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.