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

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

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

Bettie Page 1923-2008

RIP Bettie.

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)

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

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

Your WTF Moment for Today

Maybe you have already had yer "what the fuck?" moment for today...sorry if I'm adding to the pile but that particular in-tray was made for over-flowin' as long as the world continues its game of suck and blowin'.

Anyweird, if one is interested in history, one knows the name Josef Mengele. According to the oh so reliable wiki, the DJ Doctor of Death had a son who had a son. The grandson has a youtube channel where he chronicles his experiences with being a fattie. Let the Battle of the Bulge jokes begin, sometimes history charts itself with such finesse and irony that jokes are not only appreciated, they are a solid given.

I'm not gonna link to his youtube channel, get on the googletreadmill yourself, do a finger sprint and cross the finish line into the happy go lucky, fit and trim world of the spawn of Mengele. Unlike his grandpappy after the war, Mengele v3.0 is quite easy to find. But the find makes me personally uneasy, and a tad kinda queasy.

The comment section is the best.

I think "your grandpa sucks." was my favourite.

currently listening to: L'Affaire Dumoutier, The Box

Thinking Inside the Box

How great is this vid? How great is this song? How great are French Canadian accents? How great is the crazy dude who, on his way to a bank heist with his other Reservoir Dog palsy-walsies, somehow got lost and ended up somewhere in rural Quebec? Mon dieu!

The police chief dude is pretty rite-on as well. He's got that great combo of beard, 'stache, and cascading waterfall hair that one would expect a man of great judicial power to have. Too bad half that sandwich he was scarfin' down in the police car ended up in said beard. Dude looks like Godley from Godley and Cream. Or does he look like Cream? Which one is which? Shit man, who knows?



Is this Godley, or is it Cream...and really does anybody care anymore? It makes me wanna CRY!!!!


This man cracked open two cases in one day, a murder case and a Celine Dion CD case...HERO!!!


currently listening to: Rene Simard on youtube ("L'Oiseau")

"It's Been A Long Time Since I Rock 'N Rolled"

Classic. Thanks Robert Plant for the lyric...perfectly sums up the state of my blogging habits at the moment. You can always count on Zep cuz they give/gave good lyric. My sixth grade teacher was no fool...he pulled out "Stairway" to give us an exercise in recognizing verbs, nouns, adjectives, and adverbs. I have fond memories of the kid who drank glue asking, "Teacher, what's a hedgerow?" Holy fuck, I just realized that an eon later I still don't fuckin' know. But props to Plant for gettin' us all thinking. It may have been the last time the glue-drinker could conjure up thought...soon enough he had progressed to sniffing it. Classic.

The glue kid's best friend (besides that damn cow on the Elmer's), was this miracle of genetics, that when reading aloud in biology pronounced "organism" as "orgasm". Seriously. Little dude didn't realize what he was saying. Years later I figured out why the teacher was smirking, and it creeped me out that the effin' perv didn't bother to correct him. Fuckin' biology teachers, peeking into microscopes by day, peeking into college dorm windows by night. Not so classic.

You know what's classic? This is random but I just watched the original "The Postman Always Rings Twice". The embodiment of classic is Lana Turner in that fetch, fetch, fetching white getup that starts up one of the best pussy whips in cinema history. Poor John Garfield's character, brother didn't stand a chance.



At first glance, you are saying, "What is UP with that headgear, Lana?" I mean, who other, than Madame the puppet rocks that sort of look effectively?

Lana, baby. Lana.

In tribute to Lana, here is one fabulous Ewe-Toobe featuring the legendary (as in "WHO??") Eric Root. Lana's personal hair stylist, as well as stylist to many other kings and queens of the wood we call Holly.

It's....you guessed it...classic.



Currently listening to: Eric Root confessing that Lana herself killed Stompanato, not her daughter, Cheryl...WHOAH!!!

Yeah, Yeah, I Know...

F to the U to the C to the K...

FUCK!

I know...I've been away far too long, and reneging bigtime on my vow to blog to the max.

'Stead I've blogged to the min, and that's even overestimating, isn't it?

I deserve a big kick in the arse, a kick delivered by a leg with a foot sharp and dangerous strapped in tight by a "Joan Crawford Fuck Me Platform Shoe".

In fact, I think I deserve the whole Crawford treatment, complete with the "no wire hangers" action.

"Oh Mommie Dearest, I'll try to blog more often!"




Much love to Allan, Faerie, and Froggie!

Currently listening to: The Cars, Best Of

"Hey Mr. DJ, Put these Handcuffs On..."

I finally seized those reins of terror and yanked and pulled until I steered them back in the right direction. The direction that leads to the land of peace and quiet. Serenity City, sweetheart, let me move back in and let's get reacquainted.

Let's take a look at Serenity City's landscape shall we?

You will immediately notice there is no hint of DJs in either sight or in sound. They have all been exiled to the land of Disrespect and Inconsideration, keeping the Jackhammers At Dawn company. The official newspaper of this land is called "The Daily Asshole", and trust me, in a place like this they never, ever run out of stories.

But in Serenity City, news of the world is carried by a whisper, by a flutter of butterfly wings or by a gentle sound source of one's own choosing.

A slow-leak sigh of sheer heaven.

While my guitar gently sleeps...so now can I.

This all may not make much sense to y'all.

So in plain English:

The fucking DJ down the hall was shut down. Put the needle on the record. Put the pen on the $300 noise disturbance ticket.

Last nite a DJ left my life...YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Currently listening to: a slow-leak sigh of sheer heaven

In Space No One Can Hear You (Ibanez) Tube Scream(er)

--And you'll believe you're loving the alien
(Believing the strangest things, loving the alien)
--Bowie, "Loving the Alien", from "Tonight", released 1984

Yes David. I'm loving the Alien. Perhaps not the one you had in mind, but one definitely worthy of the modern love. I love, have loved, and will love until the end of my days and daze, this Ridley Scott masterpiece. Flawless. Gimme gimme a nasty, beastly, acid spewing xenomorph and a reason to say the name Yaphet Kotto out loud a few times.

Yaphet Kotto, as "Parker". Yaphet Kotto. Yaphet Kotto. Say it! It's fun! Yaphet is hard-rockin' the Mike Reno of Loverboy headband action!

Thanks to Alien, I like many other sci-fi geeks, became fascinated with H.R. Giger, the dude who designed the nasty beast. I think folk who count themselves as fans of the great man should be called "GigerCounters".

Gigercounters come from all walks of life, but I have discovered that a great many of them of are guitar players. A particular sort of guitar player. The precious sort. The hammer ons and pull offs and practicing scales for three hours type of guitar player. A bachelor type of dude who lives in a basement apartment, listens to technical players like Malmsteen, and has framed Giger prints on his wall. Maybe an Escher print. Definitely a print of a Patrick Nagel lady.


Patrick Nagel, Rio album cover for Duran Duran, 1982

Poor Patrick Nagel. Brother did a 15 minute celebrity aerobic workout for charity, went to his car, got in, and had a heart attack. He was 38.

But back to Giger. It came as no surprise that the famous "Giger Aesthetic" would inevitably find itself expressed in the world of things six-string.

Thanks Ibanez, for bringing that to task.



currently listening to: Roller Boogie, Original Sdtk

New Post This Weekend...Stand by

man...so much for resolutions...will write this weekend...