Grand Theft Audio

Thanks to the new 25th Anniversary reissue of the 1986 Grammy-winning hit album Graceland, when you listen to this early version of All Around The World Or The Myth Of Fingerprints, you can almost hear the exact moment when Paul Simon steals this Los Lobos song right out from under them. Bonus joke: "Ever since the watermelon..."--what the fuck does that even fucking mean??

It Takes a Nation of Zulus To Raise a Zulu Nation

Suffering from what I considered an infestation of zits in my youth, I was once informed that toothpaste, applied liberally to each blemish, would erase them quickly. During an application one morning, I was distracted by something or other and forgot to wash the gooey cream from my face, arriving at work with white spots all over my forehead and chin, garnering odd looks from fellow employees too polite to point out my gaffe. Isn't this the same flustered feeling one gets when No Smoke Records (who can't be bothered to create a website) once again informs us, to our disbelief, that Africa was once a hotbed of '60's garage rave-ups? Zulu Stomp: South Africa Garage Beats contains more great tunes than you can shake a rungu at. From Get Your Baggies On (by Bats) to I've Got News For You (by the oddly-monikered 004's), you'll find yourself standing slack-jawed at the wealth of garage-y goodness dripping from every groove. Personally, I find myself returning again and again to Freedom's Children's take on the overplayed Stones classic Satisfaction--with a breathless rhythm so primal, so urgent, I could almost swear it was The Monks taking a turn at this haggard horse. The entire comp rolls along at a clipped pace. It's as potent as a shot glass of Proactiv acne treatment served on the rocks. Or at least a similar pimple-themed punchline which hasn't occurred to me yet.

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 3]

The Long List of Artists Whose Music I Was Searching for at Amoeba Music on Haight Street, Thus Annoying the Counter Clerk Because the List Was So Fucking Long, But Also Annoying Me Because None of Their Albums Were in the Racks:

The Black Jaspers

Crookers

Kevin Dunn

Filmzenek Tarr Bela

Gay for Johnny Depp

Andrew Graham

High All the Time (Various Artists)

Hunx & His Punx

Mazing Vids

Moderne

Pretty & Nice

Reading Rainbow

Sonny & the Sunsets

Charanjit Singh

UV Race

White Fence

The Second Part of the Long List of Artists Whose Music I Was Searching for at Amoeba Music on Haight Street, Thus Annoying the Counter Clerk Because It Dawned On Her at Some Point That I Was Making Them All Up:

I Run, I Jump, I Skip, I Fall Down: Hello!

Click Your Heels, Scream "I'm Anglo!"

Almost There, Almost There--Oops! Wrong Turn

They're Dancing In Unison and I'm Drowning Beside Them

You Ate What???

Everybody Bends at the Knee

Reach Up! Reach Up! Give it Here!

Ow! I Stubbed My Toe! Ow!

My Womb Held Aloft

Him and Her and Me and Them and Us and He and She

Let's Look at the Sun and Go Blind (Now We Are Blind)

Invisible Sheets of Yesterday and Forever

Aching, Waiting, Hoping, Spinning, Spinning, Spinning

Plausorchiadidian

Sounds Like Ass

Disco:Very Does Dallas. No, Wait: San Francisco [Part 2]

Stalking Benjamin Bratt in the Haight Street Amoeba Music: A One-Act Play

Cast:
Benjamin Bratt as Himself
Disco:Very as Himself

Curtain rises on a busy day at Amoeba Music on Haight Street. Disco:Very, dressed in the youthful fashions of today, is in the "B" section of the CD racks, mystified as to why the goddamned store doesn't have any music by The Black Jaspers. At that very moment, Benjamin Bratt, star of both TV and talking pictures, enters the store, eventually inching his tall lithe frame down the aisle across from where Disco:Very is shopping.

Noboby has yet noticed Benjamin Bratt except Disco:Very--similar to the same way nobody but Disco:Very spied Michael Moore walking towards his gate at the Chicago Airport some years ago, and how could they miss him because that guy's as big as a trash barge? Does Disco:Very possess a sixth sense of some kind? An ESP which alerts him to the proximity of actors, musicians and entertainment personalities? Perhaps, upon Disco:Very's eventual demise, scientists ought to slice Disco:Very's brain into thin tissues so as to study and learn from what are surely remarkable and perhaps even revolutionary cerebral impulses.

