Either Way, It Feels Like I've Died And Gone To Trashy Pop Culture Heaven

How long does it take before a mentally deranged performer unleashes his delusional talents on an unsuspecting French TV audience? Approximately one minute and thirty-five seconds.

What happens to a dream deferred? It ends up with its own cable-TV show.

The Rifle Man

At my local gym, the race to secure locker 15 is a battle over who begins their lunch hour sooner and arrives at this coveted spot first. I choose it because it mirrors my birthdate and is thus easy to remember each day, whereas my fellow athletes merely rely on its proximity to the showers. My chief rival is a gentleman about my age but much more bald. Although a comb-over is not yet on display, he does sport a Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo on one arm, which fills my heart with gloom. Worse still, rather than update his life to today's technology, he still exercises using a Sony Discman. When he's in the shower, I always spy into his gym bag to gather evidence reinforcing my harsh opinions about his lackluster music taste rather than just hate him for his ill-informed inky accessory alone. Last week, it was Steely Dan's Aja; this week, the Meat Puppets (and not even from their interesting early period--he was listening to Monsters, an album which demeans all who listen to it). At the exact moment I was rudely rifling through his sweaty gym clothes and C-grade music collection, my iPod was rocking Sun OK Papi OK, and it's my feeling that the Japanese glitch grime, fractured electro-grunge and playful nonsensical fart-ness of each track reversed my transgression into a victimless crime. If you're reading this, balding work-out guy, please be aware that while my actions against your privacy might make me ripe for a lawsuit, I still have your sweaty disgusting underwear in my possession, and I'm not above introducing it as evidence in my defense.

A Short Reprise For Sufjan Stevens, Who Got Annoying, But For Very Good Reasons

Owing to a growing scarcity of twee/Americana costume themes, prominent musicologists have recently taken note of Sufjan Stevens mixing his metaphors (butterfly wings...with Boy Scout shirt???), a blatant desperate cry for help from a beloved performer who always seemed to possess an infinite grab-bag of folksy symbolism for each worldwide tour. In an effort to assist Mr. Stevens' in maintaining his place in pop history, Disco:Very herewith offers alternative suggestions for him to use as he sees fit:

Dress up as a cucumber fresh off the farm, accessorized with oversize Disney-style white gloves.

Outfit yourself in a cute Little Black Sambo outfit; refer to self as "wog".

Emulate the look and syntax of The Little Red Hen; complain that everyone in the band has refused to help write the songs; make off with entire take of ticket sales to teach musicians a lesson about the American roll-up-your-sleeves work ethic.

One half of the band is Confederate, the other half Union; Civil War battle reenactments take the place of between-song stage banter.

Wear giant tortilla costume with faint imprint of Jesus on it.

Outfit the entire band as Puritans; scold audience for immoral behavior, reenact the Salem Witch Hunt; lead entire audience to the gallows during encore.

Portray yourself as chitlins, drape entire body in pig intestines.

Sufjan is the White plantation owner, the entire band his slaves; lynchings occur upon audience request.

Dress up as praying mantis; wait for audience to come within striking distance, feast on prey.

Sufjan emulates President James Polk; dies after third song.

Concoct an entire suit made of snowy-white Marzipan; invite audience to eat it off you during the show.

Sufjan and the band dress as The Donner Party; eat one another by the end of the show (no encore).

Mimic the late Helen Keller, perform entire set deaf/mute.

Dress up as the Poky Little Puppy, prepare for role by consuming entire bottle of Valium before each show.

Dress up as the Indian Removal Act of 1830; negotiate land disputes with audience members residing west of the Mississippi River (if river not available in concert venue, substitute with nearest men's public urinal).

Impersonate the look/sound of P.T. Barnum; entire band dresses as circus freaks (bearded lady, man with no legs or arms, pinheads, conjoined twins, etc).

Band dresses up as sperm, Sufjan dresses up as egg; conception ensues during encore.

Sucking In The Forties

Will someone please hurry up and invent a time machine so I can skip ahead to the future of Two Weeks From Now when my new favorite CD Sucks Blood by The Ohsees finally arrives in the mail? Also, can anyone out there invent a pill which makes me feel as elated as I do when listening to It Killed Mom, the current runaway favorite on my Urinary Hit Parade of Excitement? This song is why God invented the repeat button (and the urinary tract). Sad though I am to know that The Ohsees were only resurrected to spit on the grave of the now-dead Coachwhips, in my gut of guts, I am certain that if the future is going to be this bright, I gotta wear shades (that whoosing noise you hear is the sound of my jokes flying over the head of my 8 to 15-year-old target market.) (I suck.)

Disco:Very Reveals Endings to Recent Oscar-Nominated Films You Were Never Planning on Seeing Anyway

LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA
Japan loses the war because they did not know "The Secret"

AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH
Earth gains more self-confidence after J. Alexander provides free makeover

UNITED 93
Crisis averted when passenger Faith Popcorn identifies terrorism as the new cultural zeitgeist

BABEL
Four more narrative threads are interwoven into the story, all of them involving LonelyGirl15

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
The yellow VW bus is a penis symbol

Monkey See, Monkey Do, Monkey Throw Down and Work Some Sweat

If a thousand monkeys type at a thousand typewriters for one thousand years, and those monkeys are not typing but are, instead, recording a much sought-after LP of greasy groove-thang instrumentals, and the monkeys are from, perhaps, Turkey, and they live by the credo "Give the drummer some!", plus they decide to vogue one of their own hairy bruthas on the album's cover, rather than the actual composer Mustafa Ozkent, and they like to rock the Wah-Wah and the Hammond, will they produce Shakespeare? No, but Finders Keepers will find a way to track down the original master tapes from 1972 and release it anyway.

