Monday, February 28, 2005

Afternoon Links

'Cuz I got shiite to do, people:

1. In response to Chris Rock's introduction about his boring politics, the cameras didn't show Tim Robbins flippin' Rock the bird, although it appears to be in jest.

2. This is one of the craziest conclusions to a car chase I've ever seen...well, outside of that awesome movie where Charlie Sheen kidnaps a smokin' Kristy Swanson. Anyway, here ya go.

Five Awards After the Awards

I'm a bit busy on this glorious Monday, so I'm gonna hand out some hardware quickly and quietly:

Red carpet conversation of the night:

Star Jones Reynolds (I love adding the last last name) interviewed Oprah on the red carpet before the show. I found the transcript, in case you missed it:

Oprah: "Hmmm, girl, you look good, child."
Star: "No, child, you look better."
Oprah: "Uh uh, girlfriend, you got your thing goin'."
Star: "Hmmm hmmm, girl, child go child."
Oprah: "Child, girl, please."

(And did Star Jones Reynolds not realize you can see orca-sized whale fat coming out the back of her dress? And that woman had some serious titbags comin out of the front.)

One-liner of the night:

Chris Rock's monologue was good; seen better. But he was perfect for the Oscars for the intros, including the Salma Hayek/Pene-lope Cruz "four presenters" zinger. And here was his best:

"Ladies and gentleman, comedy superstar Jeremy Irons."

The funniest part about it was that Irons proceded to bring the house down on an unscripted joke after what sounded like a gunshot. I fucking love Jeremy Irons. Hook. Line. Sinkah.

Weirdest moment of the night:

In one of the Non-Stage Peon Awards, the always sexy Scarlett Johansson reported the winners of the Science and Technology Oscars and the network aired snippets of their speeches.

First of all, the Academy seemed to give the award for inventing the crane to separate winners, and one guy I think even accepted the award on behalf of the crane. More importantly, the first three dudes all had thick French accents, as if movie technology were born over there. AGU and I wanted the French theme to continue, as it was fun, but the final award winner was a guy who looked more Japanese than the cast of Gung Ho's great grandparents. And then he broke out a perfect American accent like Pat Morita (is there an American accent?). Strange doings in Hollywood and France.

Non-fluid exchange of the night:

Ace: Is every commercial on television either about penis enhancement or ugly cell phone overage charges?

AGU: I like penises.

Excellent work.

Mersh of the night:

Did anyone else tune into ABC right before the Oscars, catching the one-minute Olay face cream commercial? Well, Lisa McDowell was in it. Coming to America's Lisa McDowell was on TV last night! I have a date with Lisa!

I was psyched about picking her out. That is all.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Tommy Lee Jones: Comedic Genius

Coming to theatres, comedy gold...Man of the House.

Girl: "Where's you happy face?"

TL Jones: "This is my haaaappy faaaaace."

That's gold, Jerry, gold. Man, why wasn't this released early enough for Oscar consideration?

John 3:16 Revisited

The world wide web never ceases to amaze me. Over the past half-decade, the information superhighway has completely altered the way we communicate, the way we shop, the way we look at titties, and now it's changed the way we hold up signs at sporting events.

Earlier this week I relayed a funny anecdote about the incredibly cool geekdom of Phish fans. In lieu of paraphrasing myself, here's the copy-and-paste function at work:

"I finally fell asleep watching the Wyoming/SDSU college hoops game on ESPN. A funny little story here: On the Phish nerd message board, someone started a thread about how he was going to hold up a Phish-and ESPN letters-related sign at the game, something like 'Every Sports Phan Needs FLUFFHEAD.' I didn't see it by the time I drifted off, but I woke up to tales of the sign making it on TV, multiple times (for the uninformed, Fluffhead is an old Phish tune shelved by the band after the hiatus, clamored for by some fans). Bottom line, ESPN showed not only the front of the sign, but also the back, which read: That's Right, Fluffhead Newbs. Gotta love the Phish community, where this is considered hilarious." It is hilarious.

Meanwhile, a ton of congratulatory posts soon flooded Sign Guy's message board thread, all expressing genuine pleasure in their fellow man's good fortune. The buzz took over, and throughout the week there was continuous chatter about the Rainbow Man of the Phish community. I posted the story here the day after the appearance and spoke with a few associates about the niche hilarity, just for the sake of chronicling life's events on this here online record.

Behold the power of the Internets! The story broke nationally today, outside the Phish world, when the bright fellow that constructs's college basketball Power Rankings gratuitously included it in this week's article. Since there's very little to say about 16th-ranked Utah Utes, Power Rankings instead told the tale of Sign Guy's quest to get on national television with a Phish-related poster. And that's funny considering this comedic episode had absolutely nothing to do with the Utes.

The widely-read column credited your very own Ace Cowboy for alerting it to the story, which gave me a nice stiffy in the downstairs area: "Power Rankings reader A.C. informed me that, during Big Monday's San Diego State-Wyoming tilt -- which took place an hour after the Utes fell to New Mexico -- a man was holding up a sign behind one basket that read 'Every Sports Phan Needs Fluffhead' on the front and 'That's Right, Fluffhead Newbs' on the back..."

The buzz on the message board had since died down. But armed with my newfound fame and an early notification of the Power Rankings being published on SI's site, I went back to the boards to sound the trumpet of success to those involved and the rest of the interested fans. Within 20 minutes my post filled up with a hundred-plus comments, more than 250 as I type this, nearly all of which couldn't believe how awesome this whole episode had turned out (one or two cynics accused a fan of hacking into SI's site). This was an epic day in the community, as Power Rankings even linked to both the PT message board and the digital camera screenshot of Sign Guy in action. This was probably the brightest day since the fog crept in when the band took its final bow that soggy August night in Vermont.

Well, the buzz is back, and it's stronger than ever. Now it's almost tangible, people are downright giddy about the events of the past few days. How fucking cool is this? Great job everyone! This is amazing! And the new mission has become clear: don't stop at one midnight game in Wyoming, let's make the Fluffhead sign a national phenomenon. This can't be the end of the story, this must be the start of something extraordinary! The boards' patrons are feeling it, and the time is right. Because of the Power Rankings exposure, thousands and thousands of sports fans have been primed. The seed, planted.

There are more than 50,000 PT members spread out across the country, and boards dwellers everywhere are talking about canvassing the nation's arenas with the new millenium's version of John 3:16. I have tickets to this, I want to go there, who's going to the Final Four? This could actually happen. Sounds delusional, sure, but everyone probably laughed Rollen "Rainbow Man" Stewart out of the room in the late '70s. And I'll say this...Never ever underestimate the power of an inside joke. After all, that's pretty much what Phish is/was, the greatest inside joke in the history of music.

To Sign Guy, to his accomplice, to Power Rankings, to the guy that snapped the digital shot of the sign on television, to all the fans involved on the boards -- thousands of people smiled and laughed and ROTFL and LOL and LMFAO this week because of your actions and words (I can't stand those acronyms, but let's go with it). I'm lovin' this whole thing like McDonald's, ba da ba ba baaa. In the best of worlds, ESPN in six months will do a Chris Connelly-narrated, five-minute segment on the sudden influx of Phish signs in sports; the worst case is a funny memory for everybody. I'm happy either way.