Benjamin Bratt is dancing the dance upon which all celebrities embark: hoping to not be noticed while hoping to be noticed; pretending to be an Average Joe out on a shopping excursion while fully expecting that his many fans will gather around him, gawking and gushing about his filmic achievements. Because Disco:Very sniffs his nose at the types of films and TV series in which Mr. Bratt would appear, no praise will be forthcoming from the lofty blogger. Instead, he merely follows Mr. Bratt at a safe yet inquisitive distance.

What music will Benjamin Bratt be buying, in this enormous shop containing millions of CD's, records and tapes? The possibilities are as endless as one's tastes. Will Bratt pursue the extensive International section, concerning himself in particular with Native American recordings, thus showing an interest in his own proud ethnic heritage? Or will he instead skirt along the edge of the jazz aisle, purchasing a Verve reissue of musical renown? Perhaps Bratt will indulge in some extreme noise recordings and surprise us all by brandishing a recording of Sunn O))), or perhaps he's into the experimental creations of mathematically-inclined composer Iannis Xenakis?

No, Benjamin Bratt stays in the vicinity of the rock and pop aisle, picking through the racks labeled Fleetwood Mac.

Disco:Very, seeing this, shoots himself in the head.

[Curtain]

Who'll Stop the Rain? Perhaps If We Plug the Clouds with All Those Fucking Tribute Albums on the Market, That Might Help

If you're hard-up enough to purchase John Fogerty: Wrote a Song for Everyone just to hear any number of are-they-still-alive? artists pay respects to the Creedence Clearwater Revival song-penner, you might think twice before purchasing it via iTunes, seeing how they inexplicably mis-label the best track: Fortunate Son, performed by Al Perry, recorded during his ill-advised but thankfully short-lived obsession with The Go-Go's. That's all. Class dismissed.

My Precious Feelings on the 36th Telluride Film Festival

Although I am not the winner of this year's edition of the Be the First to Spot Ken Burns game, I do, however, witness many 4-year-olds around town with the same bowl-cut hair style, which scores me a few points in the end.

The next morning, I happily spot Mr. Burns being nagged by his wife in broad daylight and provide him momentary respite from her by insisting I get my picture snapped with him (that's me on the left).

The minute the festival schedule is announced, rumors being to swirl like Lysol® Power Toilet Bowl Cleaner as it washes away pesky lime and rust. Due to a surprise announcement that Up in the Air will be screening, everyone is on the lookout for George Clooney to make an appearance. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am him. Curse my masculine square jaw and rugged good looks!

The festival begins on a high note for me thanks to Henri-George Clouzot's Inferno, an engrossing recounting of the unfinished masterwork-which-could-have-been by the director of The Wages of Fear and Diabolique. Some of the visuals are so strong, you want to take them home in your pants pocket to take out and look at later when you're alone.

I walk out midway during the first screening of the three-part Red Riding: 1974, which is too formulaic for my tastes. A few hours later, I endure a screening of The Miscreants of Taliwood--a potentially fascinating documentary on the local film production of Pakistan as it wrestles with local Islamic fundamentalism, but the story is overwhelmed by the self-absorbed director who inserts his hammer-over-the-head moral judgements into nearly every frame.

Despite critics who find his vision far too bleak, I personally delight in the films of Michael Heneke (Cache, Funny Games) and his deeply morbid take on the world, especially in his new flick The White Ribbon (a perfect date movie if you're trying to woo a Goth). He sometimes tries a little too hard to be The Bad Boy of Cinema ("I hope you have a disturbing viewing experience", he proclaimed before the screening I caught), but he'd be the type of person to which I'd gravitate at a party, especially as he gloomily points out the violent malicious nature of humanity to the shocked and horrified guests.

One of the delights of a great festival is when the selected films share similar thematic concerns. Such was the case of two very different films, A Prophet and Coco Before Chanel:

A Prophet: The protagonist is trapped in an oppressive prison system with no means of escape.
Coco Before Chanel: Lowly employees are trapped working for the oppressive Coco Chanel without any means of escape.