Bloggers Against Drunk And Sober Societies

Nyquil wasn't made for those days like today, when allergies have got your head so swollen you feel like a balloon with a pulse. No, it was made for those days like today, when you have mind-numbing allergies but you also want to experience the full sonic threshold of Rhys Chatham's epic long player Die Donnergotter at the same time. Take a few spoonfuls of that green elixir, pop that baby onto the headphones and let the almost 22-minute ride steer you to new heights of alcholic epiphany. Trust me--this is one time you'll want to drive drunk.

Manifest Destiny

Chico Mann's lo-fi drum machine screams Shuggie Otis, but his saucy slinky rhythms spell F to the E to the L to the A (or, at the very least, harken back to his day job with Antibalas). Groove workout Soul Freedom is like a late-night transmission from some mysterious African shortwave station, while Piensalo fronts a primitive bedroom-recording innocence not seen since Daniel Johnston tried to purge the devil from his own heart. The new album is titled Manifest Tone, Volume 1, and I'll be a broken man if there's not more volumes where that came from.

Mission Acceptable

For those regular readers who are furious, burning with rage, frothing with anger that I long ago forbid you from sending me link after link after fucking link to Mr. Show clips on You Tube--clips which I already own, clips I have watched over and over until my eyeballs are nine months pregnant with laughter semen--can I make it up to you by offering a link to the hilarious new VH-1 sketch comedy show Acceptable TV? Can I help it if some Public Relations suckface named Jon Creech keeps sending me solicitations about these television clients he reps, just because I'm a raw and radical take-no-prisoners blogger and he's some 9-to-five suit-and-tie Corporate Corpuscle hawking his latest test-marketed edgy hipster laff fest? Does he think I'm some finger-on-the-pulse 16-year-old who will shit his diapers to be tossed an e-mail promo bone, blabbing about this show to all my friends on My Space, thankful to him for placing me so ahead of the pop culture curve? The joke's on him: he doesn't realize I'm a bitter, vile-spewing 42-year-old hater with thinning hair and an ulcer who is only using him as a means to net more free web goodies! Thank goodness this show (which begins airing March 23rd) is actually worth watching, otherwise I might say something about him I'd later regret.

Brain Slaw

Travelling through France many eons ago, my sickly obsession with record sleeve graphics motivated me into buying a 7" EP from a French band of whom I'd never heard. Imagine my surprise when the EP turned out to be pretty bleepity-blankety punk rock cool. Flash the fuck forward 10 years later and imagine my wet and wiley wee-wee thrills when I stumble upon said band's website and the spastic joyride that is Pom Pom Ass. Imagine, furthermore, that I pee freely while excitedly watching the accompanying music video. All of this adds up to one plodding, dumb-ass pogo dance through Lobotomyland. This song puts me in rolling-backward-eyeball, forehead-slapping heaven.

Are You There, Me? It's Me, Me.

I'm back from the 2007 SXSW film festival. Actually, I returned a bit earlier than today but needed some "personal" time to process the following observations made while in attendance:

1. The woman at the trade show booth for Music Supervisor looked disturbingly like my Aunt Gracie. I kept expecting her to scold me for not waiting an hour after eating before I went swimming in her pool, followed by backhanded racial insults slyly directed towards my mother.

2. Pegging your pants to a diameter smaller than that of your ankles is The New Flared Corduroy Loose Fit Jeans (previously known as The New Black). Also, there were a shocking amount of attendees who resembled Harry Knowles in both girth and hair style. I weep for a generation. Especially if they all start reviewing movies on-line.

3. While I applaud the practice set forth by the Alamo Drafthouse Cinemas--that is, bringing food directly to your seat while you enjoy a movie--I would recommend that, while watching a midnight horror flick involving a man whose eyes are being pulled from its sockets by a Satan worshiper, it's best not to be eating Creme Brulee.

4. Although everyone else was in line to obtain the autograph of director John Sayles during a special festival appearance, I was in line to demand he pay back the six hours of my life he owes me for sitting through Casa De Los Babys, Lone Star and Sunshine State.

5. While everyone else at the Austin Airport was gawking as Peter Buck walked by, I was demanding he pay me back the $60 I paid for the past four REM albums. The punchline is: I downloaded them all for free.

6. The ultimate in nerd overload is to attend a sold-out screening of the new typeface documentary Helvetica, where you will find interactive dorks and graphic design junkies of all shapes and sizes. The punchline is: I was the eighth one in line.

These Arms Are Fakes

Earlier today, some clients from out of town who have been pampered all month by yours truly left more than a couple of frantic voice mails on my cell urging me to put pressure on the local police department to patrol their hotel more frequently after one of the clients found his car had been burglarized. "Sure thing", I felt like replying, "Let me call Sherrif Taylor and Barney Fife so we can eradicate crime in this town all together! After we catch those varmits, maybe Aunt Bee can bake us a huckleberry pie!" It's this kind of work-related turmoil that makes me happy to skip town for a few days and hang at the 2007 SXSW Film Festival. Yes, this means you won't hear from me for a while. And yes, I'll be coming home right as the music festivities start, which means I'll be missing a list of bands as long as your right arm. If you have a missing stump for a right arm, the list will be much shorter and will only feature Pete Townsend with a mohawk. You heard me: the man is often seen sporting a mohawk. I hope I die before he gets old.

A Social Contract With Ann Coulter

1. WHEREAS this agreement applies to the tenuous relationship between Ms. Ann Coulter and the American Public; and

2. WHEREAS this agreement in principle, signed in conformity with the provisions of Chapter 7 of the Agreement on Internal Bigotry (AIB), aims to reduce barriers to communication and is intended to allow both parties to have access to trading insults in all American jurisdictions; and

3. WHEREAS this is a provisional agreement which will be taken forward to each regulatory body for ratification and approval by March 7th, 2007; and

4. WHEREAS parties agree that the situational insults are defined and agreed upon by both parties; and

5. WHEREAS Ann Coulter is free to use the term "Faggot" however and whenever she sees fit, pertaining to politicians and anyone disagreeable with her political views, for the immediate benefit of increasing her book sales, speaking engagement fees and providing sought-after Right-Wing zealot street cred.