Man, I'm starting to sound a helluva lot like Doogie Howser at the close of an episode. So, fan or not, support this endeavor because it's fun to be a part of things like this. We may be witnessing a deviation in the current path of human history. Spread the love, and may God continue to bless the fucking Internet.

Thursday, February 24, 2005


My buddy Chuck here at work sent me this little link, asking "Where was this version when we were kids?" Good query, dude.

Goddamn that's clever. Play with sound.

Cannons and Trades

Is it me, or is the Pope just fucking selfish? Someone just smother this fucker with a pillow already, no? I feel like Rehnquist and the Pope need to just get this whole thing over with.

Speaking of, "Hunter S. Thompson, the 'gonzo journalist' with a penchant for drugs, guns and flame-thrower prose, might have one more salvo in store for everyone: Friends and relatives want to blast his ashes out of a cannon, just as he wished."

I swear, and you can use this blog as proof, if I die young and leave no instructions for my burial, shoot my ass out of a cannon. I don't even care where I land, you can blast my ashes into a Camden crack den, but just let me get my cannon on. Brother, Red Cowboy, even though Mom and Dad don't know this thing exists, let them know this is my wish. It's Cannon Time. Actually, it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time (man I miss this fucking banana, it's been too long..this is one of my favorite songs of all-time, it kicks YEM's ass).

Insert smooth segue here, then go onto this story about a real-life Fight Club in Oakland. Welcome to the city, Mr. Moss, may you get pummeled much the same way. Actually that's not true, I'm a sucker for Randy, he may be a complete maroon, but I think he's just a misunderstood dude with a chip on his shoulder that craaaves attention. And considering most people have about 10 friends like this, why is it Moss we hate? I don't know. So I like him. Shake yo' dick, Randy, shake yo' dick.

At least I understand the philosophy behind trading Moss for some defense and some draft picks, plus the Vikings "supposably" fortified the team by doing a little addition by subtraction. But what the fuck is up with trading Chris Webber for the bowl of soup and half a sandwich deal at T.G.I.Fridays? Let's take a timeout here and think about this one for a second (ha, I made a Webber/timeout joke!).

Sure he gets paid a ton of money, but it's not like the Kings either got equal value back for Webber or got cap-friendly contracts in return. So I guess they're ready to hand the team over to Peja, but he's a free agent this summer and no sure thing to re-sign. Basically, this deal is about dumping cash, which is fine I guess, but it's not the best move for a team in the fifth spot in the West, battling for home-court advantage in the tougher conference in the league. All I know is (I gotta lotta balls), Allen Iverson is excited as hell today. A coup for the Sixers.

Just for the hell of it, here's some Robert Randolph and the Family Band playing Voodoo Chile. And here's a cool cover of Billie Jean. Damn, he's good.

And really just for the hell of it, here's a good Borat soundboard. It's a-nice.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Moss for Napo?

Looks like Randy may be headed to Oaktown after all. In a related story, Kerry Collins just came in his pantalones cortos.

Moss for former Northwestern linebacker Napoleon Harris (seen here getting juked by then-TCU star RB LaDainian Tomlinson) and some draft picks! Allright, Mildcats, way to churn out that awesome talent...we rock.

Spanish Miguel, if you're reading this in Madrid, regale us with some stories of living across the hall from the man that may be traded for the best receiver in football.

Real Quick

Four quick things, then I gotta work:

1. Sometimes I even amaze myself. My dinner last night was 10 buffalo wings, but upon opening the box and seeing the saucy goodness that lay in store, I realized we had no napkins or paper towels in the apartment. I was unfazed by this predicament, however, chomping into those fuckers like Marv Albert on female backs.

And you know what? I ate all 10 wings with only a tiny scrap of napkin found in the way back of the utensil drawer, turning it into a rust-colored ball of tissue when all was said and eaten. Try it some time, it's a lot like Kramer pushing the test-drive Saab with no gas on the highway. To quote the Road Warriors, "What a rush."

2. Attention, eBay shoppers...the Trogdor Shrimp awaits your bid.

3. Good stuff: "An emergency medicine specialist has given himself an 80th birthday present with a difference – he's had DO NOT RESUSCITATE tattooed across his chest."

4. Blogger friend JRH makes a pretty good point about that whole "Fox News Exclusive" scam...makes you laugh, and then makes you vomit a little bit.

That be all for now.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Tennis Schmennis

I'll take Connors/Krickstein on Labor Day at the '91 US Open over any of this power serve-dominated game of aces. But I'd definitely watch a match played on top of a 1,000-foot hotel in Dubai any day...

Love, love.

Moozak & More

I missed the latest installment of Jack Bauer's heroics last night, opting instead for a little concerto at Tonic with my main man Lukas. For those of you that don't know, Tonic is a dank dungeon of sorts, a room that fits about 100 people on a good day, but it really is a fantastic place to see a show. Sounds fucking great in there. The club is in serious danger of closing, so artists that love the place are scheduling gigs there in order to raise money, doing their best to save the club like the KKTY Bayside Radio crew did to help save The Max.

They really need money, though: According to their website, their rent has doubled since 1998, insurance costs have tripled, they’ve been robbed, and most importantly, they’ve been plagued by the expense of maintaining a building in ill repair, including the collapse of their main sewer line. And the sewer really is broken...they fully have port-o-Johns by the front door in lieu of bathrooms.

So I was glad to help, paying $25 to see hippie folk artist and potential meth user Devendra Banhart last night. First, a really interesting band called Tarantula opened for them (not spelled Taran-chula like Strong Bad has suggested) -- these guys were waaay too loud and dark sometimes, but I was pretty impressed by their main instrumentation: cello, bass and drums. That's cool. They were cool. Like I said, a little dark, at times I felt like mainlining some smack, but overall a pretty good performance.

Anyway, Devendra is this young folk singer or sorts, and he's pretty damn good. Luke warned me in advance that he may be a little too stream-of-consciousness, and that characterization was dead on, right down to the stage banter in between songs. But he was engaging, he told some jokes and an anecdote or two, he's got a great voice and he's pretty talented on the gee-tar. Strangely my favorite parts of his set were the few Spanish tunes (apparently he grew up in Venezuela for a bit) he played, including one by Simon Diaz that he preceded with a story about how if you go to the man's site, "There's no discography, but you can order Vicodin." Good tip.

Long story short...a great random-night of tunes in a small room with an up-and-coming musician and a strange-but-cool opening act. And they played together for a few songs, although Devendra immediately started playing after calling Tarantula up, and by the time they got on stage he was almost done with the song. No joke, one of the Tarantula dudes wasn't even finished tuning by the time the song he came up to play was over. Great stuff, professionalism at its finest.

I came home and saw a commercial for some television drama series that I coulda sworn starred the incomparably hot I-tal Annabella Sciorra. But after checking her IMDB page, I can't tell if it's her or not. Either way, in honor of seeing or not seeing the lovely and fictional Ms. Gloria Trillo on television yesterday, I listened to her Sopranos theme song this morning, and now I present it to you. So here's the Grateful Dead's Bobby-crazed version of Van the Man's Gloria, live at the Richmond Colisuem on 11/1/85.

