Interview with Tom Shannon

I haven't been posting lately, due to it being completely unrewarding. I recently saw online that someone thought I was someone else, and let me just say that this is not true; and I don't want to go into further discussion of the matter. As you can well imagine, I don't think I will be posting very much anymore, if at all.

Also, Agony Shorthand, which I read often, has called it a day. I may, on occasion have disagreed with Jay's opinions, but when do you agree 100% with anyone? It was well and intelligently written, and I will miss reading it.

Final note, commenting has been disabled, due to an abundance of recent spam that somehow managed to get past the Blogger's filter. I can reinstate the comments, but it would entail wading through offers for obtaining prescription drugs online and hot stock tips.

Here's an interview conducted months ago with Tom Shannon of the Cheater Slicks. They have a new record, due out next year, and being a reliable band that has consistently produced great records over their long lifespan, I am going to take and educated guess and say that it's amazing.


Phil Honolulu: How old were you when you first started playing music?

Tom Shannon: I was 21, David was probably about 25, and Dana had been playing since he was a teenager. Neither David nor I played much until we were a couple years out of college. David was pursuing painting and I was just working. We both played other instruments in grade school. David was a pretty good trumpet player. We came from a musical family. Our dad is an accomplished pianist. In some ways that thwarted us rather than helped us.


PH: Did you play in a band before The Cheater Slicks?

TS: I played in a band called the Fishers in college back in 1984. It was just for fun, but was actually kind of a precursor to a lot of bands later that did garage and soul stuff. We had a black female singer. I had only been playing guitar about two months when we formed. It was fun but had no ambitions of being anything. Dana was in a high school punk/metal band called The Four Letter Words. He was just the singer. He formed the band with some degenerate pot head friends and they played their high school talent show. He sang "Gloria" I believe. They even played Boston a couple times and got some attention because they were bizarre high school kids from a nowhere town. They rode into Boston on the train to do their shows. David played with some friends in NYC but nothing serious.


PH: When did you first realize you could sing?

TS: I think I knew I could sing when I was a child. I heard things in a musical way, but was too shy and self defeatist to actually try singing. I think I knew I had the ability. Playing guitar and singing was of course another matter and took a couple years as a band to start to emerge. Dana was the first to sing in Cheater Slicks. "Leave My House" was the first song we did with vocals. Our first few shows were instrumental. We had a violin player. It was very droney noisy strange drug rock. Then we auditioned singers for about a year none of them working out. We then had to start singing for ourselves to get the sound we wanted. We were just too strange for most singers to latch on to. We felt we could do it better.


PH: How did you first meet Dana?

TS: Dana was in a band with a guy I went to college with. I had just moved to Boston, David hadn't even moved up yet. Anyway this college friend was involved in the music scene already and was friends with Stephen Merritt, and others in that clique. When David moved up we had another drummer. A High school friend of mine who ended up quitting right away. David and I continued to work on things alone after his departure. This college friend said we could use his practice space (for a fee) and "borrow" his drummer who turned out to be Dana. The minute we played together we knew there was something there. It was crude and awful, but the sound was already there. That's important when forming a band! We were lucky. Whoever we tried to bring into the band, it was always just the three of us somehow as the essential core.


PH: Did you really calculate how you wanted the Cheater Slicks to sound, or did it develop more organically?

TS: We have always worked organically and never tried to make a song sound like anything. It has to develop on its own, and if it's good we keep it if not we throw it out. This was true from the very beginning. We play and develop songs for years before recording them, because we have to wait for them to mature into their final form. We do it instrumentally at first and then add the vocals later after the music has developed sufficiently. We've never once verbalized how a song should be. We have never spoken between us about a song structure. We play it until it finds its own logic.


PH: Someone told me you're a fan of Alex Chilton's 'Like Flies On Sherbert' record, which is a favorite of mine, I'm just wondering what you think of Alex Chilton's other material...

TS: I saw Alex Chilton in Boston in 1986 or so and he was great. It was a shambolic set, not like the later more professional ones he started to do. I then hunted down as much of his stuff as I could. I like him pretty well up to "High Priest" then my interest dwindles. I loved the way he could make great songs from chaos. Even Big Star has an element of this. "Sister Lovers" is a masterpiece and "Flies on Sherbet" was influenced, I think, by his work with the Cramps. Being a huge Cramps fan at that time, I loved the messy rock n roll of "Flies". Panther Burns is great from that period also. I still respect him greatly and don't mean to speak ill of him in any way.


PH: What kind of music do you just DESPISE?

Many types. Most bands just bore me and that's the worst offense. I like to see depth and emotion in music, and lately that seems lacking. I don't like "suburban" whining crap. It has to cut deeper than that. Also I really miss rock n roll. There's not a lot of it out there anymore. Tons of punk rock, very little experimental original RNR. People don't seem to know how to play that beat anymore. We are getting farther and farther away from it. People view it as corny, I think. Nothing is truly threatening or outrageous anymore. I'm not a big fan of this neo-psychedelic folk thing going on right now. I wish it would just go away.


PH: Is there a Cheater Slick's song you're proudest of?

TS: I've always thought "Possession" was a huge breakthrough for us. That was when we became a band in my mind. It really stood out at the time. And we did it as a three piece. That let us know it could be done. I'm very proud of many of our songs, but I'm not egotistical about it. To me, they formed out of the atmosphere and we were the conduits. I've heard many songwriters say the same thing. Therefore I don't take full responsibility for their creation. And that is why they are still fun to play today. They haven't changed much and they're still alive. I'm proud of many of the quieter songs we do which get much less recognition than the most outrageous ones. Our band would not be what it is if we didn't do the melodic stuff.


PH: Do you ever listen to your earlier records, and wish you could go back and change things?

TS: I do not listen to our records much after they have become ingrained in my mind. Yes I would like to change many things about them, but I never would. The songs are what they are. Being self conscious of their deficiencies is all just a part of the growth process. They are moments in time...snapshots of ideas. But they are fixed in time. I would like to do a live record at some point to show the difference in how we play them live. Most of the songs are much heavier live.


PH: How long have you and your brother been painting?

TS: My brother was an art major in college. He was always extremely artistic. He still does art, but not a lot of painting at this point in time. I'm sure he'll get back to it. But lately he's been sculpting and working with molds and casting. I am an occasional painter and just started a couple years ago to help my mental state when I was going through some problems. I haven't done much in a year or so.


PH: Do you read reviews of your band? How do you deal with bad reviews?

TS: We got so many bad reviews when we started. It was a real obstacle to overcome, but we really didn't care because we had this concept in our heads that could not be reversed or changed. We were pretty much in a tunnel vision state at that point. But still it was discouraging to be put down so much because we were different. The late 80's and all of the 90's sucked musically. We had few bands to play with so we got paired with bands that hated us and we were subjected to a lot of hate and scorn. Not to mention all the audiences we drove out at that time. We could clear a room faster than any band in history. Still can on some nights! Luckily for us, certain people liked us and that gave us the confidence to think "we must be doing something right". Now the reviews are much kinder to us, but we are still largely ignored.


PH: Any current music that you really enjoy?

TS: I enjoy all of the noisy fucked up bands out there that still stick to rock n roll roots. And that does not mean they have to be traditional. We play with a lot of good bands these days. It's very encouraging, and they keep us young and alive and respect us because they know we never quit.


PH: Are you much of a reader? What have you read lately?

TS: We all like to read. My reading has been sporadic lately. It comes in spurts for me. I have been an avid voracious reader at times, then I have to put it down and live. Lately I haven't been doing nearly enough of it and I feel it in my soul. The last book I read was a biography of Djuna Barnes. I don't know what the others are reading right now.


PH: Do people from your normal life (folks from your job, etc. - people out of the whole band loop) know about the Cheater Slicks?

TS: I would say not. At our jobs, yes. Beyond that...not many would know or care. We are a very low profile band, and we do not talk about it much to people outside of the music scene. What we do really wouldn't make sense to most people and I don't want to inflict it on those people.


PH: Do you ever miss Boston?

TS: For me personally- not as a place to live. It is an interesting city, and we do have friends there. The music coming out of Boston is much better than it used to be and WMBR was a very supportive station. I have no hard feelings about Boston. We got our asses kicked, but that's just part of our story. We played with some good bands there and had some good opportunities also. There's still a little bit of the backstabbing quality of that city that bothers me though...


PH:It seems like people are finally starting to give the Cheater Slicks some much overdue credit, do you attribute your recent upswing in popularity to anything specific?

TS: I don't think the upswing is huge. It's still nearly impossible for us to play live because our fan base is so small. I think we have become influential to current bands, but that still does not trickle down to the prosperity of our band. It's very strange. I'm gratified that we have had the longevity that we have had. We've been very lucky that people still find our ideas interesting. That's really more important than packing clubs full of asshole know nothings. I hate going to shows filled with those people. That would be a curse to us.