6. THEREFORE, the American Public is allowed to forever more return insults towards Ann Coulter, allowing Ms. Coulter to be labeled by the American Public, en masse, as follows:

a) Cunt

b) Stupid Cunt

c) Ugly Cunt

d) Horse-Face Cunt

e) Stupid Bitch Cunt

f) Fuck-Pig Cunt

g) He-Woman Cunt

h) Butt-Ugly Cunt-Face Cunt

i) Indeterminate-Gender Cunt

j) Fucking Dumb-Ass Cunt

k) Anal Cunt (with deepest apologies to the band Anal Cunt)

l) Androgynous Butch-Cunt

m) Transsexual Hatchet Job Cunt

n) Cuntzilla, Queen Of The Cunt People

o) Bitchy McCunt Cunt

p) Coulter-Cunt, The Ugliest Cunt of Cuntville

q) Count Cuntula

r) You Is One Ugly-Ass Man-Cunt

s) The Cunt Ann Coulter, An Adams-Apple Sporting, Freakishly Tall Overtly-Masculine, Never-Been-Linked-Romantically-With-A-Man Asexual Cunt Hole

t) Ms. Cunt

RESOLVED that under this paragraph, signatories are formally committed to implement the agreement.

Signed On This Day of March 7th, In The Year Of Our Lord, 2007

The Silent Scream

A punk rock friend of mine exclusively listens to punk rock and lives the punk rock lifestyle (regularly dining on triple-patty burgers washed down with thick shakes, paid mostly with a collection of spare change). He tried, in vain, to rape my ears with the strains of the FM Knives but I was too busy absorbing the squishy pansy-ass feelings of Sufjan Stevens and eating vegetarian nut roast with a side of lemon-drizzled radicchio while wearing sweatshop-free loungewear from American Apparel. Eventually, my hearing went "boi-i-i-innnng!" and punk rock seduced my heart through the likes of Automatic.

In a related story, I recently asked a punk rock acquaintance to brainwash the tastebuds of the windmills of my mind. Rest assured, he is punk rock but I don't know him well enough to be aware of his dining habits. My assumption is that, being a punk rock, he eats grease and lard and antler parts and sniffs glue for dessert like all the punk rocks do. But never you mind--the main thrust of my story is this: he tells me listen to The Carbonas--which is well and good--but why didn't he set me up on a blind date with Les Breastfeeders instead? Yes, that name is perfection itself, but the music has impregnated me with the sperm of shout yelling on Ostrogoth-À-Gogo and Viens Avec Moi, and why would I ever want to abort such a precious gift?

Baby Booties

It's a Death Race To The Cutey-Pooty Finish Line for this cat wasting Earth's precious resources versus these toyz-n-da-hood from the CD Da Hiphop Raskalz. What parent wouldn't beam as proud as a flea-bit peacock upon hearing these urban scoundrels rap quixotic about candy, chicken wings and dinosaurs without any subversive sense of sexual subtext? You children run along to bed, now. Daddy's a little exhausted from a long day of contributing to the economic subjugation of the lower classes.

Singles Going Steady

At this point, John Waters could put out a CD of his own gastrointestinal biorhythms and I'd sell my sister's glass eye just to own it. So it reeks of obvious-osity that I'd be first in line to get A Date With John Waters, as much for Jet Boy Jet Girl (one of my all-time favorite New Wave gender-bending rave-ups) as for the bizarre John Prine track In Spite Of Ourselves. And if I may vulnerable-ize myself for a moment, I had no idea The Muppets were not the original creators of If I Knew You Were Comin' Id've Baked A Cake. Please don't laugh at me when I'm standing before you emotionally naked. And hairless.

Thriving In The Dark

Ignatz is a White guy, but don't hold that against him. He composes mournful spooky tunes, shrouded in feedback and distortion, circling and enveloping his high-pitched moans. While old-time American blues are the most obvious cultural signpost, the Belgium-native guitarist pushes his influences into darker territories than any predictable vintage music revivalist. Tracks such as He Deals With Love & Her Eyes Glaze take their time slowly settling into your spine, creating an uneasy but sedate rhythm which burrows under your icy brain for its almost 10-minute duration, while Silver Moon... Shine Sun! Sun! Sun! approaches the same mood but with a different tact, buzzing urgently with a more immediate mesmerizing raga-like trance. His new album II will haunt your dreams and sidle up to your nightmares, too. You want to hear the New Weird America? You're soaking in it.

I Can't Stand It Any More More

Although I appreciate the gesture, there are some of you who insist on sending me You Tube links of scenes from Mr. Show week after week. The problem is this: I already own all three DVD collections of the entire series, so you're preaching while barking to the choir up the wrong tree. Perhaps your spare time would be better spent downloading all those rare Velvet Underground bootlegs suddenly popping up at Chocoreve. Keep sending those other links--the ones of Kraftwerk, select scenes from Sesame Street, etc--but take care of your long-gestating VU obsessions first, is all I'm saying. [Update: Chocoreve hasn't posted anything since 2008 and is perhaps now dead. Or walked away from his computer for a really long time.]

Punky Brewster

Someone should have the bright idea to create a public smackdown concert between The Makers and Brainbombs, because I'd be as moist as a baby's nappy over the aural and visual delights therein. The Makers would be all like, "Look at us, we're singing Do What I Wanna and Angry Young Man and we're snarling and wearing our sunglasses onstage and flipping the audience the bird even though they paid to see us!"

This bratty tirade would be cut short, though, because the Brainbombs-while launching into Die You Fuck and Kill Them All--will have decapitated their rivals and stabbed them in the stomach and boiled everything into a stew before the lights have barely gone down. You might have assumptions on who the winner would be of such a confrontation, but you'd be wrong. The real winner would be: us, the viewing public. Oh yes, and the concert promoter, making moolah hand-over-ass from all the cable television and subsidiary rights.

