha!
Burt: Sonofabitch!

LIVE WRONG AND PROSPER -- THE BOOK!

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:40:00 -0500

livewrongandprosper:

Dear Tumblr Friends*,

I’m hoping to self-publish the book Live Wrong and Prosper: Your Morals for A Million, partly because this game never gets old to me and partly because I have a backlog of hundreds and hundreds of questions I’m excited to share with the world. I’m using Kickstarter to raise the money for publishing costs, and I’m asking for your help; by donating anything you can – even, say, $1.00 (and every donation is much appreciated) – I can get this book made. Plus, you get rewards – prizes of sorts – for giving! If you’ve enjoyed the blog at all – and I really, really hope you have – I hope you’ll give whatever you can to help me complete the book.

To check out my Kickstarter page and watch me ask random strangers on the street some Live Wrong and Prosper questions (Note: Apparently, most people would NOT eat a bowl of their own shit for $1M) please visit http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/easylover/live-wrong-and-prosperthe-book.

I appreciate any help, including just reblogging this.

Thanks,

Kali

* We are friends, aren’t we?

There are two things in this world that I support:
1.) The Production of Cheese
2.) The Arts
When I was 8 years old I was a part of a crew that heisted Picasso’s Guernica from the Reina Sofia in Madrid so that it could be displayed in the Oshkosh Public Museum. My class was going on a field trip there and I wanted my fellow third-graders to see something totally radical. They did. I spent the rest of the year in Juvy but it was worth it because I had supported The Arts.
I don’t have to steal anything to support Live Wrong and Prosper. Neither do you. Instead of reblogging that quote from 30 Rock and adding nothing more than ‘I luves that!’, reblog Kali’s post and send a few bucks her way for a clever, well-written and enjoyable blog and soon-to-be book.

T’Pau: “Heart and Soul” Main Entry:...

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 13:42:00 -0500

T’Pau: “Heart and Soul”

Main Entry: T’Pau
Pronunciation: \tɛ-paʊ\
Function: noun
Etymology: imitative
Date: 1987

1. The sound of a blow or explosion of nostalgia inside the mind: “Heart and Soul” came on the radio and T’PAU! memories of a trip to a water park as a child - the animated faces of the family sitting across from him on the giant innertube spinning down Cowabunga Cascade, the squishy sound of his fluorescent yellow aqua socks on the pathway, the smell of chlorine and fried foods battling for supremacy - flooded his mind.

Our Friendly Neighborhood Haunted House: Halloween at 648...