PH: Can you describe the genesis of 'Thinkin' Some More'?

TS: At this point I really can't. What I can tell you was that it was very structured with cues and all sorts of inner workings that lead us like a map through the improvisation. And we did drink a bottle of whisky before recording it, and we did end it right when the reel of tape ended...it was very strange. It was our tribute to The Velvet Underground...that is pretty obvious...and it was our way of showing we could improvise and not just be another "garage" band...we practiced it A LOT which drove everyone in our rehearsal complex crazy...maybe THAT was the genesis!

Could It Be?

Got this comment, from Anonymous:

"fuck all you dumbfucks j williams"

'j williams'? Could it be? Could it be the J Williams of "i THREW!!!!!! a bananana!!! at maRk E SMITH!!!'S face!!!!" fame? Wow! This is exciting! He's in The Talk! He took time out of his busy schedule, making records in The Talk, and writing songs in The Talk, and performing items from the vast back catalog of The Talk to throngs of devoted fans of The Talk, to write to the likes of me! I feel all warm inside. You know, when you spare time trying to make people who have never done anything directly to you that you nevertheless feel an undeniably compulsion to insult feel bad about themselves and trying to nudge them gently into the realization that they are worthless and insignificant, well, an email like this makes it all worthwhile. The Talk are truly an innovative, impressive band, whose work will live beyond the realms of the human capacity for comprehending infinity. They are just that good. I mean, SHIT, look at his comment! Let me be the first to say: Mister Williams has an elegant way with words. Somebody get this man a book deal! Chain him to a typewriter! Hire a dictaphone operator! He's intellect is obviously impressive, and his command of English is frightening.

Academics - They Are Always Right

Penned by a Prof at Wesleyan:

http://www.criterionco.com/asp/release.asp?id=40&eid=56§ion=essay

New Feature

I have started a new feature for you, dear readers. It's called:

ASSHOLE ALERT.

I've never met this nimrod, but I can tell, he is a real piece of shit (readers without iron clad stomachs are advised not to look). Here is the recipent of the first Letters Have No Arms Asshole Alert:

http://www.myspace.com/baaadman

Book Review "The Enchanters Vs. Sprawlsburg Springs"

Yep, even the title of the book has a halfassed, halfbaked, 100% unfunny joke in there, a soft fumbling prod masquerading under the context of a sharp jab. The eponymous Florida neighborhood is given the fictional title of 'Sprawlburg'* in 'writer' Brian Costello's toothless attempt at raging against, and lampooning the mediocrity of American suburban cookie cutter culture. It's ironic, because his book is just as benign, and predictable as any committee designed corporate slice of pap. I'd say it's the literary equivalent of some quickly erected boring suburban house, with nothing special to distinguish it from hundreds of thousands of others in American's never-ending sprawl. But building a house, even a lousy one, is an accomplishment. But writing a novel that is this bad? No dice, slick. Take a clichés plot, obvious observations, poorly rendered characters, bad jokes, top it off with some badly written romance, some repetitive wanna-be Steadman illustrations to fill some space, a hearty dose of masturbatory back slapping, a giant dose of childish sentimentality, and you're in the neighborhood of just what you're getting into if you make the grievous mistake of opening this book's cover. You know that box in 'Hellrasier', when you open it, and a thousand hooks come out and tear you apart while demon's that specialize in torture come out and take you into realms of pain that no mortal has ever had to experience? Well, you're better off opening that box then this book. It's far more pleasant.

In elementary school, I was told the title is supposed to tell the story of the book. We all (except possibly, Costello) know that's not necessarily true, but in this case, it's 100% true. There's a weak joke in the weak title of a weak book that you could easily extrapolate to be a one phrase telling of a weak story with weak, overdone themes. You'd think he would put a little more thought into the title of his debut, especially considering, by his own admission, that it took him "ten years" (page 192, part of his name dropping, self aggrandizing afterward) to write. Let's see, ten whole years? 3,650 days? To write a book, that including the liberal use of (bad) illustrations, and a two page afterward, is still only 193 pages long? So, it took him, 18.9 fucking days to write each page? So, this passage, on page 38:





The Blue, white-lettered sign announcing the entrance to the city limits came into view, a sign that should have read:

SPRAWLBURG SPRINGS WELCOME
PLEASE DRIVE WITH EXTRAORDINARY CARE

...but in a time-honored tradition, the newest generations of civic-minded prankster teenage geniuses changed it with blue spray paint so it always read:

SPRAWLBURG SPRINGS WELCOME
PLEASE DRIVE EXTRAORDINARY CAR





That takes up about a quarter of the page, took 4.7 days to write? That joke took days to craft? To think this guy once accused me of being someone with nothing to do.

Pull up a chair and take a long hard look at some of the store names Costello's got under his sleeve:

Deep Dark Tan World
Poppyseed Bagel World
French Cafe Oui! Oui! World
Asbestos Removal World
Thin Crust Pizza World
Tattoo World
All-American Bigass Butterburger World
Canadian Meat Pie World
Liquor Time World
Compact Disc World
Air Filter World
Frozen Fishstick World
Worldly Pancake World
Cockring World
Australian Map World
Good Time America Family Restaurant World
Bitchin' Car Stereo World
Giganto Right Wing Video Chain World
Mr. Baked Potato World
Riboflaving Vitamin World
Roast Beef Au Jus World
Yer Basic Chicago Style Pizza World
The Wisconsin Universe of Cheese Castle World
Planet Clitpierce World
Gong Happiness China World
El Huevo Loco Costa Rican World
Mountain Oyster King World
Malibu Beach Surf n' Turf World
Iowa Hot Buttered Corncob World
Yee-Haw Wyoming Big Black Angus Rump Roast World
Nuthin But Cranberry Sauce World
Loud Willie's BBQ and Blues World

or where the climatic, 'Day Of The Locust' styled climax, only without anything interesting, cathartic, plausible, or amusing occurring, takes place: Latent Republican Hipster Music Club World.

What a side splitter, eh? I can picture the author, surrounded by dog eared copies of Hunter S. Thompson, Bukowski, Bangs and Kerouc books that you should get out of your system before you hit your twenties, smiling inwardly at his wit. Imagine how horrible that scene would be to watch. Now imagine how it is to read. It's even worse. There's nothing a matter with that kind of humor. The Simpsons are great at creating fake store names, riffing on the ever smaller gap betwixt complete absurdity and the manufactured reality, but then, The Simpsons has dozens of talented writers. 'The Enchanters' doesn't even have one. Furthermore, it doesn't even remain consistent, Sprawlburg is supposed to be an uptight, tightass town chock full of conservatives and rednecks, and the whole town goes into a world class tizzy over one punk band, but they still have retail establishments that specialize in piercing clits and selling cockrings, and cockrings only. So, rather then keep a relative consistency to the book, the writer goes for a horrible joke. This is fiction grounded in reality, so any Meltzer Dada spew as an alibi for some really poor humor isn't going to fly with me. Even the narrator, who goes by the name of Shaquille Callanhan, works as a squid cutter at an establishment called "Cleveland Steamerz Good Time Bar and Grille World". Get it? A Cleveland Steamer, for those of you who do not know, is when one party defecates on the chest of another, then sits down, and rocks back and forth on the excrement. Pretty funny in itself, right? That's a four alarm knee slapper, and if you don't think so, you must be uptight or something. in fact, to use a phrase straight from the book "I don't even know what to do with you", of course, the fact that the PLACE where he WORKS, has the SAME NAME, well, that my friends, that's comedy.

