Monday, July 25, 2005

Yao Ming Dynasty.

This is supposed to be the season where I have a lot of time to sit around and write these droll monologues on the punctuality of Christian Vander arrangements and make a lot of noise about where I was when. You’ll notice by the postmark that I haven’t recently made the time. Thankfully, when you all take the printout copies of these essays that you’ve reformatted into DOS following the Cyborgian Wars of Twenty-Tickety-Two to the time capsule, a month-long gap won’t seem so large and conspicuous. Not as large and conspicuous as your anal cavity after our captors the Cyborgs have their way with you in the Tron-Shower, anyway.

Speaking of unforeseen butt rape: On Friday, The Pentagon refused to turn over hundreds of photographs and hours of video of Abu Ghraib to a federal judge who ruled that they must, in fact, do so after ruling in favor of the request made earlier this year by the ACLU. The material, which even militant Conservatives are willing to publicly presume contains “rape and murder” of women and children, is indeed so narsty that Rumsfeld is taking his crusade to bury the lead public: “"If these are released to the public, obviously it's going to make matters worse." Dare to dream, Whitey!

"That's totally gross, Ryan.": Man, this is such a great rock and roll interview, for one reason. Not because the stories from the road in it are kind of funny (they are). Not because the musician being interviewed gives a retarded philosophy lecture on how to obtain good vibes (he does). It's because these two people are in fucking love with each other. These two people want to fuck. But even more than that, they want to cuddle afterwards and ask each other about the clubs they joined in high school. These two people are more in love than Lester Bangs and Lou Reed were in love.

Alas brothers, ‘twas the music we wanted crusty, not thine scrotums!: I caught IFC’s documentary Punk: Attitude a few days ago. Given that this film tries to, like so many misguided attempts before it, cover twenty-five years of a musical genre in ninety minutes, to call the results hit-and-miss would be generous. If I wanted to hear boring mongoloids talk about how Agnostic Front are carrying the torch for the rest of us, I’d go huff gas in Danvers. On the flipside, it’s worth it for the extended concert footage of certain great bands in their prime: come for James White punching a good deal of his audience in their poonums, stay for Bad Brains burning through apocalypse jams in Purple Rain gear. But easily the most striking part of the movie for me was seeing what these motherfuckers look like in 2005. And I’m not here to judge anyone on looks. In fact, I’m totally down with punk rock being made by and for Fuglies. And in turn, it’s no secret that people who were below average-looking in their twenties are gonna be exponentially creepier in their fifties. Really I’m just wondering where I can find the used car dealership that Pat Smear, Jello Biafra, the aforementioned Messr. White, and Glenn Branca all appear to now work at. Glenn Branca! Wasn’t he supposed to be a classy dude? Homes isn’t bending that viola fast enough, cause the camera added ten pounds to his opaque frame, and most of that ten pounds appeared to be lice and herpes. When Rollins now clearly bathes ten times as often as dudes who were selling out Carnegie Hall, the world has gone apeshit. The sole exception was Ari Up from The Slits, who was smart enough to move to Jamaica and make dub records, thereby finding the serum to eternal youth and endless spliffage.

Top Ten All-Time, In No Particular Order, Scratches of Back That Resulted in Received Scratches of One’s Own, Personal, Back: Emerson College Radio wunderkind DJ Bryan Young has been doing Listmakers for Guantanamo proud in recent days, publishing a series of lists that allow assholes like myself to stare at a short series of album titles for a few minutes while nodding approvingly. My favorite of these lists is linked to here. Not here exactly, but rather in that part of the last sentence where I typed the words “my favorite of these”. CLARIFICATION BOMB.


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