I'm With Annoying

Annoying: Wal-Mart
Annoying Squared: Wal-Mart selling albums by Television Personalities to overweight trashy Americans

Annoying: The Grammy Awards
Annoying Squared: Everybody who was nominated for one

Annoying: A song by Death Cab For Cutie
Annoying Squared: That same song animated by Jeffrey Brown

Annoying: Fiona Apple
Annoying Squared: Fiona Apple being fawned over by Quentin Tarantino in a sleeveless T-shirt

Annoying: The Police
Annoying Squared: Sting quoting Shakespeare
Annoying Times Infinity: The Police reuniting for a world tour

Off The Mark

Mark, we need to talk. It's not that I don't like you anymore. I've been in love with you for 20 years now. I loved you in the scrappy days of your youth, I love you now in your old age. Heck, I was one of the few who stood by you after you had that fling with Brix, during which she softened your sound a bit. But it feels like this relationship isn't going anywhere. Oh sure, I was happy to see you make some money off that Mitsubishi commercial, but why oh why would you release Reformation Post TLC when it's obviously so devoid of interesting songs? I've tried to show an interest in The Bad Stuff and The Usher, but they're both just so safe.

Mark, I'm not getting any younger and I need a little more danger and excitement in my life! That's why I'm leaving you for Xexyz, this new black metal band I've been seeing who employ Nintendo soundtracks as the foundation for their dark scary music. When I listen to What Lies Atop Gran Mountain and Metroid, I feel alive and young and free, which is a feeling I haven't had with you in a long time. I hate to see it end this way, Mark, but I hope we can always be friends in the future.

Shooting Rubberbands At Jesse Sykes

It's been a long time coming but all I can say is Edie Brickell, it's great to have you making soft-rock Adult Contemporary records again. Just one question: Why the complete name change?

Chop Till You Drop

It's possible that sometime last year, someone somewhere must have tried turning me on to The Archie Bronson Outfit, but I probably ran the opposite direction when I heard the descriptions "David Byrne", "vocals" and "yelp", instantly crouching into my I Hate Clap Your Hands Say Yeah karate chop stance. If I'd heard the words "raw fucking cool guitars mixed way up front like a toothache" instead, 2006 would have turned out to be The Year Disco:Very First Heard The Archie Bronson Oufit, My New Favorite Band Of Right Now (Second Only To Deerhunter). Regretfully, I can only crank Jab Jab, Cherry Lips and Kink, all the while thinking about what I loser I am for only now stumbling upon this wonderful band. Don't make the same mistake I did, kids. You've still got time to turn your lives around. Listen to The Archie Bronson Outfit and be saved.

K-9 Kapers!

Like all of you, I was immediately prepared to rabidly despise Dr. Dog, what with that band name, that cosmic album title (We All Belong), the scruffy long hair, the ramshackle Elephant 6 sound, their remarkably uncreative website, being fawned over by NPR, a few songs sounding like the most boring parts of The Basement Tapes, etc. But then those wonderful Abbey Road-style guitar riffs of Keep A Friend kick in and I'm butter in their arms. Why, I've even found myself humming along to the Lennon-esque Ain't It Strange with its odd percussion breaks and hidden vocal tracks. It's rather odd, this new tentative relationship I have with these proto-hippies, espcially considering they channel the dreadful Dead with such lines as, "Well, let's grab a case of lager/And some old beat-up shoes/Head down to the river/Strap on a canoe..." (Weekend). But considering how much this album entertains me overall, I'd say this is one dog I want humping my leg for a long time. A very very lo-o-o-o-nnnng time. No, I'm serious about this. I'm really really into dogs humping my leg. Yes. Dogs.

How To Volver

When your husband of many years is stabbed to death by your underage daughter after he attempts to rape her, it's best not to show much emotion about it. Just make sure you look super hot at all times, even while cleaning up the bodily fluids and hiding the body. Although mopping up gallons of fresh blood is messy work, you will probably only end up with just a few dabs of red on your sensual sexy body.

If you are the underage daughter who just killed her father, be sure to go about your average, normal teenage ways within a matter of a few hours. Sticking a knife in your father after he attempts to rape you is nothing to fret or worry about. Whatever shock or hysteria you feel initially will most likely pass once your mother unexpectedly opens up her own restaurant.

Should you feel the need to suddenly start up your own restaurant--despite no prior knowledge of running one nor any discernable ability to cook for large groups of people--don't despair. It is almost certain that a small film crew will magically appear on your doorstep asking if you can cater their film shoot. While most feature films, low budget or otherwise, would need to figure the catering costs into the budget many months before the cameras roll, this particular production can just wander the streets the very day filming begins, certain they will find a good caterer a mere few hours before lunch time arrives. Just make sure, as you're stirring pots and carving vegetables for 30 hungry high-maintenance crew members in a stuffy cramped kitchen, that you look super hot while doing it.

There should never be any worry, when starting up a brand-new restaurant, that your previous job as a cleaning lady at an unnamed instituion will ever come back into the picture. Because you've abruptly decided to take on this new entrepreneurial excursion, your old job should probably just fade away, as if it never existed in the first place. There is no need to explain this change of careers to anyone; ultimately, it's the loss of this unnamed hospital or university or whatever, where you scrubbed floors and washed sheets, all the while sporting sexy just-fucked hairdos and enormous stylish hoop earings that never get caught in your mop handle. There should also never be any worry that your fellow cleaning staff at this unnamed institution will look hotter than you. You will look stunning as you swab toilets, and they will look drab and plain and lack all the charisma that normally befits those who are forced to clean up after others as a means to make a living.

Super hot women who live in Madrid should constantly surround themselves with friends and family who are plain or overweight by comparison. While the other women of Madrid are forced to wear frumpy hand-me-down clothing (since, we are led to believe, you and your friends are very poor), you, on the other hand, should always wear fabulous form-fitting slinky dresses and fashionable jewelry at all times. For a change of pace, when you're in the woods late at night struggling with heavy picks and shovels to bury the dead husband whose life was taken by your own teenage daughter, you can instead wear a fabulous form-fitting track suit. Be sure to remain emotionally detached from these proceedings, showing the same concern for this ghastly circumstance as you would when creating a scrumptious meal for a small film crew on just a few hours notification.