Full disclosure time, ladies/gents/boys/girls - I've had a run in with Costello before. Not in person, mind you, (I have standards), although I did see his 'band', which sounded like the type of generic hardrock masquerading as punk I've been putting up with, sitting through waiting to finish, or diligently putting in my 'sell' pile since I started listening to the music in the first place. Paying lip service to the Germs and Electric Eels, while wearing your best '77 styled threads, appropriating some kind of attitude, and then playing the same generic four chord snooze, doesn't make you especially interesting. Anyway, I made a mention in this here blog, saying that I found his band to be 'mediocre'. For his band, that’s a compliment. A few days later I got a lengthy, indignant email, from the writer of this very book, and some upset comments from Mister Costello on Christmas day, a few years ago, some of which I responded to. Much of his anger, besides being quite upset over his nasty diaper rash, was over my negativity regarding rock bands. Occasionally, I would read one of badly written, ego saturated columns online at Terminal Boredom, and I once got an email, describing another, alleged hissy fit the writer had when someone heckled him onstage at his talkshow. Which made this excerpt of pages 84-86, which, by my calculations, must have taken roughly twenty days to write, apropos:




God, they were awful. Bland 1990s self-absorbed go-nowhere noodlings, where everything's so self-conscious and arty, so "pretty picture," so cold and prefabricated. Like everything else about our town, we'd wonder if we were the only ones who saw it, because if you stripped away the hoo-haw, there was nothing but pretentious bullshit hipster types were too dumb to suss out. [Note: Pot? Kettle?]
Reneee threw her wine glass at the diminutive guitarist's feet. It shattered louder then the music they played. "This band's [italics] terrible."
"Yepper." I threw my wine, then a couple other drinks from a nearby table. They arced beautifully and splashed into the eunuchy lead singer's pensive face. Nobody in the audience had the guts to stand up to us, because we were The Enchanters, and we had an unearned reputation as total psychopaths.
After sitting through half of their boring set just wanting to go to sleep, I daintily cursed at the band.
"You lousy limpdick asshole fucks!" I screamed, picking up food from tables and hurling chicken wings, shrimp, lemon wedges, potato wedges, everything landing on stage or on the performers, who didn't respond to our attacks, trying to remain above the fray while looking around wishing somebody, anybody, would deal with us. This reaction to us just made sense after drinking two bottles of wine each.
"You guys stink! Go back to Chicago!" Renee screamed. I made to throw a chili dog at the showoffy overly syncopated drummer, armed arched back like Joe Montana, but was sacked and grabbed, and my throwing arm was forced behind my back. Some goon bouncer with chocolate pudding ring facial hair threw me out, promptly followed by Renee, who landed next to me on the sidewalk, and inside, we could hear, for the first time, a gut reaction: applause.
"It's about time you showed some humanity, you fools!" Renee yelled inside, standing up and extending a hand to pull me up.
"I was only dancing," I slurred, as I rose to my feet. "Why would they kick us out?"
"Oh, don't worry about them," Renee said as we walked to where we parked the van. "But my neck is sore." She looked up to the sky like a soldier waiting for the freedom bird that's gonna take him back to his hometown. "Hint. Hint."
I laughed and rubbed her neck as we walked down Apple Avenue, past all the lame dance clubs and theme bars blaring their synthetic house noise out onto the street, through and past the armies of black-silk-shirt-wearing, gel-headed club dudes and their scantily clad silvery sparkled women. We had put on a good show back there, and I was proud.





Yeah, so the dealings with my guy were negative, and he implied that if I ever met him face to face, he just may want to punch me. But, I'm telling you, honestly, reader. If Costello and I were inseparable bosom chums, close since childhood, the whole 'two souls inhabiting one body' guff, bigtime best friends, it wouldn't change my opinion of this book one iota. It's terrible.

Plot goes thusly: lead character, too big for his britches dumbfuck that thinks he smart, in terms too lame to discern if it's strictly satirical, but too mundane to be considered absurdist, wages war against the humdrum walls of everyday small town Florida life. He does this by joining a band as a drummer, immediately bedding the female lead singer, romance ensues, as the band, increases in popularity, reaching critical mass and imploding before everyone goes back to being the same numbskulls they were before, yet changed. Newsflash: this kind of drone has been done to death, and these obvious observations under the pretense of being some kind of actual insight is a bore. So the theme falls flat, and the author's (I hesitate to use the term 'writer') attempts to struggle with it are like watching a stand up comedian bombing badly and trying in vain to salvage some dignity. One of the problems, is the central conceit of the book, the Enchanters are one of those monumental bands that rarely graces humanity, and inspires the people around them. In the opening pages, describing the narrators first show with The Enchanters, he looks at the various party guests, and then in one of the books numerous lapses into confusing chronology, goes on to describe the bands the guests later started, The Enchanters as a facsimile for the oft-repeated 'everyone that saw them went out and formed their own band' maxim attributed to the Velvet Underground. Problem, is, the writer is not skillful or evocative enough to ever make the Enchanters sound interesting, intriguing, or worthwhile, much less monumental. Then, the descriptions of the bands that formed in The Enchanter’s wake supposed to be, rib ticking nyucks, is just satire that not quite there, and doesn’t work. Within the first few pages the writer's intentions are horribly muddled. Are we supposed to think the bands are good? Bad? Coattail riders? We're not talking deliberate ambiguity, just poor writing. We get name dropping left and right, The Stooges, The Buzzcocks, Black Randy, Lou Reed, etc., all part of the hodge podge of influences that The Enchanters utilize, but again, the description of the music, which the body of the novel rests on, is so poorly done it makes the entire thing fall apart. As the band gains popularity through it's house party live shows, record store clerks at 'Obscure Pop Culture Reference CD and Record Review World', "ordinarily snooty clerks lost their cool, begging us to put out a record”, the local television station does a special on the band, where their impact, albeit locally, is compared to Elvis and The Beatles, and the one good local rockcrit, a throwback to the glory days, describes the band "MOST IMPORTANT thing I've seen since seeing the Germs back in '79 (which didn't feel that important really at the time) and maybe even Altamont in '69 ...yeah, they're THAT good, kids." One, consider the implications of the drummer in a band as thoroughly boring as the Functional Blackouts, writing a book about, in first person, about the drummer of a band, and saying that said band is that good. Does that make anyone else's head reel?

Listen to this rehashed 60's rebop, during one of the descriptions of an Enchanters live show:





We were winning, and it wasn't political-that's always the last thing to change-no, it was energy. Something bigger then was opening before us in our minds (assuming we didn't suffocate ourselves at these parties), the very possibilities of what life could give us. It was no longer, just school or work, then home to the TV. We had reclaimed our lives, and while we didn't have the numbers, much less the guns, we at least had each other, and we at least had these shows.






What are The Enchanters like?"[They] wanted to stand out, tired of the same old boring retrograde nonconformity". They do so by dressing in identical costumes (football helmets) and wearing identical orange face paint. When "None of the old rebellions worked anymore at freaking squares" they dangle hand lotion under their nostrils to resemble snot, and write absurd slogans on their t-shirts. The book has no real forward momentum, as Costello describes various episodes of their lives. It doesn't go anywhere, offers no real insight into character, it just kind of lurches around.

As for the love story, it starts of pretty quick. Narrator falls for the lead singer, who deep-sixes her no dating anyone in the band rule ‘cause he is just the appealing, makes out with him on the porch at the show, and goes and fucks him that night. She's a poorly written, unrealistic tramp, that reads like wish fulfillment fantasy of a fifteen year old punkers ideal women. You don't believe the love affair for a second, or even that she is something resembling a real person, so any romance or pathos when it goes to shit, it all goes right out the fucking window. As for the narrator, he throws a glass of wine at his beloved when she has the gal to ask him how stupid he can be when he fucks up cooking pasta, then he slams the door, and runs off and cries. I'm not making that up. When she opens her heart to him, in what is supposed to be a touching episode, revealing how her mom went gradually batshit, leaving her emotionally scarred, Costello gets to the reason. The character's Mom used to tape record her own bodily noises. Yep, comedy and tragedy, they are inseparable, aren't they? The book lurches around, tales of love and the band rubbing elbows until it concludes with their first big show, at the club the band previously had too much punk rock scruples to play. I don’t want to give away the ending, but I will let you know you’re not missing much. But the hoary old plot contrivance of the band needing money, and having to play THE BIG SHOW, comes into play. Yep.

The book’s got some quotes on the cover; some from people outright praising it, like Todd Dillis, who edits things I don’t read. Or Shawn Shiflett, an author I’ve never heard of, and I read a lot. I can’t believe it got published, and I’m even more flabbergasted people liked it. I’m not at all jealous, because I’d rather have a terminal disease then have written a book this terrible, but that something this unnotable, and unfunny, can actually garner any praise, much less a publisher, is truly sad. Even worse is the two page, back slapping acknowledgment that ties up the end of the book (note: can we please not have writers thank a dozen people and talk about themselves and the context of which they sat down and wrote something anymore?), giving a final gust of hot air and ego before it mercifully finishes. Get this: Costello actually teaches fiction writing at Columbia College in Chicago

It's the kind of book you imagine a junior high school kid writing. A kid with ambition and unwarranted self confidence - probably the offspring of supportive parents who never gently let their untalented progeny know that they are probably better off working as desk jockey that pursing a dream they are too boring and lack the skill to accomplish. His friends laugh, happy that their buddy wrote a book. His parents encourage, happy that they took the time to sit in front of his PC and try to creatively express himself. Some second rate blogs, and tiny little literary outfits catering to a more counter culture crowd might unload a little praise here and there, but the purpose of criticism isn't to pat everyone on the back. This is the real world, so let's call a spade, a spade. Or in this case, a smug, self satisfied masturbatory amateurish waste, a spade. But let me clear something up for the easily confused out there: writing a book is not much of an accomplishment. Anyone can do it. Big fucking deal. Spending years crafting something? So what? If the said book isn't very good, then the writer's time, and by extension, mine (which I have to admit, isn't very valuable), was completely wasted. This juvenile ode to nonconformity, poorly rendered romance, sophomoric punk rock ethos and naive optimistic humanism strikes me as bullshit. Not to mention the fact that the prose chomps. Skip it, there's more literary value in reading a street sign.