A Prophet: The lead character must resort to violence and murder to climb his way to the top of the prison hierarchy.
Coco Before Chanel: Coco must resort to violence and murder to climb her way to the top of the fashion hierarchy.

A Prophet: The protagonist conceals a razor blade in his mouth in order to slit the throat of an opponent.
Coco Before Chanel: Ditto.

It is announced that a special appearance will be made by Helen Mirren, who is in attendance with her new costume drama The Last Station. It certainly explains why I keep getting stopped in the street by strangers assuming I am her. Curse my matronly demeanor and bosomy man-boobs!

I hereby apologize to everyone sitting near me during It Came From Kuchar, the side-splitting new documentary about the Kuchar twins, George and Mike. The campy clips from their lewd filmography had me convulsing with booming laughter during the entire 90 minutes.

Early on, I decide to skip the special screening of the new Todd Solondz film Life During Wartime. If I wanted to experience tiresome smart-ass writing whose only intent is to make the viewing public uncomfortable, I'd just read my own fucking blog [*rimshot*].

I have a newfound respect for filmmaker Alexander Payne, whose films (About Schmidt, Sideways) have always slightly annoyed me. All of his picks as Guest Director of the festival were worth catching, from the weepy 1937 drama Make Way For Tomorrow to the Spanish black comedy El Verdugo to the darkly ironic Samurai epic Daisan no Kagemusha. His presentation of the splendid Italian romantic comedy Le Ragazze di Piazza di Spagna, which featured a very young Marcello Mastroianni in one of his earliest roles, was made even more special for me because I was sitting a mere two rows away from his frequent co-star Anouk Aimée. Being able to look over at her as Mastroianni appeared on the screen had me in cinematic heaven.

My Thoughts on Hearing John Lennon Being Played as the Soundtrack to the Health Care Reform Rally I Attended This Morning

Power to the People
The lyrics are painfully naive regarding revolutionary change but I'm just happy to be here protesting alongside my liberal brothers and sisters. Whoo hooo! Health care reform now!!

Imagine
Well, I'd rather chew off my own ear than ever have to hear this fucking song ever again, and although its themes can only tangentially be linked to the health care issue, what the hell: c'mon everybody, hold your signs high and let everyone feel your passion on this issue!!

Mother
Um, doesn't this song chronicle Lennon's anguish over the loss of his mother after she died in a car crash during his youth? I'm not really sure what that has to do with health care...

Cold Turkey
Look, I guess you could link a song about heroin addiction to the need for a more inclusive health care system but maybe we could find a more appropriate CD to be playing and...

Woman Is the Nigger of the World
OK, now you're playing a song containing the "N word" at a rally somewhat connected to our current president, who happens to be Black. HOLY SHIT, CAN THE ORGANIZERS OF THIS RALLY GET A CLUE AND TURN THIS GODDAMNED CD OFF???

Money Doesn't Grow On Trees--It Does, However, Tend to Blow Amongst Heavy Traffic on Sunset Boulevard at Opportune Moments

If you're the person in Los Angeles who lost that $100 bill I found lying in the street this past weekend, please write me immediately so I can thank you from the bottom of my heart. That green sure came in handy when Amoeba Records had that rare used version of Recombo DNA, the internet-only limited-edition 2-CD comp of outtakes and demos by robotic New Wave pioneers Devo. Can you imagine how your inability to keep track of your moolah has instantly enriched my life? Now I can listen to Sloppy (I Saw My Baby Gettin') (demo) and Girl U Want (demo alternate version) whenever I damn well please without ever having to resort to the shameful practice of illegal downloading. Thanks to your nimble wallet, my disposition is so sunny I even find myself listening to the tracks made during their later barely-interesting period following their surprising chart success. I hope to be in your area again in three weeks--do you think you can see to losing another $100 dollar bill during my upcoming visit? And a little closer to my hotel wouldn't hurt, either.

Live Blogging SXSW 2009 In Exasperating Detail, Part 2. [Let's Suffer Through It Together.] [Hugs!]

The trade show begins today. I have a lengthy visit at the booth for Lost Zombies, billed as "a social network whose goal is to document the zombie apocalypse..." I am not making this up. I'm told by one of the creators that the most contentious argument on their forum is whether zombies--when chasing potential victims--move slowly or quickly. Please excuse me while my eyes glaze over from brain damage.