I finally fell asleep watching the Wyoming/SDSU college hoops game on ESPN. A funny little story here: On the Phish nerd message board, someone started a thread about how he was going to hold up a Phish-and ESPN letters-related sign at the game, something like "Every Sports Phan Needs FLUFFHEAD." I didn't see it by the time I drifted off, but I woke up to tales of the sign making it on TV, multiple times (for the uninformed, Fluffhead is an old Phish tune shelved by the band after the hiatus, clamored for by some fans). Bottom line, ESPN showed not only the front of the sign, but also the back, which read: That's Right, Fluffhead Newbs. Gotta love the Phish community, where this is considered hilarious (it is hilarious).

Anyway, Phish Geekdom aside, I'll leave you with five of my favorite Google searches of the week (how people came to Slack from search engines):

1. genital bracelet -- We're your one-stop shop
2. sock fetish in the news '96 -- Now I gotta go hit the microfiche
3. rapper Candyman photos -- I love "Knockin' Boots" too, but pics of Candyman?
4. ampersand whippets -- GREAT band name, folks
5. Schilling loudmouth -- This mighta been me

Lotta parentheses today. Sorry 'bout that.

Monday, February 21, 2005


I can't possibly do this man justice in death.

He's a fucking hero to all the wannabe writers out there that wanted nothing more than to be the next big-time gonzo journalist. I can't even count how many times in my life I emulated him, wished I were him, fell asleep dreaming of a life like his. I guess this is how it all ends, eh Doc?

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is obviously a ridiculously awesome book -- I mean, it changed my life to some degree -- and you'll hear an awful lot about it in the next few days, but read this one if you haven't, it's fucking fantastic (less Gonzo, more non-fiction): Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga.

A sad day.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Okay, Jim

Here's a 21st century chore...I was cleaning out my old cameraphone pictures and came across this one. I call it "Ace Cowboy and Donnie Fiedler Watch the Fights."

Taken: May 15, 2004, the night Antonio Tarver made Roy Jones Jr. look silly for maybe the first time ever. We looked silly as well that night. Yaaay, props!

Any night with beers, props and a whole slew of Harold Lederman is a ten in my book. Posted by Hello

And Here's Another...

Taken: August 15th, 2004, departing Coventry, where the unofficial environmental mantra up there was "Don't Jersey Vermont."

This picture makes me laugh every time. Posted by Hello

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Recommended Reading

February may be a weak month for sports action, but the sports reporting is still top-notch.

You may have seen the hard-luck story of Savannah State University, a team that just posted the second winless season in the last half century of Division I college hoops. But the story behind the story is even better...give it a whirl.

(Unfortunately also cuts its longer stories into a few pages for more page views and more revenue, the same thing I was scolding ESPN for earlier in the week. It's fucking annoying. Stop.)

Friday, February 18, 2005

Naked Lunch? (Too Easy)

"Keyes, a lifelong nudist, wore a necklace, earrings and a black leather "genital bracelet" with red studs. And white sneakers."

You gotta read this...

Clever Girl

Who says that state school kids in College Park aren't as clever as those private school nerds in Raleigh?

I just saw this picture and laughed pretty heartily. Good work, kid from UMD, good fucking work.

Olive Juice

You folks are good people...but I ain't got no time to entertain you right now. I'm in full Jesse Spano/Never Any Time mode here.

So if anyone's got something funny to say, or poignant, or even downright rude, now's the time to do it, the comments section is the place. Go to town.

And MMW tix for four NYC shows go on sale in 10 minutes. Help save Tonic, which like many other little clubs (CBGB, Fez, Luna Lounge and more) are going out of business.

I wanna vacuum.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Uh Oh, We're Fucked!

And the bad news just keeps on comin':

"Jason Bateman and the rest of the Arrested Development clan might be in need of comfort: Fox is halting production after 18 episodes, shy of the usual 22, bringing the season — and maybe the series — to a premature end April 17." Sheeeeeet.

Maybe my "The Death of Gene Parmesan?" post the other day wasn't premature at all. In more ways than one: I accidentally erased the "Amigos" episode (featuring Gene P.) from my TiVo the other night, just seconds after I almost erased it and caught myself at the last second. I just about openly wept.

Twenty-two of the funniest minutes in television history erased, or as Keith Jackson would call the action, "Whoooa boy, the little stoner hit the wrong button twice, and...the"

The two morals of this story: Sometimes I'm pretty fucking smart when I'm stoned to the tits, but usually I'm the biggest fucking dumbass on the planet. And, help save Arrested Development, people! I don't know how, but get on the phone with your Congressman, post-haste.

**Or you can go here and sign a meaningless petition just for the hell of it, and in the process scope out some other shows Fox has killed too quickly. Ahh, Undeclared, how I've miss thee.**

Ali G with Becks and Posh

Damn this is funny as hell...take five minutes and watch this shit today, it'll brighten up your morning a little bit.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

More Noise! More Noise!

Jose Canseco got his 60 Minutes of fame on Sunday. Now his tell-all book, which hit shelves the following morning, is already a bestseller. Mike Wallace = cash fucking money bitches, what.

And everyone is weighing in on the Canseco Credibility issue; have been for the past two weeks. The mainstream media, beat writers, talk radio, players, managers and general managers, ex-players and ex-managers, bloggers, everyone!, everyone has their own take on Canseco's motives, everyone's questioning the validity of his claims, everyone's talking about the guy that was scoffed at a year ago when he said he'd write this book. But to my dismay, the noise has been covering grander themes of right and wrong, guilt and innocence, reporters hunting all witch-ily (Ahh, Witch-ay Woman...) for juicing players.

We're all missing the point here, folks: This guy had a ball miss his glove, bounce of off his head -- his head! -- and drop over the fence for a homerun once. Is it fucking possible, is it possible, that with all of this nonstop Canseco buzz I haven't seen one clip of the Carlos Martinez longball that ricocheted off Jose's cabeza into the stands 12 years ago? Not one clip? No mentions of it in anywhere in the written press? Why even cover the story then? C'mon, media, yer better'n that.

Everyone's searching for the scoop on Big Mac and Dead-To-Me Giambi (it's official, that nickname's sticking unless he hits .450 with 70 jacks by August), but did anyone even bother to fact-check this book? Holy jeeez, Jeff Merron over at The ESPN Machine decided to check some of the anecdotes that don't require old ass needles and first-person corroboration, and let's just say some things were a tad bit inaccurate. It's pretty good stuff, I'd check it out. Here's my favorite:

"On breaking through to the majors--
    I was very aware that baseball was closed to a young Latino like me...Many talented young athletes were playing street baseball in Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Domincan Republic, and many other Latin American countries, but the barriers to breaking into the major leagues were almost impossible for most to get around.
    -- p. 39

Here's how 'closed' baseball was in 1982, the year which he is writing about: 29 Puerto Ricans and 33 Dominicans played in the majors that season. That's 62 players -- I stopped counting after that -- breaking the 'impossible' barriers."