When friends and family ask why your husband is nowhere to be found, simply tell them he promptly left you after a marital dispute. For the convenience of moving the story along, they will continue with their homely poverty-stricken lives, never once asking you for any specifics relating to this wildly unusual turn of events. Nor will they ask why you are super hot, va-va-va voom, sizzling sexy at all times of the day or night, while they, on the other hand, are forced to look unattractive and dull, even when partaking in the same working class existence as you.

Although you are super sexy and hot, it is perfectly normal to expect that one of your best friends will be a flashy overweight prostitute. Conveniently, she is also supremely adept at running the bar of your newly-acquired restaurant. Like you, she has no discernable prior knowledge of running a dining establishment--her spunk and joie de vie will more than make up for lack of experience. She is a hooker--how much different can it be to run a bar? By coincidence, she has also just bought several pounds of fresh meat--just enough to, say, serve the entire film crew which just showed up impulsively in the doorway of your restaurant. If you're worried that you'll have nothing to serve for dessert, fret not: another unstylish unattractive friend will pass by on the street and she, also, has just purchased large quantities of food for herself--in this case, chocolate cookies. Despite purchasing these for her own consumption, she will have no problem selling the entire supply of sweets to you. All you have to do is ask.

With your husband dead and buried, you are now single. As luck would have it, the Location Manager of the film whose cast and crew you are feeding happens to be young and sexy and hot, and he will flirt with you immediately, so there is no need to bother dating again or showing any inward turmoil over the shocking muder of your spouse. Because you are a walking wet dream, good luck and fortune will automatically fall into the lap of your form-fitting dress the minute you walk down the street.

Smell You Later

Generally, I tend to stay away from stupid stinky folk hippies, hence my ignorance on this matter. So please indulge me this quick question: stupid stinky hippies don't have sex, do they? If not, why do nearly all the stupid stinky folk hippies within Folk Is Not A Four Letter Word summon up such sultry sexy rhythms (Ar Goll, It Takes So Long)? Is that why this song is called Warm Up My Lips? Is that why it begins with the word "spooge"? Isn't there a law against this, somewhere?

The Future Is In Plastic

The urinary geyser of excitement I have for Now I Hollar isn't because rap pranksters Plastic Little have sampled goddess/songstress PJ Harvey. Nor is it because this track features Spank Rock, one of the best new acts from last year. Rather, I'm excessively wallowing in pee-glee because they've taken the bold step of creating a "me so horny" for the new millenium.

White Light/White Heat/White Head

While recently buying gum at a local convenience store, I noticed the clerk at the cash register had the most incredible white-head pimple on his chin. It made me swoon, this pimple. Honestly, I was almost weak in the knees, made delirious with desire and envy. It took every ounce of my mighty, masculine strength to resist reaching up, grabbing that chin in my hands and squeezing! squeezing! squeezing! until the money shot enveloped me in its greasy bodily payday fluids. The euphoria of zapping that zit would have been similar to the unbridled emotion I get when listening to Texas Overture by Pere Ubu--a tune so filled to bursting with creamy-hot goodness that even the moster guitar riffs could be eaten like toast.

How To Sundance

Do everything possible to assist global warming in melting the world's snow in a speedier fashion. Ridding the earth of the icy nuisance that prevents you from seeing more movies is a most commendable endeavor.

The cliche, in this case, turns out to be quite true: everyone living in Utah really is a white, middle-class, heterosexual Mormon family.

When running behind schedule for a screening after sleeping late, the ability to brush morning breath from your teeth while driving 65 m.p.h. down winding slippery snow-crusted highways is a skill well worth nurturing.

Should your cinematic hero David Gordon Green happen to sit on the same shuttle bus as you, remain calm. Do not wet your pants, no matter how enjoyable that might be. Quickly but firmly approach, conveying how much his films mean to you and what an honor it is to meet him. He will be humble, polite and will shake your hand. Retreat as fast as humanly possible back to your seat. When the woman sitting next to you asks, "What filmmaker is that you were speaking with?", try to refrain from weeping.

Abstain from disembarking off the shuttle at the same time as David Gordon Green: it will lead him to think you're a stalker. If this is unavoidable, bury yourself in the festival program, giving him a few seconds head start to be in front. Sadly, things take a turn for the worst when you find yourself walking right alongside him again a few blocks later; worse, he catches you looking at him. Pretend to be distracted--whoa, there is something really super duper interesting in that shop window across the street! Speed up, passing him in a dramatic fashion as a reassurance that this has all been one big coincidence. Chartering a zigzag path doesn't help: shockingly, you suddenly find yourself right next to him yet again a few minutes later! Holy fuck, how does this keep happening? Eventually, you will have to duck into the festival headquarters to finally and truly avoid walking next to him. Later, fantasize that he relates this run-in with a crazed fan to all of his movie genius buddies as they sip Meisterbrau in the lounge of their private-membership cineaste salon.

When driving between the Sundance Resort and Park City, be sure to seek out the woman selling blankets from her front porch in the quaint town of Heber City. These handcrafted gifts all bear the likeness of various favorite childhood characters: Mickey Mouse, Dora the Explorer, Barbie and...N.W.A???

That Peter Zaremba look-alike you saw on the street the other day turns out, in fact, to be god-like filmmaker Chris Smith. You don't understand this, of course, until later in the day when he makes an appearance for a screening of his latest effort, The Pool. Wait in line to speak with him after the film ends, sulking further when you only have enough time to ask what song played on the soundtrack over the credits. He promises to post the tune on the movie's website but this statement is only meant as an abrupt conversation closer. When leaving the screening of this excellent new film, refrain from slapping the women next to you who--knowing nothing of Smith's background as a documentary filmmaker--complains that it was "too slow" and that "nothing happened".

