Wednesday, December 24, 2008

My Two Santas

Happy Holidays one and all!

Two of my favourite "Santas" of all time:

1. Santa Reed





This is quite possibly the best clip on YouTube so I hardcore encourage you to watch it in its entirety. I'm convinced that half of the view hits are from me as I worship at the altar of Ollie, and can never get enough.


2. Santa Mascis



People would say that J looks more like a Gandalf the White doused in a vat of Essence du Thrift Store, but since he has been gifting the world with quality music for what seems like an eon, I think the Santa comparison is more apropos. Now if I could just get someone to gift me with J's signature model Jazzmaster...did you hear that? That's the sound of a hint dropping.

Hell, at this point, I'll take the girlie-gurl Daisy Rock bass that lovely Lou is hawt-rawkin' in the above pic...I'm sure Thurston M. is mad he didn't think of this first. The race to transform something from lame-o to primo is a competitive one indeed.


J Mascis Signature Model Jazzmaster, unveiled Summer 2007


They need to make a stocking big enough to fit a guitar in. I'm sick as fuck of the yearly Lifesavers Sweet Storybook.

Season's Greetings!

Currently listening to/watching: The Dusty Towne Christmas Special, SCTV

Sunday, December 21, 2008

You Disappoint, Urban Outhouse Shitters

If the Monopoly man was a hipster dude, he would jampack hipster hotels and Urban Outfitters on Boardwalk. The hipster market would feel quite at home at this most prestigious bit of real estate, as there doesn't seem to be an issue with accepting a $50.00 price tag on a cheap, cotton, and mass-manufactured T-shirt featuring Jimmie Walker exclaiming "Dynamite!"

No. "Dyna-rip-off!"

Who needs anymore Indiana Jones sequels when one can walk into a real live Temple of Doom seven days a week, shopping hours permitting? Urban Oufitters is fucked up like Jerry's kids, where you can buy a book that will tell you that saying fucked up like Jerry's kids is awesome for shawsome (that's in there too).

Fuck. The joy of being a pop culture junkie is in the unique, individual, and often accidental ways we stumble upon really fascinating stuff. Here the Indiana Jones parallel comes into positive play...you feel like an archaeologist...you can almost feel like you've discovered something put on this earth solely for you. Foolish and misguided thoughts indeed, but the fun is in the denial that millions of people already caught and sailed the boat long before you got there...

I don't want shit laid out for me by some dickwad buyer or merchandiser who is working towards a degree in media studies, and working their way through the White Album, wondering where the hit singles are. I don't want my tastes to be dictated by the iPod shuffle generation, thanks very much, and no, I won't be taking that $100 book that tells me I need to listen to Burt Bacharach before I die. Me and Burt are already good and firm, thanks to the vinyl bins at Goodwill.

So why this rant? One of the oldest reasons in the book. A glimmer of hope extinguished. I went in there to find some tube sox (I figured they would be a shoo-in for the long ones with retro racing stripes) and while I was browsing, some pretty incredible music came on. Wow, cool, maybe I will take away something infinitely more substantial than a pair of socks. So I asked the saleshipster what was playing. She gave me a dumbfounded look and said she would check. I was pretty baffled, I thought that was part of the gig, as a representative of hipsterdom, she would be required to know. Long story short, she didn't know. She came back and said that she couldn't find the CD cover and that the CDs were just blank-labeled company burned copies. Well, yeah, I felt burned by the company alright, and by the blank-label of a facial expression worn by their employee.

Damn. So I never got to find out which band was making this great music. I'm not about to go into a music store and ask the clerk, "you know this song? It goes...la la la la la shoo bee doo, etc." I've been on the receiving end of those requests, and after I Shawshanked my way outta record retail I vowed I would never subject that sort of torture on those still in the record racket. Feigning excitement day after day over those creepy Jonas Brothers (Jonai?) must be torture enough.

The Judas Brothers... selling out and wiping out the momentum of 50 years of pop music for a bag of 30 million pieces of silver, a bag made out of a pair of girl knickers tied up with a scrunchie.

The power of the scrunchie and it's impact upon culture and society cannot be underestimated. Go to Urban Outfitters. There's a whole book that will tell you so. For $35.95.

Currently listening to: International Velvet Soundtrack, Francis Lai

Thursday, December 18, 2008

4.5 Outta 5 Panamas


Thanks Clint, for giving the majesty known as the Gran Torino back its dignity and its hip as fuck cachet. Who needs an everlasting image of David Soul doin' a tuck and roll across the hood of the red Torino in a gawd-awful cop/buddy tv shit-fest. That shit doesn't even rate on the "so good it's bad" scale. I'd rather listen to a scratched up 45 of "Don't Give Up On Us Baby" a thousand times, and played on a crappy '70's Radio Shack turntable with lint on the stylus than watch an epi of S&H. S and H and...I...T.