*The NAME OF THE BOOK is misspelled on THE FUCKING COVER. You get the idea of what kind of literary geniuses we're dealing with?

I was going to send this email, to the head of the writing department where Mister Costello teaches, but decided not to. Anyone that employs this writer, as a writing teacher, is a monster, and obviously capable of anything. I don’t want to cross them.

To: [name excised, easily found on the internet]
From: philhonolulu [at] hotmail.com
Subject: ‘The Enchanters Vs. Sprawlsburg Springs’

Dear Mrs. ---- ------

I recently read the novel "The Enchanters Vs. Sprawlsburg Springs", and I have to say, and forgive the superlative, but I am being truthful: it is it one of the worst novels I've ever came across. After slogging through it, I discovered that the writer actually teaches at your establishment, furthermore, teaches WRITING. I wanted to register my displeasure that your department actually has the gall to employ someone that writes so poorly. What wisdom can he possibly impart on his students? What insights are they going to receive? What can they possibly learn? Have you even read the abomination in question? If I was a parent, and my offspring was in your writing program, I would be appalled. Not because I found anything in the book objectionable thematically, or because I found the book to be offensive... No, simply, put, it was just so horribly, amateurishly written, that the fact that you would have this person teach at your establishment is black eye on your entire college, and to my thinking, makes your entire department a joke.

Phil

Hey Justin Williams, Fuck You!

Not only do I think this Justin Williams guy is a piece of shit from his horrible band, or his childish actions, or his absolutely intellectually invalid attempts to rationalize said actions... But to properly research this post I had to look at Pitchfork Media. Now I'm really pissed.

Anyway, this dipshit, not because he is a immature whiney fucker - is actually trying horn in on something that wasn't any of his business and correct (in his own myopic manner) an injustice that had nothing to do at all with him. How did he perform this heroic deed? He threw a banana peel at forty nine year old Mark E. Smith's misshapen head in Arizona, causing all manner of chaos on a tour that was already wobbling along on it's last legs after the entire backing band left. Why did this busybody piece of shit feel the need to stick his nose in, of all people's, The Fall's business?

According to noted news organization, www.myspace.com, Williams said:

"FUCK MARK E. SMITH HE SUCKS, MARK E. SMITH a.k.a MR. BURNS has managed to piss off his band so bad they quit and left him in america with his crazy wife slash one fingered keyboard player... MARK pulled a corkscrew on his bass player poured beer and ashed on the head of his tour manager while driving (who has also quit the tour) and played only one full set without slithering off stage to his R.V. to dive into a bottle of scotch."

Well, it is Mark E. Smith, didn't you do your research, asshole? That shit happens to The Fall all the time. Big goddamned deal, they are, after all, the fucking Fall. Business as usual.

"the man is in his late 40's and looks older than my dead grandfather i'm sorry to those out there who are fall fans but you do not know this guy he is an idiot the three other members of the fall are great guys nice as can be and i wish the best for them..."

Well, I am perfectly willing to concede that Mark E. Smith is a jerk, an asshole, or someone who is not at all fun to be in a band with, but he's not an idiot. Beneath his ghastly exterior and horrible interpersonal skills, is someone who is intelligent and articulate. I've made fun of people's personal appearance before, but only when it is something they can change (like if the idiot, yes, legitimate idiot) in the Soledad Brothers got a decent haircut, then I wouldn't make fun of him anymore. Mark E. Smith presents himself decently, like a normal working class fuck, without any pretension. You see what the assholes in The Talk look like? I'd sure like to stab one. So what if Mark E. Smith looks old? He's been releasing records since 1978.

And yeah, I've gotten guff for criticizing people when I am told I shouldn't be allowed to touch their shoelaces, but the only thing notable about Williams, besides having even worse grammar and spelling skills then yours truly, and The Talk is that they managed to weasel their way on to an ineptly booked The Fall tour.

So Justin Williams, took it upon himself, unsolicited might I add, and in the spirit of selfless altruism, to throw a banana peel at forty nine year old Mark E. Smith while he is playing on stage.

"i was told by the falls tour manager he and the rest of the band were going home without mark knowing and this would be the last show this really pissed me off BAD!!! if this had happened a few years ago i would have beat the shit out of him but i'm older now so i picked up a dirty banana peel ran onto the stage and threw it in his face as hard as i could and walked away he ran after me with some 1800's English boxing hands and wanted to fight i laughed and walked away knowing in my head this man has only a few years left..."

It pissed you off BAD!!! Did it? Did it make you ANGRY!!!, too? Are you UPSET!!!? How about you go FUCK!!! yourself? To Mark E. Smith's credit, he still tried to fight the much younger, and presumably fitter, Williams. But Williams is just too awesome to fight, even after provoking someone. What an asshole.

After The Fall left the stage, the crowd chanted "U.S.A." and demanded a refund. Why would anyone ever chant "U.S.A.", what kind of assholes go the Fall shows in Arizona? And why didn't they do something productive, like beat the shit out of Justin Williams, whose fault it was in the first place? (Oh wait, I'm wrong, it was Smith's fault that Williams had to do that).

Williams offered this apology:

"p.s. sorry to everyone in phoenix i threw a banana at mark during the show i know you payed good money to see that shit but if it was not for us talking the rest of the band to come to phoenix they would not have even showed up so be lucky you even got that much do not be mad at us be mad at MARK E. SMITH he does not care if you were there or not he does not care about his fans trust me i know first hand"

Oh, okay, that makes it all better. The lack of periods really underscores your argument.

Why do people think violent crime is bad? If tomorrow, some enterprising young psychopath beat Williams to death, would it really be that horrible? I mean, let's face it, our gene pool is already irreparably fucked, there's plenty of people on the earth already, what would it manner? It's all Buddhism folks, if some asshole in The Talk dies horribly, and nobody cares, did it actually happen? Here's hoping we can find out, and soon.

Interview Coming In A Few Days

For real this time.

Excellent News, Provided Someone Isn't Yanking My Chain

Hello Readers, My Dear Sweet Readers,

I received this in my inbox recently, and felt compelled to share it with you. You, the vast throngs of the great unwashed with access to a computer, and access to the internet. Those of you, the cultural elite, who still regularly peruse my site, hoping for any wit or wisdom to be deposited from my pen, who kept their hopes up despite total lack of updates for a couple months.

To witt:



Hi

My name is ALFIE FALCKENBACH and I am the producer and owner of the 2 HUBBLE BUBBLE albums, and yes, I'm going to re-release them later this year, because I'm tired of fans being ripped and paying hundred Dollars or more for bootlegs!
We'll probably put both albums on one audio compact disc.

Best regards,

ALFIE FALCKENBACH




Well, I hope someone is pretending to be Mister Falckenbach in a misguided attempt to get my hopes up, fool, or confuse me. But I have a good feeling that this news is correct and true, and that the bootleggers will be foiled, and moneies properly installed in the rightful coffers via the magic of a legitimate release.

Darren McGavin

R.I.P.

Don Knotts

R.I.P.

A Move I Will Never, Ever, Ever See

Nanny McPhee

Chris Penn

R.I.P.

Anything I Can Do?

Anything, where anyone would buy me airfare, and a ticket to go see All Tomorrow's Parties?

Where I can see THE SCIENTISTS, THE FLESH EATERS, and Letter's Have No Arms' interviewee Ben Wallers and THE COUNTRY TEASERS all in one night?

I can't afford it, and I have no money, no savings, no resources. Not even my records are worth that much. So, if anyone wants me to do anything for them (and I do mean ANYTHING), contact me, please.

Thanks.

Wilson Pickett

R.I.P.

Bad Writing

From 'More Goat Than Goose' website:



Black Lips
Let it Bloom
In the Red Records

Sixties garage revivalists the Black Lips hit the scene once again with a new release, Let it Bloom this time on Los Angeles' In The Red Records. The album features sixteen tracks of raw punk all of which are dedicated to the memory of Greg Shaw, the grandfather of garage rock. Let it Bloom, is the Black Lips third full length release and is the groups most melodic album to date.

With original 1960's era Harmony guitars and vintage amplifiers the Black Lips reinvent the sound that defined the underground music scene of the decade. Most obviously comparisons can be made to early Rolling Stones (think 12X5), the Kinks, and the Troggs.

