When This Blog's-a-Thrashing, Don't Come a-Smashing

No recent postings does not mean I'm lazy. I've simply been busy negotiating with Google, who--still high from their recent You Tube purchase--are now offering to buy my shit-hot Disco:Very for a reported $800 billion (their reasoning: when your readers are apparently too intimidated to post comments, it's gotta be the greatest blog around.) My woeful lack of public appearances makes me similar to the sad hairless Chihuahua genius we call Billy Corgan, and like Mr. Rat In A Cage, I'm here to tell you that great things are on track for the future. As some of you know I am indeed blogging again; blogging that comes from a place so pure it will burn the lies off the very souls of those who try to discount it. I have arrived at a place in my life where truth and honesty prevail and I am creating from that place, a place I call Honesty Prevails Village, a gated community for tortured artists and the people who suffer along with them. Be sure to visit the gift shop.

Shot From A Canon

If Paul Schrader can pick the The Big Lebowski for his Film Cannon (in the September/October issue of Film Comment)--choosing it, mind you, before Sunset Boulevard, Gun Crazy and Salvatore Giuliano--I feel I can safely place Strum & Drum by the Sex Clark Five way up high at the top of my Definitive All-Time Greatest Albums Of All Time List (Canon). The angelic vocals of Fool I Was, those tentative White Boy rhythms in Alai, the curious subject matter blending the quest for nervous love (If You See Her With Me (Let Me Know), Girls Of Somalia) with precise descriptions of geo-political conflicts (Sarajevo)...all of it would sit nicely on my Western Canon trophycase (next to The Residents' Third Reich And Roll, Daniel Johnston's Hi. How Are You? and The Fall's This Nation's Saving Grace).

Another Kind Of Fire by Edie Carey: I like to extinguish fires by pissing on them. Plus, I avoid drinking fluids so my pee is thick and dark yellow. Did I mention I've also got blood in my urine?

Most Imperfect Skies by Don't Die Cindy: I used to hate you for your awful band name alone, but now thanks to your dumb-fuck album titles, I have a whole new layer of froth forming in my mouth.

The Makings Of Me by Monica: Judging by your provacative album cover, you have all the makings of a topless turd. A turd which is also a giant 'ho. Henceforth, you will answer to the name 'Ho Turd.

Lovers Requiem by I Am Ghost: You're the creepy, scary goth ghost of my nighmares, and when you sing "Pretty People Never Lie, Vampires Really Never Die", I thank Lucifer you're a ghost instead of a vampire, because I want assurance that you will die. Very, very soon. Like, yesterday.

Still Searching by Senses Fail: Congratulations! You've scored a 10-point field goal in the Soccer Game of Suck.

Vultures by Smile Empty Soul: The sound of choking on one's own vomit, for an entire album. It gets worse: it's a concept album.

One More Drifter In The Snow by Aimee Mann: Let's hope nobody sends out a rescue team.

We Couldn't Think Of A Title by Psychostick: Although they're as entertaining as Open Mic Night at Catch A Rising Star, I couldn't think of an insult more hurtful than this: They're from Phoenix.

I Love You by Diana Ross: Hell hath no fury like a woman with a botched face tuck, especially when her last hit was during the Mesozoic Era.

I Don't Care Where I Go When I Die by Gaza: With song titles like "Pork Finder", "Slutmaker" and "Hospital Fat Bags", I think it's safe to say nobody else cares where you go when you die, either.

Smile...It Confuses People by Sandi Thom: Does Ms. Thom have to pay Hot Topic royalties when she cribs her album titles off those half-inch buttons with wacky phrases they sell? Youth wants to know!

Suck Not, Lest Ye Be Sucked

The genius of Walt C. goes beyond what mortals would term "music". In other news, Modest Mouse has announced they will once again be postponing their forthcoming album We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank, vowing to keep working on it day and night until it no longer sucks. Accomplishing this Herculean task puts the new release date sometime in the year 5048.

Mopey's Choice

Which is worse: hearing the original version of "In A Big Country" performed by Big Country, or the yuppie FM-lite version on that icky-twee Kohl's commercial? Would you rather endure the faux-50's stylings in Grease or this sickening embroidery pattern? When I'm in the mood to hear moody opera pop, I pick Sigur Ros, except when they dawdle between albums, in which case I head towards the upstart quasi-Sigur Ros-esque-ness of Faunts, who creates, well, high expecations with High Expectations (on their debut CD High Expectations/Low Results). Sure, Gone With The Day sounds a bit too too too, but if there aren't any Icelandic post-rock albums appearing on the (tundra) horizon, what else am I supposed to do--sit around and pout? It's not like I can embroider one of my own.

An Open Letter To Perpetrators Of School Violence

Will all of you psychotic gun-toting maniacs please stop killing innocent children in America's classrooms, if only for another week or so? Because everytime you unleash your weapons, it takes away from the Foley scandal in the mainstream news, and if there is one thing I love, it's watching Republicans writhe in agony like the fuck pigs they are. Besides, they'll be plenty of other completely horrifying news topics in the coming weeks to take our minds off sexual predators in U.S. government. As for today's take on music: bla bla bla Beyond Istanbul bla bla bla Underground Grooves of Turkey, bleh bleh bleh Depresyondayım and Reggae Turca Tone etc etc etc. Forgive my lack of enthusiasm but it's hard to stay interested in music when you're living in a deranged country where war mongers are hell bent on pushing us all towards Armageddon.

Sweden Is Alright, If You Like Saxophones

My deep forbidden love of International Harvester is an open book. It's the secret diary I leave lying around, unlocked. So why don't I love Arbete Och Fritid the same way, seeing how they grew from the same mighty musical acorn? Easy: saxophones. I hate saxophones. Small parts of Petrokemi Det Kan Man Inte Bada I, for instance, make me urinate with glee, but then that damn saxophone comes in and my ears slam shut. Thank gawd they also play flutes, making it that much easier to rationalize my narrow music tastes. PS: If you don't hear from me for a long while, it's because I'm entering a rehabilitation clinic for treatment of alcoholism (apparently, it's a cure-all for sexual orientation--who knew?

Butt Trumpet

Sweet holy Jesus on a rotoblade! Pink Tentacle is offering up the entire You Tube music video collection of the completely kick-ass Japanese psych-punk band Yura Yura Teikoku. It's during such times as watching the video for Rame No Pantalon that I'm happy to still have a 9-year-old's sense of humor.