So Clint's movie was aces. How a man who sounds like he masticates on sandpaper 24/7 can play so smooth and rocksteady is beyond me.

So I give "Gran Torino" 4.5 Panamas outta 5.



Fuck the thumbs up or thumbs down system. I'm for permanent closure of the balcony on that one. The uber fan from the "Panama" vid mouthin' "AW-RITE" whilst swimming in a sea of Halenheads is my fuckin' rating system. I wonder where this guy is now? He's probably at some bar called Snoozy McDoozy's or some shit like that, figuring out how to steer the conversation around to how he and a renegade hairdryer were once featured players in the greatest rock video ever made.

Good for him; in this great big, overcrowded world, everyone deserves to be a "Where's Waldo" at least once.

Shine on Waldo of Halen World. (Not to be confused with the Waldo from the "Hot for Teacher" vid.) Maybe I'll just call him 2 minute, 55 guy and leave it at that.



Currently listening to: Under the Western Freeway, Grandaddy

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Happy Birthday Buck Henry!

Holy fuck, do I love Buck. The great man turned 78 today, and like a stack of 78 rpm records at a Shriner's rummage sale, his housing may be old, but man, the grooves and the melodies contained within are pure legend and without a doubt stand the tests of time and trend. (Don't underestimate the musical tastes of the Shriners, yo.)

Buck is bar none my favourite screenwriter. His screenplays translate to me like great pieces of music...tempo, timing, flow, crescendo build up to big bang payoff...it's all there. And fuck if you don't laugh until yer gut hurts like a sumbitch.

If you love "The Graduate", you gotta love Buck. His screenplay for "To Die For", is well, just that, and "What's Up, Doc?" is so flawless that it makes me weep for the young and short set who are unaware of it, and think comic genius begins and ends with a SNL Digital Short. Fools! Kids, Trix ain't for you anymore, they're being played on ya! Twilight=great literature...HA HA HA...good one...it worked!!!

Here's a short slice of the magic that happens when great comedic writing glides good, well, and properly improper with great comedic performance. If Eunice Burns (Madeline Kahn, RIP) were real I'd want to be her best friend, try on her wig, go shopping for some Spanx, and ask her to organize my schedule.



Yes Eunice, there is a Buck Henry. Thank God.


currently listening to: Spoon, Gimme Fiction (but just not the Twilight Series)

Monday, December 8, 2008

Dig the Chuzz...Becuzz

'Tis the season to sign yer name. Sign the visa slips thrown at you by surly cashiers, and sign the stack o' company Xmas cards. This year I have the extra bonus of signing a multitude of paperwork related to medical/legal issues regarding my accident. Damn, so sick of it...I am on the verge of signing the next thing foisted upon me with the old tried and true "Heywood Jablome". I think John Hancock should step aside and let Heywood come out from the seedy world of crank calls and into the bright light of the popular lexicon.

Hey, Heywood wouldn't be that bad of a guy, just an unfortunate victim of both inbreeding and of his extensive collection of Jackyl records. Immature and slightly perverted, but surely a misunderstood Boo Radley minus the nobility? I would be happy to share with him a bottle of Spamante Bambino taken from his cinderblock winerack anytime. Just wouldn't be able to condone his inbreeding is all.

I do condone The Inbreds however. A stellar duo that showed us the power of two long before the White Stripes came along to paint the town red...and white...and black, and whatever colour Mondrian was splashin' around.

Big diff tho'...The Inbreds were a drum and bass combo, and they didn't see the absence of a guitar as a problem, rather as a challenge. Challenge met. Exceeded. Brilliance. Chuzz.

Chuzz is the glorious mixture of chunk and fuzz. Mike the bassist, wisely chose a Music Man StingRay for good, hefty, and fat bottom and dressed that chunky junk in the trunk in gigantic granny pants of buzz. The sound, the tone...oh man...I'm getting excited... aroused...Heywood Jablome?

No? Fine then. Just watch "Sense of Time" okay? Jeeze.



currently listening to: The Inbreds, Kombinator

Friday, December 5, 2008

We Were Young, We Were Golden, We Were Late Nite Record Retail

Dave, Cheryl, Rockerchick Heather, Joanne (VINNIE!), Derek, Jen, Scott, Ryan, Sean, Shelley...

Love and respect to you all.




"Sweet little baby, she's my hot dog bun"


Sweet memories turn spandex trash into timeless treasure. FACT.

currently listening to: The Smithereens, 11