The scraggly looking quartet kicks off the new album with "Sea of Blasphemy" a danceable track with a fuzz guitar undertone. "Hippie, Hippie, Hoorah" the third song on the album makes use of heavy reverb to capture the bands 60's retro feel. The Black Lips also put a unique spin on the Archies classic "Sugar Sugar" in track 13 "Dirty Hands" on which they change the lyrics to be about building sand castles, smoking dope, and getting tattoos. Let it Bloom is definitely not for everyone, but music geeks and punk rock enthusiasts will find themselves pleasantly surprised with the new Black Lips album.

Paul Borchert



Just terrible, terrible writing. Bland, passionless, and uninformed. Like reading translated stereo instructions and lacking any type of criticism or insight. The Archies? What the hell are you talking about? Wrong song titles, failure to recognize the Dutronc cover as such, and the last line is a study in thudding banality.

Hey Paul Borchert, don't quit your day job of staring off into space trying to form a coherent thought, okay pal? Asshole. Idiot. Moron.

Lou Rawls

R.I.P.

Does Anyone Need A Gmail Invitation?

I have a bunch, email me if you'd like one.

Richard Pryor

R.I.P.

Kaliedoscope

Is the entire LP any good? I've had the altogether great 'A Dream For Julie' on the second Nuggets box for quite awhile (dig the changes and the big bold vibrato on those chords) and before I cough up the cash for the entire record, even on the basis of an exceptionally strong song - I'd like some assurances that I won't be flushing my money down the toilet. I think a lot of it is how much I've been listening to the Zombie's superlative 'Odyssey and Oracle' as of late, and even if 'Time Of The Season' has me running full tilt boogie for the tonearm (so I don't have to endure that overplayed number that, through no fault of theirs I associate with baby boomer bullshit nostalgia fests) the rest of the record is pretty much perfect.

Want to get the LA Dusseldorf reishes, too, but I don't know if it's the krautrock where there are actual songs and you can actively listen to, rather then the passive textural sound workouts of say, Faust (who I like, but only put on as background sound for some other activity, instead of wanting to put on a CD-R and give to someone with a hearty endorsement) which is all well and good, but not what i'm in the mood for with my limited record buying dollar. Not to mention those import prices, which are ridiculous.

Also, did I mention already I saw the surprisingly tolerable 'Punk: The Attitude' documentary? I don't know if I did, but it's worth watching. In addition to the usual parade of footage and interview subjects, they get into No Wave and other stuff you wouldn't expect 'em to. Kids today have it easy, getting a really quick and easy history lesson like that. Some more quick impression? Their efforts at disguising the fact that they couldn't obtain the licensing for Nirvana are pretty hilarious. Glenn Branca is possibly the most annoying person in the entire cosmos. Their assertion that there was no notable punk rock from the No Wave era until Nirvana came along is, at best, dubious. Henry Rollins, is the last person that should be poking fun at shirtless macho jock types, and that lineage of the Velvet Underground leading up to mainstream acts like Blink 182 and other people that sound just like them shouldn't be seen as sad and tragic, but as an encouraging indication of how punk rock managed to seep into the mainstream (arguing what constitutes punk rock is a loosing battle, but I'd say with all certainty, that Blink 182, Green Day, and their ilk, are not punk rock in the way that I've define it). Anyway, despite my (exceptionally valid and insightful) criticisms, I'd suggest watching it.

I Hate This Country, And It's Populace

Let's make a holiday of stealing our land from a bunch of savages (but make sure to leave out the part about 'stealing our land from a bunch of savages' and replace it, with I don't know, a fairy tale about a bunch of savages and some ignorant, puritanical Pilgrim shitfuckers having a fucking dinner party), and celebrate it by... Encouraging gluttony. Gluttony, might I add, marked by the consumption of the most bland of all meats. There you have it: America in a nutshell.

If we've got the time, let's squeeze in some homoeroticism/ceremonialization of a bunch of illiterate horrible goons in tight pants who tackle each other and play catch for a living (football). Let's dress all this up in bullshit ribbon about being thankful for our families (what is the divorce rate right now? How much higher is the probability that you'll be murdered by a family member then by a stranger?) before we top it off and buy a bunch of shit we don't need on Friday.

I spent Thanksgiving alone, the way I like it. I was invited to a coworker's house, but I declined the invitation. I have empty spaces to stare off into, which I prefer to meeting someone else's family. I don't like YOU - what makes you think I would like your goddamned family? Just because I see you everyday because I need to get my paycheck from somewhere means that you somehow think you're entitled for some of my companionship? Doesn't matter - I know the reasoning behind said invitation. It's so they can display their selfless altruism (the party that invited me was banking on this future conversation: You gave a bunch of money to the poor? You're a charitable individual that makes a public display of how much they care? Oh yeah? Well, I had fucking PHIL over for Thanksgiving dinner, top that, motherfuck). I'll be dipped in human shit before I'll a trophy on the mantle of concern for these fucks. Had three turkey TV dinners and am about to call it a night. Nothing good is on TV, and the book I'm reading sucks. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Coming Soon

Letters Have No Arms, The T-Shirt.

Link Wray

R.I.P.

I should have seen him when I had the chance.

Help Me Out Here, Folks

I've tried, a half dozen LP's have passed through my hands, a dusty box set sits on my shelf, and some CD's are gathering dust, unplayed. I've got all matter of stuff beckoning to be traded for something I will actually listen to. I've tried. Oh, how I have tried. I've tried listening in my car late at night, listening while drunk, listening after watching a Western. I read one of the volumes of his autobiography. I can whole heatedly admit that the image of him being the shit kickingest sumbitch from Catalina to Timbuktu seems valid. I think I may have even forgiven for, if memory serves finding God (after all, the devil is the only deity that passes muster with yours truly). But, I just don't get Merle Haggard. Maybe it's me.

Maybe it's that my Country ears just aren't developed enough. I've never owed a cowboy hat. I hate camping. I'd rather get a terminal disease then go on a cattle drive. I think the romanticism of the West is completely ridiculous. The old West was, depending on the season, either far too hot or far too cold, and every single person was illiterate ugly, mean, covered with filth, or some combination of all four. I think the modern Country Music industry is only slightly preferable to Nazism. I love the Carter Family. I adore Ernest Tubb. I listen to Hank Williams often. Johnny Cash, Marvin Rainwater, Dolly Parton, George Jones, Roger Miller, Buck Owens, The Louvin Brothers, Tammy Wynette, all of them are great, and I find myself putting on their records. But still, is my straining to find something that makes Haggard stand out amongst such towering company and coming up short is like asking some Country aficionado to discuss the finer points in the difference between Pussy Galore and The Birthday Party?

I don't know. I'm about to permanently give up, and jettison myself of all Haggard material. His songs always seem to throw in a wrong chord, and while terrifically competent, never really stick in my noggin. I think of his output as passive background ambience, and anything more and my take-this-off-the-turntable muscle begins to itch something fierce.

So tell me, before I throw in the towel, anything I should listen to? Any wonderful tracks I managed to miss that I should dust off?

Right Now, I Am Sick

It could have been all the candy I ate (prodigious, near staggering amounts - and this is coming from a veteran of gastric overindulgence) or it just could have been whatever bug is going around. I refuse to take flu shots (don't trust 'em). Even though the cheap scumfucks with skeletal features and dead eyes who hold the elusive keys to the dusty, unused purse strings are murderously cheap cocksuckers, they spring for some fuck with dubious qualifications with a needle and some mystery fluid to come around and poke everyone in my office who is up for it on the company's dime. I never go for it. And don't give me shit about the stuff I heard about on the radio that can supposedly keep certain varieties of bird flu away, I read the Great Influenza and even if Bush finally did something decent (although motivated by a deep, pervasive desire to try and redeem his performance in the face of crisis in the public's eye - note: I could try and be funny and flippant and say that much of said public deserves the misery they brought themselves by voting for his stupid, stupid ass into office, but it's too soon, check back in a few months and maybe I will edit this part I am writing right now out) with his surprisingly competent plan to prepare for the onslaught of a global pandemic of death that will give me a great excuse to not leave the apartment for eight months, we're flat fucked either way, and man, that Wilson was a jerk, wasn't he?

Sickness is cramping my already scattershot gibberish, and my already poor command of simple grammar and inability to express coherent thoughts is suffering, as am I. I feel like my body is a car bound for the scrap heap, a real junker. A ten penny shitbox. I can barely control it. I cannot achieve comfort in any position. My nausea is overpowering. My limbs periodically loose feeling. A great heat settles around me, followed by a bone chilling cold. Getting up is torture. I feel like I ate a wheel barrow full of graveyard dirt. My eyes ache, even when closed. My head feels like I just removed it from the inside of a bum.