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 00:32:26 -0400

Our Friendly Neighborhood Haunted House: Halloween at 648 Humboldt St

Things You Should Know About Halloween

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 16:09:00 -0400

The holiday of Halloween began as the ancient festival of Samhain. Samhain was principally a harvest festival but was also a festival of the dead. The festival was begun in the middle ages by the odd pairing of Glenn Danzig and the Boston Celtics. Gaelic and Brythonic legend has it that the punk rocker and the basketball team were out at the pub, getting hammered and singing tawdry folk songs - like any other Tuesday - when Celtics team captains Larry Bird and Kevin McHale, sharing a Gaelic blunt, thought it would be pretty rad if they could do this dressed up in costumes. Danzig, always the Gothic one, added, in a poor Vincent Price impression, ‘Spoooooky costumes!’ The group continued to brainstorm and ‘get stormbrained’ that night and came up with the idea for a festival that would allow them to do just that. The festival went on every Tuesday for two months before the country got burnt out by it all and decided to hold it once a year. Danzig and the Celtics continued their own version every Tuesday at the pub.
In the film Halloween, by John Carpenter, the original ending had Laurie Strode, played by Jamie Lee Curtis, killing Michael Myers and removing his mask. In a nod to Edgar Allan Poe’s story The Murders in the Rue Morgue, Michael was revealed to be a monkey. PETA, of course, the big babies, threw a big fit during a screening because Strode cuts off the monkey’s head and punts it down the street and all the children trick-or-treating see it’s a monkey head when it stops rolling and hear Strode screaming, ‘Monkeys are evil! Monkeys are evil!’ and soon the neighborhood starts chanting that and then the chant turns into ‘Animals are evil. Animals are evil. Kill them before they kill us.’ and everyone flips out and goes after their pets. So Carpenter changed the villain into a psychotic, seemingly unstoppable man of pure evil. Ooh, scary.
Up until the 1930’s, when children went trick-or-treating, there being no such thing as candy yet, they would receive livestock.
Pope Innocent XII thought it would be ‘cheeky’ to dress as a witch on Halloween in 1693, at the height of the witch trials, during a trip to Salem, MA. The costume worked a little too well and he was burned at the stake.
Candy apples used to be given to trick-or-treaters until razor blades were found imbedded in some in Illinois in 1973. The blades were traced back to the home of Norman Walpern, who was promptly arrested by the police. During the interrogation of Mr. Walpern, the police found that he was suffering from psychosis. It was revealed that some of the neighborhood kids, always hungering for some sweets, were thought to be taking advantage of Walpern, dressing up everyday and going to his home as if it was Halloween. Walpern began to believe that these children were demons and would bring his soul to Hell unless he had sweets to give them. One day, he decided that he should try to kill the demons - since his social security was running out from the bags and bags and bags of mini-size candy bars he was buying - so he placed the blades in some candy apples. Luckily, none of the children were hurt, Walpern was sent to a psych ward and the Halloween decorations, which he had left up, and were the real reason the kids kept coming to his home, were removed.

Marcus Edward Trescothick was just your average leading batsman...

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 13:13:00 -0400

Marcus Edward Trescothick was just your average leading batsman for the Somerset County Cricket Club and Member of the Order of the British Empire. He managed impressive batting averages, participated in two England A tours, married a lovely bird in Trull, had two daughters and some land in Barbados. Just a normal English life.

But all of that changed one dark and stormy night in Bristol.

Trescothick and his Sabres of Somerset had just been trounced by the Gladiators of Gloucestershire CCC. It was truly an ugly match and Trescothick played especially poor. Some of his mates asked Trescothick to join them for dinner but he chose to be alone that night and lick his wounds.

After wandering around Bristol, a mist falling and the low-hanging clouds glowing eerily from the city lights, Trescothick could no longer ignore the rumblings in his stomach and found the first restaurant he could: the Bristol Tacoria.

The Tacoria was empty that night and filthy - Trescothick swore he saw a school of roaches flee into a crack in the wall as he entered. Despite its dilapidated, nearly grotesque appearance, he sat down and ordered anyway, far too hungry now to change his mind.

As soon as Trescothick left the Tacoria his stomach began doing a poorly-practiced gymnastics routine, tumbling into the neighboring organs and twisting itself up. In an alleyway just blocks from the hotel, Trescothick succumbed to the pain in his guts, falling to the ground. What he thought was possibly food poisoning was in fact something far worse.

The veins in Trescothick’s forearms rose in his skin and pulsated, looking like the bolts of lightning that now lit up the Bristol night, as the pain in his stomach began to move out into his hands. The blood in his veins was now the same iridescent green as the guacamole in his platter. Trescothick screamed in agony, nearly overpowering the thunder, as his hands began to morph before his eyes. His hands, that so deftly swung a cricket bat, that lovingly caressed his wife, that cradled his newborn daughters, turned into tacos.

The taco platter Marcus Trescothick had consumed at the Bristol Tacoria was radioactive. Over the next few months he saw doctors, and even shaman, desperately searching for a cure. But there was nothing to be done. Trescothick could have given up at this point. He and his taco hands could have put a gun in his mouth or a noose around his neck and ended it all. But he didn’t. Because not only did that radioactive taco platter change his hands to tacos but it gave him other new traits: a sense of smell so strong he could know what someone was eating a mile away and the ability to break gale-force wind. Trescothick knew that he couldn’t squander these abilities. No, he had to use them for good. Marcus Trescothick had to become a hero.