There is a large booth representing the Australian film industry which seems to attract a sizable crowd throughout the day. I thought of suggesting to them that they should offer a free trip to their homeland to the first person who admits to having sat through Australia, but relented when I realized the international incident which would ensue would surely conflict with my lunch break.

During my visit to the booth of WhoLinksToMe.com, I make the mistake of telling this up-and-coming website that I am the President and CEO of www.DiscoColonVery.net, after which they suggest I use their sister site, www.WhoGivesTwoShitsAboutYourSnarkyBlog.com.

A popular trade show giveaway this year seems to be items which ease the workload of drinking beer: I spotted a business card and a lighter, both of which double as bottle openers. Stress balls were, as always, the most sought-after gifts but I'm convinced vendors only give this away so when customers clamor for them, they can overuse the easy joke, "Our balls are huge!"

Each year, every SXSW trade show sees an influx of intelligence-deficient attendees who seem to have been dropped off in front of the Austin Convention Center by the local mental ward. One gentleman spent nearly 10 minutes at our booth speaking softly about the weather and how long he's lived in his home state, never once attempting to link his chosen profression as a musician with the goals of our organization. Another man, standing all of 5ft 5inches, bound over to our booth to exclaim, "I've been coming to SXSW since I was little!" [Pause. Wait for it.] "Now I'm visiting again and I'm still little!" Buh dum dum. This well-rehearsed joke was actually worth a chuckle when uttered at our table; less so when we heard him repeat it again word for word at the next booth over. And again at the booth next to that one.

Throughout the day, SXSW conducts live interviews with bloggers which are then broadcast via streaming audio & video on its website. Call me biased, but interviewing someone who obsessively documents the minutiae of their day is a bit like singing a song about people who write songs. The subject is so meta, it's eventually going to implode on itself.

Going to See Revolutionary Road During the Superbowl: A Play in Three Acts

Prologue: An empty movie theatre. Four 50-something women enter the theatre as the lights dim for the feature presentation. Three of the women take their seats; the fourth women is overheard announcing to her friends that "she prefers to stand during the beginning of a movie."

Several previews are played, along with commercials, announcements urging the audience to shut off all electronic devices, etc. Eventually, the movie begins. The fourth women continues standing through the first 10 minutes of it.

Act One

[The scene is a mid-1950's upper-middle class suburb in Connecticut.]

Leonardo DiCaprio: My name is Frank Wheeler. I am named thusly because I speak in a frank fashion and, like the wheel on a car, I roll along day after day without a thought as to where I am going.

Kate Winslet: My name is April Wheeler. Like the month after which I am named, I represent growth and renewal. It would be a shame if my blossoming were to be cut short before my petals had a chance to bloom.

Leonardo DiCaprio: Although I am newly-married with a family, living in a pristine upper-middle class home and working my way up the corporate ladder, I feel my life is stifled and my dreams unrealized.

Kate Winslet: Let's give in to your long-time aspirations and move our family to Paris. We will buck the patriarchal socio-economic system of the mid-50's by making you the house husband while I, the woman, trot off to work each morning.

Leonardo DiCaprio: This drastic new lifestyle will truly put us on...a revolutionary road.

Act Two

Kathy Bates: I am Helen Givings. I am thus named because I am very giving. Although I am merely the realtor who sold Frank and April their idyllic mid-50's dream house many years ago, I will be forcing my way into the story quite often, usually at a point when our newlyweds are in emotional disarray, which occurs about every 4 minutes.

[To Frank and April] I would like to make a bizarre demand and insist upon bringing along my emotionally disabled son John Givings to your next dinner party. Although he was just released from a mental hospital and is given to frequent outbursts of screaming and derisive comments, I can't possibly see what could go wrong with having him attend a fancy-dress dinner in your home.

[We now see a dinner party at Frank and April's pristine pastel-colored dining room.]