I am sitting on my chair, which is groaning, and my back is hurting and I'm hunched over, looking at the screen and listening to my cheap ass old fashioned monitor hum and I wish I had someone to bring me a nice bowl of chicken soup, a hot toddy, or a tall glass of pulpy, fresh squeezed orange juice. The only edibles I have around here are some leftover Almond Joys (why did I buy those? I don't even like them. Phil Honolulu/me is a 100 Grand Man, goddamnit) and some cold buffalo wings that I think are rancid. They are in a takeout container, which has filled with condensation and the thought of the buffalo wings makes my mouth water, but not in the impending tastiness way, but in the way that serves as a prelude to vomiting. For me to not want some buffalo wings, means I am fucked up, and even that House M.D. motherfucker, that is on TV right now (and who I would be watching, if I was the type of no good asshole dickhead fuckface dumbshit stupid shitsack idiot that watches that) would be horrified by the symptoms of me being disgusted at the prospect of ingesting buffalo wings.

Is this what we have to look forward to? I've just got some kind of cold/all purpose S I C K going on, what is a real, bona-fide disease like? I know people that claim to be sick every day or two, always stuck with a case of the sniffles and acting like it's terminal. But when a real one comes along? I've known people that have been really sick, and it's horrible and ugly and sad but they seem to handle it with such grace. Would I be able to? How can people cope? I have been thinking about heroism (and my lack thereof) lately, and the ones that really come to mind are the people that fight disease, scientist types in smocks with poor social skills who are dedicated to improving the quality of life, not motivated by the desire for fame or money (although I am sure some are), but the ones that really want to HELP PEOPLE. I generally do not like people, but there are times in the abstract when taken as a big vague group, humanity, warts and all, aw shucksness of it, and thinking of the pain that people have to go through and how someone could ease that and want to spend their life doing it, and it all seems so goshdarn noble. Especially for someone that, as means of [don't know yet] gets his jollies insulting second rate shitty bands on his blog. How do people in shitbucket countries and neighborhoods that are violent and poverty stricken and inconceivably terrible to a fat ugly whiteman in San Diego who gets knocked on his ass by a weak cold and nearly cries everytime he thinks of all the girls that he had the hots for (note: unrequited), but are able to get out and/or help people and whatnot, y'know, and again, not wanting the fame and blah blah blah. I've read that true altruism doesn't exist (and can certainly see the argument, like, y'know we're talking for reaping spiritual rewards later) but even if some sociology type from a big fancy school who spends much of their time talking to other very smart people who live in handsomely decorated homes and have research assistants, social behavior is, um, a PRETTY BIG FUCKING BALL OF WAX, and there are exceptions, and some people could, conceivably be altruistic and not motivated by and sub?conscious guff (hey God, you see what I did, just there? get my eternal reward seat ready there, pal, i'm on my way) or showboating for others/God again, just actual nice helpful people. I've always been vaguely distrustful of people like that, assuming that they have the torso of a missing Boyscout in their ceiling vent, but they're has to be some out there, and what the fuck am I doing talking this uninformed, uneducated line of jive on a blog anyway? Fuck I feel terrible. I want to sleep sleep sleep, but I can't. I can just stare at the ceiling and feel bad. My kingdom (note: who am I kidding? It ain't shit) for some chicken soup. With lot's of noodles. Steam wafting off. Nice little bit of barely perceptible bite to the broth. Noodles. Maybe some pieces of carrot. It's not too much to ask, is it?

That's Just Fucking Great

My blog is worth $0.00.
How much is your blog worth?

To view, select it and feel my pain.

Tokyo Electron

Some bands I just never make it to. I hear the various critical huzzahs, but far too many records are dubbed humdingers for me to take the 75% horseshit ratio of that sentiment very seriously. I had these guys pegged as second tier, sight unseen, just because it was easier to rationalize not purchasing their record (note: professional writers are never as honest as I). I had some money burning a hole in my oversized slacks, so I took the plunge on the recent Tokyo Electron album on a lark. Let me tell you, I'm glad I did. This one's a real pip, and Tokyo Electron's gotta be one of the better lineups going around right now. It's too bad they didn't go through San Diego on their recent tour, because I may have had to go and attend.

Noisy guitar, howled vocals, tight songs, the parts all add up. It's good stuff, it's aggressive and scary in a legitimate way, not some manufactured 'dangerous sound', or intentional use of horror iconography (which they defiantly don't do), but just scary in how serious and sincere these guys sound. Doesn't sound like they intentionally sat down wanting to write a song for kicks, but they had to write a song because otherwise they'd go crazy. They even got a bluesy ballad of sorts, with little curlicues of poppy synth coming out of left field. In a way, it reminds my of the Sex Pistols - they seem like a much faster band then they are. They don't have breakneck tempos, but it feels like it. It's just all the intensity aurally translates into it sounding faster. Tokyo Electron's the same way, just uglier. Tokyo Electron gets Phil Honolulu's seal of approval.

Did I Tell You I Hurt My Foot?

I did. Saturday. It still hurts. I was boiling water to make some coffee with my french press, and in maneuvering the pot to pour into the press, I managed to spill most of the rolling boil of water directly on my naked right foot. It didn't hurt nearly as bad initially as I thought it would, but it hurts now. There is no exterior mark, just a feint sensation of pain that creeps up when I am not concentrating intently on something.

I Am Going To Try And Post More

I really enjoy Halloween.

It is, by far, my favorite holiday. It actively encourages eating too much candy, extortion, vandalism, and little kids dressing up like Satan. I am looking forward to buying a big bowl of candy, donning the 'ol giant pumpkin costume (complete w/ stem hat) playing some scary sound effects, leaving my front door open, and drinking beer and eating sausage while waiting for little kids to come so I can give them as much candy as their skinny little arms can carry. Last year I got a decent amount of kids. I try to reward the kids who actually dress up as something scary with more candy. The the bland little fuckers that dress up with pansy costumes, like Princesses or Firemen, they get a little less. I want Zombies, Devils, Demons, Monsters, etc. I am a traditionalist. I also, am going to avoid my work related Halloween party. Why, in my right mind, would I ever want to go to work and see people I see far too often, only not get paid for it? What kind of sick fuck enjoys that?

Halloween falling on a Monday, it sucks though. A Busy-Body in my building is making noise about having Halloween on Saturday night, so her foul kids from her lousy bloodstream won't be too tired at school come Tuesday, but she fails to realize her bullshit is just going to fucking confuse everyone in my building. Even me, and I don't confuse very easily.

Finally got the Black Time record, which I am enjoying very much. I am surprised how much it reminds me of The Time Flys. Haven't heard any of the singles or 10" or what not on various European labels with poor distribution, so I am hoping some enterprising whippersnapper compiles it all for me later.

Also, I have never heard anything by the following bands, could someone tell me if they think I would enjoy it? And if so, what would be the record to pick up?

The Swans
Spring Heel Jack
The Zoomers
No Neck Blues Band
Factrix

Thank you.

Pink Reason

I am not one to go try and find new bands on MySpace. Just not my cup of tea. Sure, if a trusted associate or pretty girl tells me to check something out, I will. But randomly tramping through looking at burgeoning careerist's profiles? No thanks. My sense of irony hasn't been firing on all cylinders, and even though I am sure I could find a few bands that would make my idiot alarm go off with disturbing force, I just don't have the patience. So I'll just be passive, thank you.

Anyway, a reader recommended that I give Pink Reason (www.myspace.com/secondculture) a listen, and I went in expecting the typical thing. Y'know, three chord '77 jive or look Ma! I got a delay pedal! noise/art what-not. I got far from either, and lemme tell ya - I like it.

It's good stuff. The one that comes up first on my browser "Throw It Away", has a the same ramshackle, um, 'vibe' that early Royal Trux has, like you were lucky enough to walk into the best part of a two hour drone when everyone was hitting everything just right. The drum fills are subtle and great, the ominous guitar lines fit in snug. An evil howl of dark feedback vocals almost overpowers the song, before it lilts off into a meandering acoustic fade. I dig the relax crawl of the tempo; it's like the song instinctively knows it's good and doesn't have to go fast to impress anyone. 'New Violence' has some great echoed drums and nicely bizarre synth. It has a seat of the pants, semi improvised feel to it, and the deceptively simple little synth riffs are perfect in context, plodding organic blurps over the chime. 'Slate Train' lazily drifts on subtle synths and echoed percussion, like a far more calm track on the first Intelligence LP.

Here's hoping someone will make a Pink Reason LP. I would certainly purchase it.

Charles Rocket

R.I.P.