If you happen to blank out on the name and filmography of marginally interesting queer filmmaker Gregg Araki as he scurries past you, it's best to be accompanied by an aspiring filmmaker friend with few inhibitions. He is more than eager to shout out, "Hey! Hey, you! Did you make The Doom Generation? And what's your name?" The notorious filmmaker seems amused by this arrogant and ignorant outburst; the boyfriend standing next to him, less so.

If you are a frightfully hip young man from L.A, with artfully coifed blonde hair placed just so, a good way to project just how much more evolved you are than the teeming masses sitting amongst you in the theatre would be to continue wearing your expensive brand name sunglasses as you enter the auditorium, taking great care not to remove them until just before the lights go down. You should also take great care to avoid the blogger watching you from two rows away--if he catches you alone outside, he's liable to take those sunglasses and shove them so far up your ass, you'll have to call in a search team to find them.

Because you are movie star hunk Paul Rudd, your ears will burn due to the excited shrill conversation about you between three high-pitched sorority girls who spied you strolling down the street earlier in the evening. Although the encounter with you probably took all of 30 seconds, their recounting of this brush with fame will stretch for a little over an hour.

It's not unusual to find Protagonist, the new film by Jessica Yu, surprisingly accessible because of its direct emotional core. A seemingly simple exploration on the practices of character development handed down from ancient Greek dramas (all enacted by puppets), it's the interspersed personal stories of four real-life men reflecting on power, violence, hubris and redemption which has you bawling tears of empathy. Don't be embarrassed--everyone around you is crying, too.

When flying home, don't be afraid to speak with the diminutive gentleman behind you, taking off his shoes for the X-ray machine. It's comedy legend Bob Balaban and he's the nicest man in the world. He'll accept your compliments gracefully and engage you in a friendly conversation long after he had en excuse to end it. Both the talents and the warmth of Bob Balaban make the world a better place.

God Said "Wha...?"

God: Are you leaving us, my son?
Disco:Very: Only for a short while.
God: Where are you going?
DV: To the 2007 Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah.
God: Will you see any celebrities?
DV: Perhaps. Mostly, I will be avoiding celebrities.
God: Care to name which ones you'll be avoiding?
DV: The ones still wearing "Vote For Pedro" t-shirts two years after they went out of style.
God: Will you come back?
DV: No, I plan on setting up a permanent domicile under the seats of the Egyptian Theatre. Of course I'm coming back! Jeez, I mean, c'mon, the festival isn't year-round or anything! I'll be back on Wednesday night.
God: What films will you see?
DV: I know what I won't be seeing: anything remotely connected to John Sayles; anything starring Zach Braff; anything about indie rock kids looking for love in the big city; any movie using the following bands in its soundtrack: The Postal Service, Jet, The Doves, Phantom Planet, Death Cab For Cutie, Keane or Beulah.
God: That doesn't leave much else.
DV: No shit, Sherlock. It means I'll only be catching, like, the new one by David Gordon Green and a documentary or two about border crossings and that's about it.
God: Do you have a nice lodging situation set up?
DV:: Hella, yes. My crib will be the shit.
God: Can I stay with you?
DV: There isn't any room.
God: But you're staying at a 2-room suite in a swank resort and--
DV: You don't want to stay with me. I snore and I'm a major slob. Also, I don't want to share a bathroom with you and find your holy pubes on the soap dish.
God: I don't have pubes.
DV: Everyone has pubes.
God: Only those weighted to earthly desires.
DV: Nobody desires pubes. They just happen.
God: Silence! Your Lord and Savior does not have pubes!
DV: Alright, alright, don't get your flowing robes in a twist. Whatever, I just want to be alone, is all.
God: Fine. You will be alone for all eternity, writhing in agony amongst the flames of hell.
DV: A sphincter says what?
God: What?
DV: Perfect.

The Roots Of Emo

Part One

Rainy Days and Mondays and New Zealand Movies With Excessive Rain As The Central Metaphor Always Get Me Down

There is nothing witty or clever about the topic of re-posts. Believe me, it's true. If there was something humorous to be said, don't you think I would have said it already? Someone wrote me asking if I could repost a particular song from the soundtrack of the depressing New Zealand flick Rain and I'm not only going to comply (Orange and Blue), I'm going to up the ante (Summer Of Love, Drive Home, Red Room.) The soundtrack (mostly by Neil Finn) is very difficult to find in the U.S. Your choices are to have someone copy the entire CD for you (which, I shouldn't have to remind you, IS COMPLETELY ILLEGAL, PEOPLE!!) or you pay through the nose for it at Gemm. You must choose your fate. I have spoken.

FORGOTTEN FAVORITES RECENTLY HEARD ON MY iPOD
[DURING WHICH I PEED MY PANTS WITH EXCITEMENT]

Tempura Soul by Fuka Vicente (buy)

Bomb Shelter by The Drags (buy)

Israelites by Desmond Dekker (buy)

Nice New Outfit by Fugazi (buy)

Transformation Mistriss by Cosmo Vitelli (buy)

Yo Se by Royal Trux (buy)

Tennessee Club Mix by Bob Sinclar featuring Farrell Lenn (buy)
Thanks to Jockohomo for being the Pusherman on this one.

King Kong by Psapp (buy)

Impossible Things by Looper (buy)

Pop Junior Pop by Jr. & His Soulettes (buy)
Don't worry about collector prices: someone can copy it for you (wink wink)

Plant White Roses by The Magnetic Fields (buy)

Noodle On The Couch by Volcano Suns (buy)

They Hunt Deers, Don't They?