There are some other gems in there too, including the one about the towering shot he hit his rookie year in Detroit, which apparently never even happened. As a random aside, if you didn't notice on that last link, ESPN started breaking up their Page 2 articles into multiple pages, making you click-thru to more pages to read the full story. I hate it. It's ev-il. It's the fru-its, of the de-vil. Where's Shame on You's Arnold Diaz and that sexy moustache when you fucking need him?

But possibly the best story to come out of this fiasco just broke today. The runner up to Jose in the 1988 AL MVP race wants the trophy now. But before you laugh too loudly at what seems like sour grapes, Mike Greenwell's quotes actually make you feel for him a little bit:

"I do have a problem with losing the MVP to an admitted steroids user," Greenwell told the News-Press, adding that not winning the award likely cost him millions of dollars. "Every time you renegotiate a contract, if you're an MVP, you have a different level of bargaining power," Greenwell was quoted as saying. "But in honesty, I don't care about the money."

Well, I weap today for the guy that answers one of my favorite baseball trivia questions: In 1996, Greenwell drove in all nine runs for Boston in a 10-inning game, the record for most runs batted in where one player accounted for all of his team's RBIs [Here's the boxscore]. I feel for ya, Mr. Greenwell, but as Danny Noonan says to that asshole caddy, "You ain't gettin' no Coke."

Meanwhile, it's kinda weird to think that if Canseco had just hit 38 more homeruns, he'd be at the mythical 500-homerun plateau, and he'd probably think he at least had a shot of getting into the Hall of Fame. And if there was a shot, even if he didn't get in, which he wouldn't, as long as there was a shot, he would never have done this. He'd never jeopardize his chance at the Hall for this, and the whole wacky episode never happens. Nev-ah happens.

It's Official

The NHL be done.

I'll let y'all have your laughs for now, but one of these days we're gonna have a little talk about how awesome hockey used to be. So sad. So very sad.

G'night, sweet prince.

Burn, Baby, Burn

I don't hit women that often, but I really thought about punching this girl right in the tits this morning.

So I'm in my office building's cafeteria just before 9 am, buttering my toasted bagel at the condiment island/salad bar in the middle of the main room. I've got the Greyboy Allstars funkin' and jazzin' it up on the earpieces, so I'm fairly oblivious to the world and really can't hear shit.

From behind me I hear this girl, maybe my age, give or take a year or two, say something like "I'm burning, I'm burning, I'm burning." I turn around to see what the problem is, and while she is clearly making that strained "I'm in pain, but I'm okay because I'm in public" face, I can't see any coffee spilling from her plastic cup.

Keep in mind, I'm at this condiment island having just finished buttering my bagel, and this thing is probably 12 feet long and four or five feet wide (the island, not the bagel). This fuckin' strumpet could have easily stepped right around me and put her hot-ass coffee down on this monstrosity of marble, but instead she just stood there yelling "I'm burning" repeatedly. So now I turn around fully, and ask, "Are you okay?"

In obvious pain, she finally steps around me and puts her coffee down ('cuz coffee is for closers only). And then this bitch looks at me and says to me she says "Well, you were still standing right in front of me," meaning that even though I turned to see if she was okay, I didn't allow her a path to the 48-square fucking feet of table space directly in front of her. I so desperately wanted to yell right back at her "Well, you were still standing right behind me, stankbox!"

Instead I laughed heartily in her face, shook my head slowly and gave a silent prayer to the Almighty God of Vicious Handburns that she may be afflicted with pain today. Perhaps this wasn't explained properly, and perhaps you need a diagram of what the cafeteria looks like, but this was quite a funny way to kick off the morning.

The funniest part of the whole episode is, though, she'll be cursing me all morning for not getting out of her way following the "I'm burning" call, and I'll be laughing all day long at the thought of her scalded right hand. Score one for the Ace Cowboy.

An unrelated note: In honor of "The Trio" officially announcing a Jazzfest nighttime gig, I invite (nay, I implore) all of you to listen to their version of Roundabout from Mike "Uncle Cactus" Gordon's first performance with the Benevento/Russo Duo at moe.down on 9/4/04. Do it. Do it.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

New Holiday*

March 14th, mark your calendars.

*I saw this last year, so it's not new per se, but I didn't have a blog then, so I guess it's new. Shut up.

Update: Pills Are Good

Back in August I took on the issue of drugs, the legal kind. In that little post I mentioned the case of Christopher Pittman, a then 12-year-old boy who said the antidepressant Zoloft drove him to kill his grandparents. Well, the verdict is out, and the kid is guilty: 30 years in prison. Thanks for playing.

While trying to figure out when the hell I mentioned this case, I went back and re-read my unnecessary yet totally necessary diatribe against the pharmaceutical companies. And since I kinda like it on second read, I'll re-print it for your pleasure here (this is also the one post ever in which I erased all the comments after someone mentioned my boss by name...Gosh!).

Enjoy your pebbles.

Tuesday Morning Links

A Handful of Stuff to get you through the morning until the caffeine kicks in:

1. I think the dude in the following clip would have easily won a lifetime exemption from the It's Never Acceptable To Shit Your Pants Committee. But not only did he snub the INATSYPC's invitation, he got right back on that kayak with no questions asked!

In today's ridiculous edition of "Hey lady, look out, there's a big fat whale on your boat," I present to you: this guy.

2. If you never thought you'd live to see a kayaker shake off a Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka whale splash, then you'd probably never thought you'd live to see this: Matisyahu, the Hasidic reggae superstar.

Slack PSA: For more information about Matisyahu, please go here.

3. I'd guess the majority of people that hear the name Bruce Hornsby think of some dude on the adult contemporary charts. Others strictly remember him for The Way It Is. Still others go completely blank until you say, "C'mon, that guy who sang The Way It know, that song Tupac sampled."

"Ohhhhh, riiiight," most suburban white kids retort. "Roll up, bitch, roll up."

Point of fact: Hornsby kicks ass. In much the same way we all grew up with We Are the World/I Just Called to Say I Love You Stevie Wonder, there comes a day when you wake up and say, "Shit, Stevie's the funkiest man on Earf!" Well, Hornsby ain't that good, but he's a fucking virtuoso, an extraordinary pianist.

And the good people at have a couple shows from his 10-night stand in Oakland in November 1998 available for download, so get 'em while they're hot (get 'em while they're butterrrred). Jamband staple Steve Kimock plays on most of both shows, and even nerd deluxe/Slack idol Phil Lesh drops in for a little reunion with the one-time Grateful Dead man o' keys. And if it's been nearly two decades since you've listened to The Way It Is, make it a point to listen to this version -- top notch, the bees' knees.

Ace's Hornsby Highlights of those Yoshi's shows: Women are Smarter, Tennessee Jed, Scarlet Begonias, Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys, Loser.

4. Did anyone see the end of the Texas Tech/Kansas double-overtime, buzzer-beater thriller last night, or was everyone else too busy getting laid? Either way, fantastic me pretty psyched up for the next two months of the remaining college hoops schedule.

And congrats to the NU Mildcats, pulling out a huge 59-51 victory last night against the Texas A&M Corpus Christi Islanders. That brings the Cats up to .500, folks -- I'm issuing a "look out undefeated Illinois next week on your home floor" call right now. It hath been so decreed.