A History Of Violence

Sucked. Really terrible. Critics ignored 'The Brood' when it came out, a unique, suspenseful, frightening, smart, darkly funny and deeply satisfying movie. But when Cronenburg deep sixes any personal style and emits a craftsmanlike snooze with some terrible performances (William Hurt, take a bow, as the least convincing gangster since the cast of 'Mobsters'), poor writing, and just in general boring as watching paint dry (I was amazed at the actual running time, because it seemed at least twenty minutes longer), critics take notice. They like it. They think it's intelligent, fascinating, etc. It's not, it's sad watching a major talent fall flat on his face. All the panty shots and noses driven into brains aren't going to change my mind, and those are two of my favorite things.

I'll write a longer review later, when I am less disgusted.

Comments Hidden

Because of all these spammers. My inbox is all fucked up.

I Feel Fucking Terrible

Seriously, what is the point of sticking around?

Willie Hutch

R.I.P.

Robert Wise

R.I.P.

Gatemouth Brown

R.I.P.

Huge Interview Coming Up

It's going to knock your socks clean off your feet. You're going to be sitting there, barefoot.

Bob Denver

R.I.P.

RL Burnside

R.I.P.

Shitty Writer + Horrible People = Crappy Book

Some reader/asshole recommended to me that I read Ben Mezrich's "Bringing Down The House: The Inside Story Of Six M.I.T Students Who Took Vegas For Millions", citing how exciting it was, non-fiction that reads like a white knuckle thriller, etc. Well, let me clear something up, the book is a horribly written piece of shit about people who can all go and suck my cock. First off, weather you are a junkie who knocks over the corner grocery for his fix, or an intelligent overprivileged college kid who knows how to count cards and utilize team play, stealing is stealing. There's a great exchange in Charles Willeford's 'Miami Blues', that also in George Armitage's excellent film adaptation, namely, after the criminal explains how he steals money...

Girl:
So you're kind of like Robin Hood?
Criminal:
Yeah. Except I didn't give any money to the poor people.

Mezrich lacks any comparable wit, and is too blinded by his conception of a exciting life to offer any ethical judgments. Maybe the story, which in itself interesting, could have been compelling with a decent writer relating the tale of highly intelligent scholars who make their living as sleaze-balls. However, Mezrich, who already had a book deal while still enrolled in Harvard, is one lousy fucking writer. Listen to this idiot describe his personal visit to a strip club:



When the overhead lights blinked on for a brief moment as the clock struck three A.M., an image straight out of Caligula's fantasies was seared permanently into my memory: a sea of undulating skin rippling and rubbing and writing as far as my eyes could see.

To Call Las Vegas's Crazy Horse Too a strip club would be misleading - both to the connoisseurs or the form and to those who abhor the very idea of nude flesh for cash. Built, consciously or unconsciously, to resemble a Roman orgy at the twilight of an Empire... The CH2 was quite possibly the most decadent place I'd ever been.



A strip club in Vegas, yeah, I am sure that is what Caligula fantasized about. In fact, Mezrich's description of something as pedestrian as a Vegas strip club makes it pretty obvious that his idea of fast times is having half a wine cooler and staying up late enough to catch Leno. Read again, as this two bit hack tries to describe swagger:



I entered the circular casino like Kevin Lewis had taught me bold, arrogant, leering at the gorgeous blonde waitresses in their tight black shorts and dark stockings, walking in long strides as if my cock ran halfway down my leg. My hair was slicked back, my silk shirt open two buttons at my neck. My jacket flowed around me like a cape.



Or, when when these hardened card counters get into a conflict hard boiled just oozes out of the page:



"We're playing with fire," Kevin said, moving away from the phone. "We've been hit four times in one week."
Fisher looked away disgusted. Kevin felt like smacking some sense into the fool.



Or my personal favorite:



A burst of applause filled the room as Martinez took a measure bow. "Of course, this is just a demonstration model," he said. "I wouldn't wear the fat suit in Vegas. It would certainly hamper my success with the ladies. But you get the general idea."
"Over the past few days," Fisher tag-teamed in, "we've been out in L.A. meeting with a top Hollywood makeup artist. For a small fortune, we've purchased some of the highest quality disguises - prosthetics, wigs, hair coloring, skin dye-available on the market."



Watch out George V. Higgins, someone else has an ear for dialogue! Mezrich comes to insanely obvious conclusions like he is a sage of great wisdom, instead of some sheltered chump. Strippers care only about the money. People can't win in Vegas. The security in Casino's is tight. Sure, for the typical Vegas crowd, run of the mill morons whose idea of high literature is shitty book like this, that might be a revelation. But for anyone who isn't an idiot, it is not.

For someone ostensibly so smart, Kevin sure can act like a fucking nitwit. When it becomes abundantly clear that everyone employee in every Casino in the entire world knows who they are and they get spotted within half an hour of entering any such establishment, his dumb ass still decides to try again. He's just a greedy rich jerk, who never got the leg-breaking or crippling that he so richly deserves. The money wasn't enough for this scumbag, he wanted to be famous, too, so he gets his buddy to write a book, relating his adventure. Fuck him. In case you think this book ends with a bang, it doesn't, one of Kevin's poorly rendered associate gets punched in the face, someone else gets their house broken into and some money stolen, and someone breaks into Kevin's apartment. Yep, that's the ending. This book sucks, and I hope Ben Mezrich gets hit by a car.

Right Now I Am Horribly, Horribly Depressed

Just thought I would mention it.

The Fall 'Fall Heads Roll'

So, a friend sent sent me a CD-R of this, the upcoming Fall album, a few months before it's release proper on highly questionable 'label', Narnack. Yep, the folks at Narnack, who I would like to make fun of more but cannot due to their wonderful Bunnybrains box and Intelligence release (not to mention the jim dandy 'I Made A Bomb' - kudos, fellas), had the deep pockets/endless reserves of patience/good taste to sign The Fall. They tweaked through the mixes and delivered an alternate version of the acclaimed, and rightfully so, 'The Real New Fall LP (Formerly "Country On The Click")' last year and now they've got Smith's next. I dunno if I am reviewing the final record/mix/mastered/what have you, especially considering that it might strike Smith's fancy to go and remix the entire thing at the zero hour or drop a track or two, but this is what I've got, and I am going to share it with you, out of the kindness of my heart.

I've been looking forward to this record for quite a bit. Not only are the Peel Sessions from this record great - particularly 'Blindness', which rides along a bass riff so ominous, menacing and funky that it easily ranks of with the best of Steve Hanley, some big shoes to fill - but The Fall seems to be on an upswing lately, before going on one of their inevitable downturns when the Reggae influence gets to pervasive. It's not a comfortable subject, but let's be serious here. How much time do you think Mark E. Smith has left? How many new Fall records are we going to get? It's easy to take the incredible longevity for granted, since we've had a couple LP's and reissues belched out into the racks every year, but sooner or later the only thing that could stop The Fall will occur, and will be down one unique cultural treasure. Okay, enough sentiment, what did that little wrinkled, cantankerous motherfucker come up with this time?

Leadoff track 'Ride Away', a strange choice to open the record, is a blended Joe Meek/reggae/Wire slow tempo pop mopery. oddly catchy number done with great economy, i.e. sparse keyboard and occasional guitar over a simple beat and Smith's vocals. 'Assume', which you 'assume' are just going to ride out on one riff while lurching into the stop/start mode, explode into some great electronic guitar blasts before shifting back. 'Blindness' suffers from comparison to the Peel session, with too much production fuckery aroundery and a muddled mix, while 'What About Us' careens around but just ends up looking like a coattail rider to the far the superior 'Sparta F.C.' As for The Move cover, The Fall's version of 'I Can Hear The Grass Grow' is an absolute showstopper. That's the mark of a good band, when they can take a Nuggets certified classic that you've heard a thousand times and invigorate it. They don't piledrive it or fuck with it, or rework it. They just do the song, and do it great. Shit, it's hard to tell without the benefit of a decade or so, but i'd say it can go toe to toe with 'Mr. Pharmacist'...

Anyway, yeah, the record's a good one. It's consistent, Smith & Co. seem less satisfied to litter their records with throwaway tracks, more inclined to work out a whole song rather then leaving it 3/4 of the way finished (which sounds lousy, and occupies the middle ground between those Fall songs that sound 1/2 finished, and are great). On the whole, the band just seems more focused. Like I said, good record.

Brock Peters

R.I.P.

Bob Moog

R.I.P.

One More Quick Thing (I'm On A Fucking Roll Tonight)

Also, quick question, does anyone out there have the 'Extreme Music From Africa' compilation? Is it worth getting? I assume it will be something that proves to me that there are assholes with delay pedals on every continent, but the concept is so thoroughly bizarre that I am nevertheless intrigued. Anyone?