Who are Deerhunter, and why did it take Underneathica so long to turn me on to them? How did kids so very young get a sound so steeped in the post-punk art-squall of This Heat, Swell Maps, Chrome and Wire? How could a group of unseemly 12-year-olds come up with such brilliant songs as Cryptograms, Tree Spies and Tech School? Here I am, old enough to be their great-great-great grandfather who can't grow a moustache and yet these boys with a collective age of 42 are writing better music than Jesus Christ. It warms my dark twisted heart to hear them kicking up an aural dust storm instead of taking their musical cues from the Garden State soundtrack, like most tykes of their generation. Let's hope they run for President someday.

A Day In The Life Of The Fool On The (MacWorld Conference & Expo) Hill

Future jailbird Steve Jobs has every citizen of the world at his denim-clad knees during this week's MacWorld Conference & Expo (well, at least those citizens of the world rich enough to afford a $500 phone), and when he's ready to coax a powerful tune from his latest technological innovation, he chooses...Lovely Rita, Meter Maid by The Beatles??? Wouldn't it have made more sense to choose Revolution? Hell, Tomorrow Never Knows would have carried more symbolic weight! By my estimates, over eleventy-billion-zillion songs have been written since recorded tape was invented and this is the one track you choose to play? At least you could have had fun with your musically-clueless image and picked something (anything!) more ear-grabbing off Flabby Road and Flabby Road II. Steve, if you want someone to provide better song recommendations for any future gadget unveilings, just give me a call. You know my name (look up the number.)

Cottage Industry

Scientists the world over agree: weepy feelings of nostalgia for the music of your youth makes one's brain turn to cottage cheese. So forgive me this curdled snack respite as I chuckle along to the way-stupid guffaw-fest music video of the Mondo Guano song, uh, Mondo Guano (unearthed for me by a devoted Disco:Very fan.) While we're already in this twisted neck of the forest, we might as well explore the unchartered lands of Fast Car and Pantano Del Fango (whose opening lines, "Going to the mudbog/Won't you come along?/I need to find the answer, I need to find the answer..." are probably brilliant, but who really knows for sure?) This was Bob Log before he became Bob Log. This was the sound of Young America gulping acid at midnight and taking 3 excrutiating hours to set up their instruments as a result. My hope is that attempts to resurrect those long-ago performances through pointless yearly reunion shows never come to fruition (I only like cottage cheese in small doses.)

My New Year's Resolutions

1. In 2007, I vow to finally "get" bands whose talents currently leave me scratching my head in utter dismay (i.e., The Raconteurs).

2. In 2007, I vow to finally learn to pronounce the word "raconteurs".

3. In 2007, I vow not to hate more bands but to intensify the anger over the bands I already hate (quality over quantity).

4. In 2007, I vow to find someone who can tell me if those recent Captain Beefheart reissues are worth buying if one already owns them as cheapo imports from 15 years ago (how many times do I have to re-purchase these things, anyway?)

5. In 2007, I vow to take TV On The Radio, grind them down into a fine microscopic dust, and have that dust analyzed by the world's top scientists as a means to figure out why everyone goes so fucking ga-ga over them, 'cuz dude, once I know the answer, I am so going to put that dust in my morning fruit shake and drink it.

6. In 2007, I vow to always surround the name Beck with the words Idiot Scientologist (as in, "The latest album by Beck, Idiot Scientologist, is a dull rehash of the lame white boy street funk schtick he's been shitting out for the last several years; or, It would be a shame if Idiot Scientologist Beck were to wake up one morning and realize his dumb-ass bad-sci-fi-novel religion has been a complete waste of time from the minute he was brainwashed into accepting it".)

7. Most of all, 2007 is the year I vow to download the billions and billions of albums this Napster-as-pig-face guy is offering at his website, despite the complicated subversive tactics which have been erected to avoid detection by the Filesharing Police. Just looking at the exhaustive list of everything he's got for the taking, I can tell 2007 is going to be a long year.

A Big Load of Down

Just like taxes and death, you simply cannot escape the mammoth bigness of the annual best-of year-end comp from your pal at Disco:Very. However, for the first time in history, you'll now have three choices: 1) if you're a fan of Joanna Newsom, you can ignore this offer completely, or, 2), if you prefer a 2-CD set in your postal box, you can toss me an e-mail (peecat[at]mac.com) with your name (fake is fine) and address, or, 3) you can download it directly from my hairless little hands right this very minute (Disc One is here, Disc Two is here; titles/names can be downloaded here.) Of course, you must consider carefully all of the ups/downs/pluses/minues of choosing a cold, heartless download over receiving a warm and fuzzy 2-CD set in the mail [click on image to embiggen]:

The fine print: If you choose to have a CD package mailed you you, please be assured that once you have received this free gift, your (real or fake) name and e-mail/home address will be thrown away and you will not be mailed anything by me ever again (unless you want me to). I will not send you spam (unless you want me to). Delivery time of a CD package can be anywhere between 5 days and 6 weeks, depending on my energy level. This offer is good until my patience runs out.

Y Kant Tori Kill Off Joanna?

The best part of 2006: a lot of superb reissued music made it to the marketplace, such as Crushed Butler's visceral, wigged-out It's My Life. The worst part of 2006: Joanna Newsom continued to wreak havoc on our ear canals with such mind-numbingly awful lyrics as, "Picking through your pocket linings/Well, what is this?/Scrap of sassafras/Eh, Sisyphus?" DO YOU SEE WHAT PROBLEMS YOU HAVE WROUGHT UPON THE HUMAN RACE, TORI AMOS??? Obviously, the unicorn-ness twaddle of Newsome's latest musical missive didn't make it onto my annual 2-CD year-end free giveaway Disco:Very 2006. Want to know who did? Want to know how to get a copy? Check back in a few hours and all shall be revealed.