John Givings: [To Frank and April] Because I am a social retard and therefore not hindered by the same social constraints as you, I am uniquely qualified to give voice to the churning discord of your counterfeit relationship. By definition, I am insane, but by the standards of your violent and unsettling marriage, I might actually be the most sensible character in the entire movie because I dare to speak the truth which you conveniently sweep under the carpet of your idyllic mid-50's upper-middle class home.

[Skip ahead 90 minutes.]

Leonardo DiCarpio: April's blossoming has been cut short before her petals had a chance to bloom!

Act Three

[Disco:Very is seen on the theatre floor, vomiting.]

THE END

[Curtain]

The Songs I Heard While Waiting to See the Dentist and the Painful Dental Procedure They Most Resemble

Song: Sunglasses at Night (Corey Hart)
Painful Dental Procedure: Extraction of wisdom teeth

Song: It's Still Rock & Roll to Me (Billy Joel)
Painful Dental Procedure: Root canal

Song: Our House (Madness)
Painful Dental Procedure: Dental crowns

Song: I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues (Elton John)
Painful Dental Procedure: Gum surgery

Song: Evil Ways (Santana)
Painful Dental Procedure: Getting braces tightened

Song: Love Will Find a Way (Pablo Cruise)
Painful Dental Procedure: Death from anesthesia

The Redneck Guy Who Turns Out to Be a Substitute Teacher, Which is Scary Because He Displays Such Poor Social Skills in the Intimacy of the Steam Room

A One Act Play

Curtain Opens

We are in the steam room of a downtown gym. LARGE BEEFY TATTOOED MAN (LBTM) and SCRAWNY SMART ASS BLOGGER SECURE WITH THE SIZE OF HIS PENIS (SSABSWTSOHP) are relaxing in silence after a long work out as the sound of steam emits an hypnotic hissing into the tiny room. Because these characters do not know each other, neither one says a word to the other.

After a beat, the door to the steam room opens and in walks HILLBILLY SPORTING A PONYTAIL WHILE ALSO WEARING BIKINI UNDERWEAR WHICH FITS A LITTLE TOO SNUG FOR ANYONE'S COMFORT LEVEL (HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL). He sits down between LBTM and SSABSWTSOHP.

All the characters sit in silence for a minute or two as steam fills the room.

HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL: Fuck!

(HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL changes his position so he is now lying down.)

HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL: (Gives a loud sigh.)

All the characters sit in silence for another moment.

HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL: The shit don't stop until your casket drops!

LBTM and SSABSWTSOHP sit in silence, unsure whether or not to comment on HSAPWAWBUWFALTSFACL's outburst.

Another moment passes in silence.

SSABSWTSOHP stands up and quickly moves to the showers.

The End

(Curtain)

My Gods Can Out-Meditate Your Gods

I would not be amiss in assuming that time spent with hippy-jam outfit Sun Araw would be akin to the frequent conversations I end up having with the spiritually-leaning alternative rock show promoter who attends the same gym as me. "I balance rocks on top of one another when I'm meditating in the desert," he proclaims proudly. "It keeps me connected to the earth's energy." The only energy you're plugged into, I contemplate replying, is the Electric Brainwave of Retardville, you Guatemalan-vest-wearing dipshit. If he ever wrote a song as powerful as Horse Steppin', I'd be inclined to agree with his quasi-religious mumbo jumbo. Create a tune as mesmerizing as this and you can pile 8 tons of boulders on your fucking hairy-ass nuts, for all I care. But no, I have to endure his Tibet-styled bowing-to-the-sun-lion yoga poses right before he retires to his art studio where he whips up pretentious sculptures of sci-fi goddesses and oddly homoerotic male torsos. It leaves me asking myself, Who Would Jesus Shun?

Twin Beaks

Some weeks back, a rash of odd pointy objects appeared on the right side of my snout. Initially, I feared the worst: nose cancer, or some previously undiscovered disease which will make dermatology experts awash in excitement to be on the forefront of a new biological frontier. Eventually, after applying pressure to the area, the end result was a crusty crop of glorious blackheads jutting forth. Sweet!