5. The three best words in the English language: Pitchers and catchers! They'rrrrre baaaaack! Some Yankees are in Tampa!

6. Here's a weird spin on some tragedy: The four hurricanes that struck Florida last year helped reduce the state's number of shark attacks to their lowest level in more than a decade, a University of Florida researcher announced Monday.

7. One of the better stories I've read in a long time -- A jury pool is being formed for the first degree murder trial of Roger Lee Lawrence in Delaware County, Oklahoma. The names of the potential jurors were chosen from a list of county residents with drivers licenses. One of the people called for jury service is Scott Borton. However, it is certain that Scott Borton will not be chosen as a juror for a couple of reasons.

First, Scott Borton is dead. Second, Roger Lee Lawrence is being tried for murdering him. Awesome. Just awesome.

8. Will you hire me after the flood?

Monday, February 14, 2005

The Death of Gene Parmesan?

The following is from Cinescape, which is a website I know nothing about. And despite being a third-degree master of research, I'm waaay too lazy to even find the "About us" tab on the website this morning:

"Ominous news for funniest-show-on-television ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT this week: Fox has trimmed this season's episode order from 22 to 18. Combined with the show's continued and frustrating lack ratings, as well as Fox's plans to drop AMERICAN DAD into AD's timeslot this Spring, it seems to suggest a troubled future for the Show…if any future at all.

If AD doesn't return for a third season, on the one hand, I will be enormously perturbed that more viewers didn't tune in, presumably because they were too busy watching Tivo'd episodes of AMERICAN IDOL or somesuch nonsense. On the other hand, at least it made it through two seasons rather than dying an even-more-premature death like similar off-the-wall Fox comedies like THE TICK or ANDY RICHTER CONTROLS THE UNIVERSE." [More...]

Well, let's not write the tele-obit just yet...but it is a sad, sad state of affairs when the funniest show on the tube can't get enough viewers to survive. Everybody's so busy watching "Who Wants to Scrub My Dad's Shorn Scrotum?" and "Another Quirky Billionaire Masturbates Feverishly To His Own Image" that the actual comedic geniuses get largely overlooked.

I can't stress enough how unbelievable I think this show is, featuring a brilliant ensemble cast and hilarious writers. Sadly, though, it's not just Fox -- we need real Topeka people to start watching the greatness that is this show. Spread the gospel, Sunday nights at 8:30, and if you're nice, you just might be treated to an episode like last night's...Martin Short's "Uncle Jack" character almost made me piss my pants. To the nuts!

Five unrelated notes:

1. Quote of the weekend, perhaps of the year: "Every role that's ever been given to Morgan Freeman is outrageous...and insulting." --Lina, with LG in the background saying "Given, or takes?"

2. Ordinarily I try not to pump up the egos of others, but one of our new bloggergeek friends came up with a fairly brilliant idea concerning federal funds used by political campaigns and tax refunds...and I wanted to share. It'll take maybe two minutes tops to read, and I'm guaranteeing you'll come away saying, "Hmm, sounds about right." I give you, Ahren's campaign finance reform.

3. I'm still reeling from Thursday's epic tsunami benefit (see pictures below) that moe. put on, featuring Trey, Medeski, Sam Bush, Hartswick, Ray Pacfajkfkjfafjfski and others. This show came out of nowhere, what a gem! If you want to either stream it or download it, here's where to go...or here. That Peaches en Regalia is flawless. Flawless!

4. Chris Rock, host of this year's Oscars, is pissing people off, especially the guys that hired him: "What straight black man sits there and watches the Oscars? Show me one!" He said some other things too...

5. Happy Valentine's Day?

Poetic Justice

"The 19-year-old daughter of Alan Keyes has a Valentine for the anti-gay rights conservative pundit and frequent Republican candidate.

Maya Marcel-Keyes will be making her first public appearance as a gay activist at a Valentine Day's rally in front of the Maryland State House, says Dan Furmansky, the leader of Equality Maryland, a gay rights group.

Last summer her father, a conservative pundit and frequent Republican candidate, caused a stir during the Republican convention by labeling Vice President Dick Cheney's lesbian daughter a sinner and calling homosexuality 'selfish hedonism.'

Marcel-Keyes told the Post her parents have thrown her out of the house, stopped speaking to her and refuse to pay for college because she is gay. She said she loves her parents." [More...]

Poor girl! I actually feel bad for her that she's got such a douchebag pops. I mean, we'd never elect a black president or anything, but can you imagine if Keyes had ever been a legitimate candidate for the highest office in the land? Can you be president after throwing your daughter out of the house and refusing to pay for college, all because she likes to munch a little box? I can't even wrap my head around such a concept (the actions of Alan Keyes, not cunnilingus --although I hate both equally).

It's time like these when I really wonder why good people die young and guys like Keyes live to be 96...

Friday, February 11, 2005


The redheaded fuckface is back in our lives...this was a treat: Chalkdust > Wilson solo acoustic.

Welcome home.

*title courtesy of Handstand Posted by Hello

Treymoe.deski II

Even though Medeski is not pictured in either one of the fo-tos, I promise he was there and did that thing where he kicks ass and takes a helluva lotta names...

Man, how fucking hot is Jen Hartswick in that sequined quote-unquote shirt?! For those of you who can't find her, she's holding no instrument and resembling Nell Carter. Posted by Hello

Treymoe.deski III

Ahh, there's Medeski, lookin' at the chicks in the front row, a few feet in front of that statue of Al from moe. Posted by Hello

Thursday, February 10, 2005

But He Stinks

Does this make me bad?

At my subway stop, you are forced to take an elevator down to subway level since the platform is so deep underground. As I was going through the turnstiles today, I noticed that the stank-ass hobo who oozes a near-visible stink was headed down to take up his usual spot on the bench in the station. There are three elevators, 2 of which work just about never. So I ran to the open elevator and, just before this obviously homeless, disheveled man was to get in, I pushed the close door button. I think he actually said "Thank you" (or possibly "Dag-u") in the mistaken belief that I was reaching to hit the "open door" button so that he could get on. Boy was he wrong. Anyway, door shuts in his face and I have a (relatively) stink-free 10 second ride down to the tracks.

Was that the wrong thing to do? There were other people in the car, most of whom use the station every morning. I heard no protests from them. Probably because they know that this gentleman's effusive odor is something beyond stink. It's not even worth cooking up some sort of analogy. But here's something: It's a very gusty station so when a Brooklyn-bound train steams into the station, it pushes this odor right in my face...and he sits on, or, actually, melts into, a seat at the far end of the station from where I wait for my train. So the 10 seconds in the elevator could have been life-threatening.

My one regret is not hearing him playing this morning from his electric guitar and singing nonsense lyrics at the top of his lungs. Actually, he just sounds like his gargling pebbles and tar and he points the neck of the guitar at passers-by, many of whom flinch. Plus, one time, as I was waiting for a train, he came up from behind and stuck his head up under my t-shirt. I need not tell you of the scabees epidemic that ravaged Brooklyn Heights that week. (OK, so he didn't do that, but the dude is fuckin' rank and I needed some more ammo to plead my case).

I'm not sure where this is going. But I do know where Joe Bum is not going: down to track-level with me in the elevator.