Ask Not What You Can Do For James Brown, Ask What Can James Brown Do For You

In the case of James Brown's death, I'm on Stage Three: Bargaining. "Oh, benevolent all-knowing Being", my tearful negotiations would begin, "How about we offer you a different but infinitely less-talented past-it performer like John Cougar Mellencamp or Carlos Santana to kill instead?" The sadness is multiplied when you realize we now have nobody to pen triumphant funk credos extolling the strength and dignity of can-do self-reliance. You know the types of songs I mean: those sassy pumped-up tunes like Brown's own I Don't Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing (Open Up The Door I'll Get It Myself) or Brown-protege Marva Whitney's You Got To Have A Job. I've already accepted the challenge and written a number of New Style songs for today's (man's man's man's) world. Or as we'd say in Brown-speak: I wanna get up and do my thang:

Don't Be Sending Me My Yahoo E-Mail Password (It Will Come To Me Eventually)

I Don't Need You To Spot Me (On The YMCA's Recline Bench Press)

Ain't Nobody Going To Process My Groceries (Give The People Self-Check Registers At Trader Joe's)

Don't Be A Quitter (Say It Loud - Smoke Yourself Proud)

Get Up, Get Involved, Get Into That Banana Republic Silk/Cashmere V-Neck Sweater On Your Own (The Sales Clerk Is Just Talkin' Loud & Sayin' Nothing)

I Can't Stand Myself (When You Touch Yourself) (Papa's Got A Brand New Bag Of Viagra)

Stacks of Wacks

Big deal. So a guy buys a Velvet Underground acetate at a yard sale for 75 cents and discovers it could be worth $150,000. I've got boxes full of those same acetates taking up space all over my house. I'm using one as a mouse pad right this minute. Hell, I've been making them into vinyl ashtrays to catch the ash off my $50-a-day smoking habit. If all you drooling indie kids are that ga-ga over all of this, a cheaper alternative might be to head over here where my man Taste has those same hella-rare tracks available as a free download. If you're still anxious to spread some green around, why not consider buying this shit-awful indie-by-the-numbers comp off me that I stupidly picked up used a few weeks back? It's got all the darlings of the ATP crowd, which just happen to be all the bands I hate with a violent, seething red-eyed anger: Modest fucking Mouse, Elliot fucking Smith, Pedro the fucking Lion, Minus the fucking Bear, Of fucking Montreal, etc, etc. My going price just happens to be, oh, say, $150,000.

The Reality Of It All

Due to my hectic career as a renowned creator of hit reality television shows, it sometimes takes me a long while to find time for a posting or two. Currently, I'm working on an offshoot of The Biggest Loser where, instead of overweight Americans resisting the temptation of food, we'll have wasted rockers struggling to avoid the downward spiral of excessive drug addiction. After hurtling gauntlets of managers with platters of pills and groupies offering bowls of coke, contestants will face the weigh-in, where the boniest post-rehab musician gaining the most pounds each week is declared the winner. I'm also developing a reality show for MTV wherein Neu!-influenced indie rockers--desperately attempting to prove their Krautrock credentials--will live together in a locked guarded house, keeping a 4/4 motortik rhythm going for the duration of an entire TV season. I'm placing my bets on Fujiya & Miyagi who, on the basis of Casettesingle and Conductor 71, could probably play this steady beat until Our Savior Jesus comes back to destroy the earth. Lucky for them, using a drum machine is not considered cheating.

The Agony Of Defeat Of The Pun Of The Agony Of Da Feet

Perhaps it's due to my freakishly large shoe size and thighs of titanium, but when I jog, I book. So even though it was made for running, the new long-playing corporate-ass-kissing concoction by James Murphy (mouthpiece of LCD Soundsystem) entitled 45:33 (Tales of Topographic Oceans was already taken?) is more suited to the Poky Little Puppy sweatin' to the oldies while plodding on the 3.3 setting of a treadmill (if you're anxious to just do it, it's currently being offered for free by my close personal friend Taste*). More likely, you'll catch me speeding past you to the live LCD Soundsystem concert being offered at Live Bootleg. It sprints along at a much more brisk clip, and helps me keep these buns of steel tighter than a clogged sink at the Playboy mansion**.

*Apparently, the Man made him take it down.
**Like you, I have no idea what that means.

Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair Is The New Black

Free Jazz and I are like oil and water: specifically, I'm the cheap rusty sludge coming from the faucet, and Free Jazz is the fancy aged European olive oil in a thick hand-crafted dark brown bottle. But in the Salad Bowl of Art-Damaged Free-Form Squealing, Patty Waters and I blend into a harmonius mixture of flavors, thanks to her notorious squawk-fest Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair. Ms. Waters takes this oft-covered Old World folk tune and bites it raw, spitting it out onto your lap like so much chewed Play-Doh. You haven't heard singing this deranged since Yoko Ono metaphorically fell into bed with Ornette Coleman and birthed Aos, the illegitimate love child which split up The Beatles. If, like me, you haven't yet learned how to suck at the nipple of the Free Jazz teat, skip on over to Destination Out where you can discover Patty Waters and more at A Beginner's Guide To Free Jazz, proof positive that the freshness date on your current favorite music genre expired at least 40 years ago.

Laughter Is The Best Way To Make Fun Of Those Less Intelligent Than You

Giggles came a-plenty earlier today when I was lucky enough to witness the spectacled, pasty white, Rebel-Without-A-Grill, Yo La Tengo-worshipping music store clerk at my local CD chain store as he attempted to help a thuggish, rough-looking gangsta Snoopafella figure out which artist performs "Slam Dat Ass" and "I Wanna Fuck You" (predictably, the Decemberists devotee came up blank.) I haven't laughed that hard since I downloaded (almost) the entire thrash metal oeuvre of Boston's bad boys Anal Cunt, freely available at Loadown. If I can't laugh at tracks like Pottery Is Gay, Recycling Is Gay, The Internet Is Gay, Windchimes Are Gay, Harvey Korman Is Gay, All Our Fans Are Gay, I Noticed That You're Gay, If You Don't Like The Village People You're Fucking Gay, The Word "Homophobic" Is Gay, I Just Saw The Gayest Guy On Earth, Song Titles Are Fucking Stupid and Having to Make Up Song Titles Sucks, I don't want to be part of your revolution.