This is somewhat the same reaction I feel when approaching a new album by The Fall: is it going to be a deadly cancer on the nose of music history? Or will the gamble instead yield delight and unmitigated ecstasy, much the same as those deliciously tasty blackheads? Unlike my arch nemesis Underneathica, I actually prefer Mark E. Smith when he sips one aging foot in the atonal clatter of his past and the other in the Brix-era sideways pop of what music historians now call "his middle years." I tend to swoon more over the kind of tunes where they almost sound like smash hits, except that this particular Billboard chart is buried in the bottom of a dustbin languishing at the end of a grimy Manchester alleyway.

The rickety construction of Strange Town, the taut tension of Senior Twilight Stock Replacer and the buoyant shout-along I've Been Duped are as brittle as any oxidized acne you care to name. Don't believe me? Just give my schnoz a hug (there's a lot of nose there for you to squeeze).

Poi Dog Pondering Have Left the Building--Will All of Their...HOLY SHIT, THEY'RE BACK! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! SOMEONE DUG THEM UP FROM THE GRAVE! AAUGH!

You are always greeted by a multitude of shocking experiences when shopping the mega-enormous Amoeba Records in Hollywood. To start, there is that final tally to your charge card. Second, you'll spot releases by bands whose break-up you had assumed was a done deal. [You mean to tell me the fucking reprehensible Poi Dog Pondering is still together and was somehow allowed to release a new fuddy-duddy hippy-dippy album???]

But the largest jolt to the system isn't even the myriad of celebs spotted as you traverse the densely-packed record aisles. No, the most jarring moment is when one of those celebrities (hello, Giovanni Ribisi, you dimwitted Scientology freak!) spies you placing a sub-par Vince Guaraldi disc into your shopping basket. "Silly Pre-Clear," he clucks in your direction. "Everyone knows that Guaraldi peaked with A Charlie Brown Christmas. Sure, the pleasant previously-unreleased outtake Nobody Else ascends somewhat close to the genius of the well-known Xmas soundtrack, but after that you are forced to endure the faux funky Woodstock's Dream and the dentist's office dullness of Never Again. Only when you audit yourself of past traumatic Body Thetans, as I have, can you attain my infinite peace and wisdom."

"No offense, Giovanni," you think to yourself while reading his mind (a gift from birth received without benefit of an E-Meter.) "But I saw you in SubUrbia and if that's Serenity of Being, I'll stick to being an aberration, thanks."

A Dream Deferred: A Play in Three Acts

ACT ONE

The scene opens on a line of travelers awaiting the task of showing their boarding passes to an FAA inspector at the Tucson International Airport as they prepare to fly to Los Angeles. The line moves slowly--the inspector is courteous yet thorough in her duties--but dispenses each traveler in line at a steady pace. About three people from the front of the line is ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR, a married man in his early-to-mid 50's, balding yet continuing to grow his hair in a shaggy swirl as if still in his 20's. He is wearing a blue long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck and accented with a novelty tie emblazoned with a planetary pattern (the moon, Saturn, Venus, etc, all of which is surrounded by a wash of stars and galaxies). The shirt is tucked into loose-fitting professorial khaki pants looped with a nondescript belt. The footwear chosen to compliment this ensemble is flip-flops. Directly behind ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR is DISCO:VERY who is watching the man in front of him with astonishment and disbelief.

The ASTRONOMY PROFESSOR is now at the front of the line as he hands the FAA INSPECTOR his boarding pass.

FAA Inspector: [disinterested monotone but professional nonetheless] Good morning, sir. How are you today?

Astronomy Professor: Living the dream. [Spoken with renewed emphasis] Living. The. Dream.

ACT TWO

The lights come up on DISCO:VERY who has just witnessed the actions in the previous scene. He collapses, clutching his heart and falls to the ground in spasms.

ACT THREE

A hospital waiting area. Everyone who has ever glanced at and/or loved reading DISCO:VERY is crowded into the tiny room as they await word from THE HEART SPECIALIST. The actors adlib their grief over DISCO:VERY's situation as THE HEART SPECIALIST enters stage left and walks into the densely packed waiting room.

The Heart Specialist: [Speaking to the gathered crowd with courage and conviction] I'm sorry. I tried everything I could to revive him, but his heart just couldn't take what he witnessed. My sympathies are with you during this difficult time, but, jeez, c'mon! It's not like there aren't billions of other self-obsessed blogs with which you can replace it in your computer reading rituals, right??. Get over it.