FYI: Ace is finally getting his shipment of tsunami-orphans this weekend, ostensibly for adoption but really for "touching."

I'm Your Huckleberry

"It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds..." --Doc Holliday

As if the Armstrong Williams et al fiasco weren't bad enough, here comes one of my favorite ridiculous political stories of all time. Several years ago, the White House press office issued an official pass to a conservative blogger with a fake name and no journalism experience, a man who took the opportunity when called on during many press conferences to lob softball questions at President Bush and press secretary Scott McClellan, including a long questatement asking the president how he could work with Democrats "who seem to have divorced themselves from reality."

Later, "Jeff Gannon," since identified as Jim Guckert, would write up extremely pro-Republican columns for, often taking full paragraphs straight from GOP talking points memos. And, for some reason, nobody questioned how the fuck this guy got a fucking press pass, nor why the president or his press secretary repeatedly called on this asshat. Of course not, when you're cranking out stories about John Kerry's "pro-homosexual platform," you don't lose your credentials in the White House press corps.

But the shoe's on the other hand now, folks. After a little investigation by some left-wing bloggers, Gannon has been outed, both literally and figuratively. The faux-journalist then resigned out of "consideration for the welfare of me and my family," which as any amateur can tell you, is just grammatically incorrect. Here's why Gannon, or Guckert, needed to step out of the public eye:

"By examining Internet records, online sleuths at figured out that his real name was Jim Guckert and he owned various Web sites, including, and" [More...]

Wait, I'm still laughing.

Ok, I'm better now. When I read that, all I could think of was Stifler's scene in Old School, when Frank shoots the dart into his neck: "Yes! That's awesome!"

To recap: The most amateur journalist in history, writing under an alias, who not only got access to White House press conferences and key government documents but got to ask leading questions of the president and smear the Democratic Party in said questions, who also wrote about Kerry and his pro-homosexual agenda, turns out to be nothing more than a gay prostitution ringleader and bonafide smut peddler. Yes! That's awesome!

Where's the outrage on this one? Since I'm still waiting for outrage on the Armstrong Williams et al bullshit, and outrage about the fact that Bill O'Reilly rails against indecency while owning a vibrator and sexually harassing chicks, and William Bennett's seeerious gambling addiction, and Rush Limbaugh's need for more tranqs than a rhino on crack, I doubt we'll see it here. But they all make for hilarious stories, especially this last one, and it allows me to laugh hysterically when people on the right want to talk about "moral values."

You can stick those moral values right up the ass of a hot military stud or two...

RIP Jimmy Smith

The King of the Hammond B3 died Tuesday. Where was the mainstream press on that, dipshits? This guy was sick.

Above all else, we here at Slack love his "Back at the Chicken Shack," an incredible tune eventually stolen by that band from Vermont everyone talks about 'round here. So in honor of the king, download it, listen to it, pour some out for yo' homies and kick back with some good tune-age.

Jimmy, you the man, take it sleazy.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

...The Terrorists Win

If you don't respect the "Dream Shake," the terrorists win. If you defeat Phi Slamma Jamma, the terrorists win.

Well, folks, Hakeem's targeting his revenge.

My favorite part of the article is that they make him sound so guilty while purporting his innocence: "'There is no way you can go back in time,' Olajuwon said in a telephone interview from Jordan, where he is studying Arabic."

Smoke him out and take'm to the hole, Mr. President!

D-Bags of the Day

Curt Schilling
The Pats are "the Yankees of the NFL, but without being greedy bastards" this asshat says? Dude, you're a loudmouth, obnoxious, camera-loving attention-slut, so please you tubby bitch, keep your mouth shut. I seriously can't wait until opening day when Sheff slams a line drive off your fucking face.

I've done such a 180 on this pudgy fucker -- I used to think he was a cool guy, like Billy Zane, talking to the media like a regular fan, a student of the game, blah blah blah. But now this pile of dogshit is showing his true colors, and I think even Boston is getting tired of his self-serving antics. You call New Yorkers obnoxious, Curt, but every time you open your big mouth you make New Yorkers look that much better by comparison. Keep talkin', ya sock-fetish freak, you'll eventually get yours.

And by the way, Col. Revisionist, the 1996-2000 Yanks weren't greedy, they weren't loud, they weren't even flashy, they were more similar to the Pats dynasty than your own championship squad from this year (talk about obnoxious). Everyone forgets that those Yanks, who were one of the greatest teams in sports history, were mostly homegrown or adopted Bombers except for a few pitchers and players, and their greed at the time was no worse than any other team in the majors then. It's amazing that people forget the recent past so easily. Goddamn, Schilling will pay.

The Media Campaign Against Jose Canseco
So the big man says he injected steroids into Golden Boy McGwire and watched McGwire and Dead-To-Me Giambi inject each other. And the media is up in arms! Wait, for real, why isn't Canseco as credible as a guy who all of a sudden hit 70 homeruns while admitting to taking a since-banned substance and a player whose statistics plunged after a disease which may or may not be linked to his knowing steroid use? I don't get it.

Maybe he is lying about some of the other things in this book, but the pundits are lining up to discredit this guy on behalf of two guys who admitted to taking illegal substances to help their performance. I don't know who to believe, and I don't know what this will mean for the game -- frankly I really don't care. But surely we can let the man speak and make our own judgment as to whether we believe him or not, right? Right? Isn't this how it's supposed to work in America?

Now, the jury is still out on some of his other claims: We may never know if Raffy, Pudge and Juan Gone are guilty, nor if they all had the complicit support of then-owner George W. Bush. And if he's lying about them that's pretty fucked up. But even if he is just trying to make a buck, and even if he is breaking the code of ethics, who's to say he isn't telling the truth?

(And also, why is it that everyone in the media and fans across the country line up to bash Barry's HR record, but McGwire's gotten away with this squeaky clean image? I don't wanna play the race card, because I'm whiter than a ghost drinkin' milk, but that shit just seems a little fishy to me...)

Speaking of the President
I love this story for some many reasons:

While talking with audience participants, President Bush met Mary Mornin, a woman in her late fifties who told the president she was a divorced mother of three, including a "mentally challenged" son.

MS. MORNIN: ...because I work three jobs and I feel like I contribute.
PRESIDENT: You work three jobs?
MS. MORNIN: Three jobs, yes.
PRESIDENT: Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that. (Applause.) Get any sleep? (Laughter.)

I love that! Not only is the president sort of laughing at this woman's troubles, but he sounds almost proud about calling it "uniquely American" to hold three jobs at once. "Europeans are lazy, we work all the time, fuck you and your six weeks of vacation, Europe." But my absolute favorite part about this little exchange is that yes, it is an "Only in America" situation where a woman approaching 60 years old with three kids, one of whom is handicapped, has to work three fucking jobs just to make ends meet. Unreal stuff. Need some wood?

And finally: Virginia State House of Delegates
The House voted 60-34 for his bill, which would impose a $50 fine on anyone whose boxers, briefs or thongs peek above their pants or skirts.

"It's not an attack on baggy pants," said Delegate Algie T. Howell Jr., Norfolk Democrat. "To vote for this bill would be a vote for character, to uplift your community and to do something good not only for the state of Virginia, but for this entire country."