That’s how the superhero Los Manos del Tacos, Defender of All Things Delicioso, was born.

Virginia Woolf - A Haunted House

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 11:20:09 -0400

Virginia Woolf - A Haunted House:

One of my favorite short stories and one appropriate for the holiday - though by no means a traditional ghost story. This is a haunted house, like one you may visit this holiday, where you have to figure your way through it, though it’s not filled with frightening pitch-black corridors but shimmering poetic passages. This is a haunted house with ghosts but they are peaceful, looking affectionately upon the living, loving residents who currently inhabit it. This is a haunted house that will startle you with mellifluous lines like ‘Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain.’ This is a haunted house whose beauty is what’s frightening.

nevver: Are we there yet? Bankston: I’m gonna fuck some...

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 13:04:00 -0400

nevver:

Are we there yet?

Bankston: I’m gonna fuck some people up when I get outta here! I swear to God.
Willoughby: (Whispers.) Chill out for Christ’s sake, will ya? You see these holes all around us?
Bankston: Yeah. I been wishin’ they was bigger so I could stick my beak out and be like BLAOW!
Willoughby: (Whispers.) Shut yer beak! Those are air holes. So who’s ever out there can hear us if we’re too loud.
Bankston: (Louder.) Good! I want those bitches to hear—-
Willoughby slaps a flipper over Bankston’s beak.
Bankston: (Muffled.) MMMHHHRRRAAAFFF!
Willoughby: (Flipper still over Bankston’s beak. Whispers.) Now if you keep yer goddamned mackerel-stinkin’ trap shut I’ll tell you the plan. Will ya do that?
Bankston nods. The pair continue in a whisper.
Willoughby: Alright.
Willoughby removes his flipper.
Bankston: You talk about my mackerel-stinkin’ trap? Your flipper smells like some stank squid dude.
Willoughby smacks Bankston on the side of the head with his flipper.
Bankston: (Loud.) Christ!
Willoughby smacks Bankston on the side of the head with his flipper again.
Willoughby: What’d I tell ya? Keep yer beak shut.
Bankston: Ow. Alright, alright. Sorry. What’s the plan?
Willoughby: Ok, listen closely.
Bankston: I ain’t really got a choice in this fuckin’ box now do I?
Willoughby: I ain’t talkin’ about just hearin’. You, especially you, need to listen, to really think about what I’m gonna tell ya. Got it?
Bankston: Yeah, yeah. Let’s hear it.
Willoughby: So this box is gonna get put down eventually and somebody’s gonna open it, right?
Bankston: That would—-
Willoughby: That’s a rhetorical question krillbrain. Where was I? Right. Now somebody’s gonna open this box. And we? We gotta be ready for that. This is what we do - when the box gets put down, we play dead. When they open the box, the sonsabitches’ll see us and be stunned for a minute, thinkin’ we bit it. In that minute, when these bastards are tryin’ ta use their stupid kidnappin’ noggins, I jump up and blast them with my laser.
Bankston’s beak drops.
Bankston: You’ve gotta laser? This whole fuckin’ time, in this little cardboard box, you got a…a fuckin’ laser and you didn’t tell me? (Louder.) You gotta be—
Willoughby slaps his flipper over Bankston’s beak.
Willoughby: Shut yer beak, you goddamned ice-humpin’ sonofabitch. Of course I gotta laser on me. What am I a fuckin’ idiot? I ain’t. And that’s why I ain’t shootin’ it off yet without knowin’ what were dealin’ with and where we are. Got it?
Bankston, Willoughby’s flipper still over his beak, nods.
The cardboard box is placed on the ground.
Willoughby: Shit. Here we go buddy boy. Act like your wife after you ask her for a piece.
Bankston falls over in the box, playing dead. Willoughby laughs and then joins him, the laser hidden underneath his flipper.
The box is opened.