CURTAIN

A Tricked Out Stingray

Here's what I think happened: All the creatures in the Kingdom we call Animal are able to talk clearly to each other, easy, and some alligator who was tired of being teased and taunted with pieces of meat and dangling babies passed it on down the line that it was time for revenge. Eventually, it reached Stella the Stingray, who decided it was time to teach this uppity Aussie that payback is a bitch. Another theory I possess: because His Funkiness The Pope-ster insulted the world's Muslims with his teasing and taunting, some Turkish Stingray terrorist is going to taunt and tease his ass during his visit next month, the same way the jocks used to tease and taunt the algebra prodigies at my grade school cafeteria at lunch time. The Turks are all, "We're going to kick your ass after school, your Eminence!". It's the same exact story, only way, way less violent and lacking a soundtrack. I would score this fight scene with Mazhar ve Fuat/Turkuz Turku Cagiririz and/or Uc Hurel/Hurel Arsivi, both taken from one of the latest in the Love, Peace & Poetry series, Turkish Psychedelic Music. How do you cry "Uncle!!" in Turkish? Be sure to visit The Crocodile Hunter website, which pays loving tribute to Irwin, offering dozens of pictures showing him as he harasses various wild animals in every corner of God's great land.

"F" Is For (Not) Fake

The same exercise in futility which drives The Nazi Pope to ask why God was silent during the Holocaust sometimes propels me to stare at my overburdened CD storage shelves and ask why they can't magically increase in size to meet the demands of my bulging music collection. Most of the blame can go to my generous spirit: when copying CD's for myself, I always copy extras to lend to others, often resulting in 10 extra copies taking up valuable shelf space. Therefore, in an attempt to alleviate the already maxxed-out row of CD's filed under "F", I invite you to send me an e-mail with your name (phony is fine) and address, after which I will send you a CD of your choice: 1) the self-titled deadpan debut of New Wave pioneers The Flying Lizards, 2) The Good Earth, the Velvet-y sophomore effort by The Feelies (produced by Peter Buck of REM), 3) It's Only Right And Natural, the mostly-improvised queer/not queer folk-punk album by The Frogs (sampled by Beck on Odelay) or 4) the original version of My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts (which contains the track "Qu'ran", now unavailable on subsequent reissues) by Brian Eno & David Byrne (I am aware this CD falls under "E", so don't bother to point it out--I know more than you do.)
The fine print: This offer is not a fake. I will send you one CD free of charge (two CDs if you give me a good reason for being so selfish.) Your address will not be used for future unsolicited mailings. You will owe me nothing in return. I don't have to like you and you don't have to like me. You will not receive any spam in the future (well, at least not from Disco:Very.) Each CD in the overcrowded "F" shelf was chosen precisely because it is out-of-print and therefore not denying anyone a royalty check. If you are a member of The Flying Lizards, The Feelies, The Frogs, or happen to be Brian Eno and/or David Byrne, please don't sue me. I give because I love.

Listen To The Warm

The female of the two feral neighborhood cats that I reluctantly adopted 4 months ago (lovingly christened Fraidy Cat and Little Hitler) has gone into heat. She spends all day and night arching her back and exposing her genitals, which makes all the balls of the nearby male cats quiver and groan, bringing forth presumptuous purring and howling noises from all interested parties. This song, Psychedelia by The X'Lents has the same effect on me. The clunky circular repetition makes me hot and dizzy, and I find myself exposing my genitals to all the males in the neighborhood, who then make loud aggressive noises towards me. Poor Little Hitler will find her inflamed hormones quenched when she is spayed later this week, but it's anyone's guess on who is going to douse my fire. This Spanish Fly of a song is from Simla Beat 1970-71, and you can download the entire album here.

Rebel Without A Camera

I'm all about breaking the law: J-walking, using the office photocopier for personal purposes, going 45 in a 35-speed-limit zone, and posting tracks found at NPR: grab this recording of The Magnetic Fields performing live at Carnegie's Zankel Hall on November 18th, 2004 before The Man throws me in the slammer. I haven't been this excited about a musically-related crime since I saw Calvin Johnson in nothing but his boxers at the downtown YMCA last week (and me without a camera).