Overload, overload, many bells and whistles going off in my head, I can't even think straight. Uplift this, Mr. Howell, pulling your pants up is not going to contribute anything positive to Virginia, it's also not going to do anything to strengthen this country. With all the shit that's wrong in these United States, and all the shit that's wrong in the state of Virginia (I'm sure), this is what we choose to legislate? Awesome.

I'm unofficially done with this post, but just for the hell of it, because I can't stop singing it today:
Show me that smile again (Show me that smile)
Don’t waste another minute on your cryin’
We're nowhere near the end (nowhere near)
The best is ready to begin.

Ashy Larry

Isn't today like the 5,000th anniversary of Moses putting a cigar out on Jesus' head? No? Then what's all this shit on everyone's forehead?

Religion: an even bigger con than saving a rabbit from being dinner. Wake me when the zealots blow up the world.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Save Toby!

This is one of the more creative ways to scam people I've seen in quite some time...notice that some silly folks have pledged more than $12,000 to save this fuckin' rabbit! I love it!

Could be could be such a deranged rugby fan that beating England would lead you to cut your own balls off. If I ever say anything like "If Wales win I'll cut my own balls off," don't hold me to it. I'm most likely just keeeding.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Sweet Ass Time

Man, the next time I need something complicated done in a minimal amount of time, I'm definately going to call Andy Reid.

DF: Shit. Only 5 minutes until we miss the crucial window where we can divert the path of the asteroid by launching this Soviet-era nuclear missile. Andy, what should we do?
AR: Ah, um...alright, let's huddle up and talk this over. Let's not get crazy here. Just settle down. Maybe we should re-boot the computers first.
DF: Um, Andy, that's going to use up at least 1 minute of precious time. We can't waste it.
AR: Oh, um...whatever. We can always onsides kick the missile in the general direction of

Seriously, did they not know the score last night? Were the Eagles guys up in the booth communicating things to Andy Reid like, "Coach, see that scoreboard that says you're losing by 10 at the end of the 4th quarter? Yeah, that's wrong. You're really up 21 and the game was over yesterday. Let's just run this thing out to really fool the TV audience. Whaddya say?"

It was the most baffling 5 minutes of sports since Francona brought Pedro in from the pen in Game 7 of the ALCS. An honest-to-god, what the fuck are you doing? moment.

By the way, yeah, I decided to post something. So whatever. Expect more, or less, from me in the future. Probably less.

My image of the day: Let's say Sammy Sosa was replaced in the 1998 Home Run Chase by Jose Canseco. It's be a great story...Canseco coming back to have a monster year with the Cubbies. Neck and neck with his former Bash Brother McGwire. And then, in the game where Mac breaks the record, he circles the bases, fists pumping. Canseco comes in from right field with a huge smile. Kissing his fingers then putting them to his chest over and over again like a spastic retard. He finally reaches Big Mac, they do a heart-warming handshake, they embrace, and then Canseco jams a huge needle full of roids into Big Mac's ass. Wouldn't that have been amazing? The needle just hangin out of the new home run champ's uniform. He wheels around to pull it out. Roger Maris's kids give him the finger. Then Mac picks up his son and squeezes him in half by accident. The arch falls down on Roger Maris's wife. What shame on the big guy.

Jack Buck probably would have twitched a little harder up in the booth that day, that's for sure.

Monday Stomach Aches

I mean, what can you say the morning after a Super Bowl that hasn't been said already, besides of course, "Shit, my stomach is fucking killing me?" Lame commentary on the pre-game show, the $2.4 million mershes, the halftime show, the post-game stuff, the game itself -- it's all been done and it's all been said. I got nuthin' new...

But I did attend the only 21+ Super Bowl party in America where a total of maybe half a dozen beers were drank and our three-foot sub had only three two-inch slices taken out of it...that makes me feel real manly. Turning back the clock to high school, some Jericho folks reunited on Lawn Gisland and partied like it was the first half of 1997 all over again: standing in by buddy's backyard, packing super bowl after super bowl, chuckling like schoolgirls at things that aren't even remotely funny to anyone else. My favorite exchange came as we were outside around halftime, when our buddy Berf's eyes were virtually closed from a combination of too much doje and apparent allergies to the dogs in attendance:

AGU: Dude, Berf, your eyes are closing. Hey, check out Berf's face...
YP: (after a pause, says deadpan) Yeah, he's disgusting.

Classic. So anyway, screw Nader, we clearly had the greenest party in town, even if it led to one of our members falling alseep on the couch and leaving halfway through the third quarter. But at halftime, while the rest of the country had to urinate repeatedly and watch part-Droopy, part-Jessica Fletcher sing decades-old songs, we were in the laughing mood to watch Ferrell and Kattan spoof Air Supply on the Best of Will Ferrell Vol. II. And laugh we did. Seriously, if you've never seen this skit, you're really missing out.

"It's Thanksgiving time,
I love your new blazer
Your sleeves are pushed up,
it looks pretty awesome."

Any skit that ends in Ferrell and Kattan making out is hilarious in my book, and that makes up about 67 percent of their stuff. They feign man-love very well, but that's not my favorite love story of the day. Ladies and germs, I present to you, today's real-life Pina Colada Song, courtesy of a couple in Jordan.

So, AGU and I have a fridge full of sandwich left over for dinner tonight, which ain't too shabby. Once this sharp pain in my stomach clears up (beware the pigs in blankets), I'll be ready to scarf down that fucking sammich and sides.

Finally, congrats to the much-hated but much-respected Patriots, you guys are officially the 1996-2000 Yankees, right down to the lame been-here-done-that celebration.

Friday, February 04, 2005

America the Beautiful

First of all, I'd do 'em both. But more importantly, this story is so utterly ridiculous it's starting to make my right eye twitch.

This is my favorite part: "The teenagers’ families offered to pay Young’s medical bills, but she declined and sued, saying their apologies were not sincere and were not offered in person."


Quick Pick Snack Pack IV

Ace's playoff record against the spread: 8-2
The two losses? Both Eagles games.

So, um, I'm taking the Patriots giving a touchdown...may the Eagles prove me wrong, strike me down and put the Pats in their rightful place. For the record, Mulgrew, I'm rootin' for your boys, just not so confident they'll pull it out.

Final score prediction: 31-19
MVP: Tom Brady
Underdog MVP: David Givens

And in honor of the big game this weekend, I went back and found an article I wrote for my old college rag before the first Pats Super Bowl appearance in their current run at dynasty. I really thought the Rams would blow 'em away, but that was before Mike Martz was exposed as a fraud and a nincompoop. For some background, this was a "What you will see/What you won't see"'s an excerpt:

"You will see many camera shots of Kurt Warner's wife on Sunday (wait, that's not his mom?), probably clad in her usual blue thing with ruffles and fringes and feathers. That chick looks like a combination of my friend Berger's mom, Susan Powter, and Spike from the classic arcade game Arch Rivals [ed. note: the character's name is actually "Mohawk," but I've been saying Spike for so long that it's Spike now].

Listen, I can understand crowd shots of Pete Sampras' "one fine piece of ass" wife, but Mrs. Kurt Warner? Her hair is shorter than her husband's undergrowth and she cites the word of God more than an al Qaeda disciple. Send her off with Summerall; keep her off the air."

Everyone back then thought we were looking at a Rams dynasty in the making. Now we're saying, "Who's Kurt Warner?" Funny how things work out, ain't it?

Staring Blankly

"...after that I sorta space out for an hour. Yeah, I just stare at my desk, but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too..."

I did a little work from 9:30 to 10:30, but I've literally been sitting still and not moving for the last 100 minutes or so. The only energy I've expended has been in the process of composing and answering e-mails, reading moronic statements on the Phantasy Phish message board and talking Division III hoops over on Ethan's li'l blog. I think I have a 104 fever and my feet hurt.

Time to get get some free lunch (free drinks one night, free lunch the next)...ain't life grand?

Can someone reply? Can we have a little comments conversation today? 'Cuz I gots nothing, and I feel like someone punched me in the dick with brass knux. Help.

Sooo Hungover

Remind me never to go drink-for-drink with my boss on a weeknight...seriously, not throwing up on the subway this morning was a gift from the Gods.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

The Freedom & Liberty Tour

State of the Union Foreign Policy setlist
2/2/05, Capitol Hill, Washington DC

Iraqi Liberation* > Syria's Next** > March Into Tehran***

enc: Canada^^

*with "extended occupation" jam and purple-fingered glowstick war
**keyword: parts of Lebanon
***with "Run Like Hell" teases
^^first time played since 1812

I don't wanna say anything, Mr. President, but you forgot Poland.

And while we're on the subject of politics, check this shit out...this is more outrageous than an 85-cent pack of Juicy Fruit.

Donnie! You're Alive!

And you're a horrible shot!

Anyway, Slackers, Donnie Fiedler is alive and well...and as proof, here's the funny video he forwarded my way last night. Play this with sound, and remember to play Episode 2 when the first one ends, for it's even more out there and it features America's favorite hater of colored folk, Bill Cosby.

I imagine tonight's State of the Union will go something like these clips, only with more freedom and liberty for all. Freedom! Liberty! Freebirty! Liberdom! Actually, it may go more like this.

And, in other news, strike up the music, the band has begun -- Punxatawney Phil came out at 7:31 this morning, and the little fucker saw his shadow. Looks like it'll be six more weeks of winter, folks.

Phil Connors, I thought that was!

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

How Rude! (S. Tanner, 1990s)

This guy is freakin' should read him every day if you have 10 minutes and wanna laugh your ass off at somewhat serious political issues.

Today's post on Focus on the Family is especially insane.

CDs Nuts

Technology, she is incredible.

Growing up witnesses to the radical transformation from Nintendo Ice Hockey to NHLPA '93 on Sega Genesis, nobody in the neigborhood could get over the miraculous breakthrough.

But that all seems so primitive now, doesn't it? Dudn't it? I mean, would you ever have suspected that just a decade later you'd be able to watch a TiVo-ed television show without commercials while burning homemade compact discs of a 20-year-old concert on your desktop, while transferring those same files to a portable Walkman of sorts that holds 2,000 of your handpicked favorite songs, while surfing the ol' world wide web sans wires on your roommate's laptop computer, all while screening calls on a cellular telephone?

File sharing, instant messaging and electronic mail, online maps and directions and even an omniscient operator you can access with the touch of a button should you get lost on the way to Grandmama's house, free porn just a mouseclick away...

And I think to myself, what a wonderful fucking world.

For someone who "digs music" a la Russell Hammond on a Topeka rooftop, technology has provided countless Holy Grails for improving how and where we listen to music. For some reason, though, I resisted change for a long time. The year was 1999, and scores of techie Northwestern kids were burning concerts we had just seen onto discs left and right. Donnie and I were still stuck in the Maxell XL II Days, heading to Long Island's recently-deceased Prime Cuts Music Emporium for the latest shipment of Phish and Grateful Dead shows.

I didn't trust burned CDs just yet, and I had spent so much time collecting and dubbing hundreds of tapes that I didn't want to render that collection obsolete so quickly. Plus, there was a limited stock of what could be burned, mostly new shows: CD Kids weren't learning the history of the band, they were skimming the frosting off the top of the cupcake. I felt the tapes put me in the kitchen, chef's hat and all.

In the spring of 2000, this kid in my house burned me my first Phish show on disc, 12/2/99, probably my favorite show ever. And it sounded fucking awesome. No hiss. No flipping sides. The ability to skip over that Bouncin'. These things are sweet. Donnie and I decided to move on dot org. Count us on on this CD business...

Fast forward about five years and a thousand discs, and the technological advances are startling. Now you can go to any number of sites in order to download whatever the hell you're into. Just take one particular site, Here, you can not only access hundreds of bands and tens of thousands of shows, but you can download 'em free of charge and enjoy their deliciousness for hours.

(The Archive incredibly stores nearly 2,800 Dead shows, available for listens or for keeps, any fuckin' show in the annals at your disposal. And that includes the unintentionally hilarious 9/24/88 Rainforest Benefit at MSG that featured special guests Darryl Hall and John Oates fronting for the Dead on Every Time You Go Away and What's Goin' On (best version this side of Rod Tidwell). Actually, it's pretty good music in addition to being surreal and funny...and the Man Smart, Women Smarter from that show is fantastic.)

Obviously it's been a long time since the turn of the millenium, and CDs and mp3s are now the preferred methods of most people who listen to music. But I still pine for the days of the tapes, and sometimes I get so nostalgic that I have Ace Cowboy Tape Listening Weeks, breaking out the cassettes for a fortnight of exclusive tape-driven aural pleasure inside the home.

The longstanding debate concerning tapes vs. CDs, in fact, inspired one of my best-crafted parodies (if I can say so myself). I once envisioned one of my favorite fictional military heros as the evil trader strenuously arguing the merits of discs in an e-mail to TJ in OH and Tits McGillicuty some years back. I really strive to put Colonel Nathan R. Jessup in every day situations at all costs: could be a great indie movie one day.

So, for shits and giggles, here's a bit of Kaffee v. Jessup, Tapes v. CDs (and yes, this might not make a lick of sense to 85 percent of you, shit, I don't care. This is comedy.):

"Son, we live in a world that burns discs, and those discs have to be taped by longhairs with mikes. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Languedoc? I have a greater FTP site than you can possibly fathom. You weep for the guy who yells 'in Vermont, you do what you want' into your feed and you curse the tapers. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that the Tape's death, while tragic, probably spread music. And my file-sharing existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, spreads music.

You don't want fuzzy hisses, because deep down, in places you don't talk about at shows, you want my CDs in your stereo, you need my CDs in your stereo. We use words like burner, DAT, and shorten. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent improving something aurally. You use them as trade for your extra. I have neither the time nor the molly to explain myself to a spun-out wookie who rises and sleeps under the very blanket of gooballs that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said 'heady nuggets' and went on your way. Otherwise I suggest you pick up a pack of 50 blanks and grab a chair. Either way, I don't give a damn, what you think you're entitled to."

"Did you order the Live Phish?"

"I did the job you sent me to do."

"Did you order the Live Phish?"

"You're goddamn right I did."