One Quick Thing

I really dig the new Time Flys record. Reminds me of the Black Lips, in the sense that just when you think a particular formula is in it's death throes (60's punk in the case of The Black Lips, '77 punk with a capital P in the case of the T.F.'s) along comes a band that makes you realize that you were completely wrong. It's kinda like what Pauline Kael said about 'The Wild Bunch' and the genre of the western, just instead of florid lines about wine bottles that look very clumsy when quoted, I'll just go the more pedestrian route and belch up a cliche: they breath life into the formula. Love the start/stop lurch of the songs and the dry, piercing treble of their guitar solos. Also, 'Oooga, oooga' is my favorite lyric in quite some time.

If their personal appearance wasn't so disturbing (very possibly, deliberately so), I would love to go out and see them. Maybe I will, but in any case, at least I have the record. I think I will listen to it often. I think I'm a little late on this endorsement, but I'd like to recommend it to you, dearest reader, just in case you were on the fence about purchasing it. Don't download it either, okay? Just purchase it.

Three New Stones Tracks

I decided to take the plunge & invest $2.97 in the three 'exclusive' new Rolling Stones songs from their upcoming record on the ITunes music store. Note: I did not download said tracks illegally, even though, of all people, The Stones do not seem to need any portion of my nearly three dollars, no matter how great. But rather, I did it out of respect. Mick, Keith, and Charlie have all provided me with far more joy then I will ever give to someone else, so even if they are a few decades past their prime, who am I to object when they want three clams to listen two three of their tunes before September 6th and the release of their new record? I'll gladly fork it over, less then a beer in a bar, and ominously, about how much it costs to get a gallon of supreme. The Stones, they deserve it.

The last new Stones song I heard was the mediocre 'Don't Stop' off of their oldest-trick-in-the-book greatest hits package/new two or three songs record the clearly frightened of a chart failure Stones released to coincide with their last tour. The song wasn't a travesty (they would need to incorporate more Reggae influence for that) but it was a mediocre, lazy number that lacked focus. One of the things I really wanted to have happened before I (or more likely, they) died, was hearing a new, and great Rolling Stones single on the airwaves. It's been quite awhile since 1981, so the likelihood they have it in 'em is decreasing drastically with each passing album. Maybe I'll get lucky.

So, first up 'Rough Justice'...

First off, the title is terrible, conjuring up images of Mick's horrendous clothing during the Tattoo You Tour, where he combined eye gouging neon colors with shoulder pads too flamboyant for the homoerotic badguy in 'The Road Warrior', with skintight pastel tights with incorporated knee pads. It's enough to make a man want to take back all the nice things about the man he said earlier. The title is lousy, I don't know if Mick is trying to reference some S&M type titillation with a vague political message (this is before I've even heard the song) but it just sounds like the first thing that popped into his wrinkled head.

But the song starts out a-okay, with a meaty stuttering riff, until the song gets into it's minimalist groove propelled by the incomparable Charlie, and fuck a duck, this song isn't half bad. After going the soft route, trying to get a hit through safe midtempo numbers, or yet another fucking ballad, The Stones are trying to do what they were meant to do in the first place and what everyone has been waiting for them to do, namely: JUST DOING ANOTHER FUCKING ROCK SONG.

Then, well Dear Readers, Mick starts spouting off cliche and a weak attempt at a double entendre followed by a few more cliches and well... It kind of fizzles out the impact. Don't get me wrong, hearing a Charlie fill is still just as impressive, some of the slide guitar is right on the border between the too proficient (as Mick Taylor was getting, before he threw his hissy fit and left at the right time to avoid embarrassing himself) and the just right (as say, Beggar's Banquet), and Keith can milk more mileage out of one chord than a dork like Santana can do out of a whole tour, but lyrically, and this is from a guy who demands very little of lyrical content (you pay attention to lyrics, next thing you know you're at a coffee shop in Maine wearing a sweater and making dream catchers while self publishing your own poetry) the song is embarrassing. But it's better then anything the Stones have done in years, but then again, they haven't done SHIT for more then a decade.

Next up, 'Back Of My Hand'...

Blues. Blues lyrics. Blues structures, the kind of thing The Stones can do in their sleep. I know it's their roots, and they've done as much for blues as any man who commissioned an hour long special on television about himself, but what was revelatory in the mid sixties is pretty trite today (and that goes doubly for you, Jack White). If you thought rock cliches were hard to swallow on the preceding number, wait until you get earful of BLUES COMPLAINTS 101 on this little ditty. Tough to swallow. 'Back Of My Hand' isn't as good as 'The Storm', another buried B-Side, nor is it as good as the hovering over okay/pretty good as 'Rough Justice'.

The Finale, 'Streets Of Love'...

The token ballad, the soaring chorus that overpaid producers bumbling around in the studio bothering the engineers use to justify their presence, the song is calculated as all git out to be a big wet sentimental hit. I don't like it very much. It's pretty hard to listen to, actually, and I can't even imagine the horror if they daresay, make a music video out of this, with Mick's 'hair' getting buffeted by the wind, his open shirt flapping in the breeze, as he emotes to the viewer and backlit Keith does knee bends cradling his old telecaster. Please, no.

Well, the tracks could have been far worse. Without the benefit of the time, which can make anything easier to critically analyze in context, I'm going to say this: The new tracks aren't bad. Even if I sound like I'm being rough on the Stones, for a band with such a massive catalog of great songs, they are bound to have some also-rans and numbers that aren't especially impressive. For some oldsters to pop out a collection of songs this decent in the first place is an accomplishment, and for the Stones to stay on top of the charts, even if their game has slipped considerably, is unprecedented. I'm glad they are still around, and the Stones are one of those acts where even their bad stuff just makes you like them more. It's endearing, and it reminds you that they are human.

Warning, Those Of You In The Midwest, Do Not Leave Any Pies On Your Windowsill

http://www.nctimes.com/articles/2005/07/19/special_reports/life_times/11_58_017_16_05.txt

It's old news, and it's been for awhile, but anyone can get their brief fifteen minutes. 'Specially nowadays, as economical to produce Reality TV seeps through an indiscriminate populace's television, and any dipshit with a website can get gain grass roots notoriety. But straight from a third rate paper spitting distance from my second rate town, comes this article, that I came across this morning on the internet while looking for pornography.

So, let me get this straight, one big fat asshole decides to walk cross country with no particular goal and it's worth this much newsprint? What's the next feature article, 'Man Decides To Get Hair Transplants'? C'mon, one airheaded fatty decides to abandon his family for a few weeks and walk across the country (note: your refrigerator and couch will still be waiting for you, alongside your lack of willpower) and all of sudden he's an inspirational force? How hard is it to inspire people? I know people's lives are empty, but I didn't know they were so empty that the utterly unremarkable tale of one fatass who is too good for say,

GOING TO THE MOTHERFUCKING GYM AND EATING WITH A LITTLE FUCKING MODERATION,

is going to give people hope? Hey, I got news for you, if Steve Vaught gives you hope, then your life is hopeless. I wish I had the luxury of unloading my three kids on my wife who has had to sleep next to my horrendous bulk for nine years who will work like a dog to support my fatass while I get interviewed my television crews and walk across country to fame, fortune, and adulation (has he inked a book tie-in deal yet?).

"You find out pretty quick you're boring."

Other people are less apt to catch on, though.

"If you live your entire life and only affect one person positively, that's a good life[.]" - Steve Vaught

Actually, Steve, and Gary, who is the glorified typist behind this poorly written piece of shit, this statement is simplistic, trite, pat, condescending, and totally and completely wrong. Maybe Steve honestly believes that in his cholesterol clogged wheeze brain, but that doesn't cut the mustard with me. To live a 'good life', you should do a lot more then affect one person positively (Hitler affected some people positively, was his life good? Ted Bundy had plenty of friends). Steve and Gary: leading a good life probably shouldn't include running down old people and killing them, even if it does put me in Steve's corner, because I hate the elderly.

"I'm just a human being like everybody else, but every human being is capable of doing amazing things[.]"

Also, not true. How many humans do you know? America is chockablock with easily distracted, ignorant, boring people, the vast majority of whom aren't capable of doing anything amazing. That is to say, unless your conclusion of being 'amazing' includes buying too much stupid shit, having an unearned sense of entitlement, eating a lot, frequenting terrible establishments, going through life without the desire to learn anything, having stupid kids, or being able to tolerate their jobs. I hate America. Actually, that's wrong. Maybe there is hope for America. Say what you will about that monstrous American teenager, but at least portions of them lack sympathy for fat backpackers whose slight knee injury and rash is news. I'd like to shakes hands with whatever miscreant fired paintballs at Steve. Thank you.

Terrible Blog Alert

A reader pointed me in it's direction. I was going to sit down, roll up my sleeves, and rip the guy a brand new five bedroom, four bath asshole, but I don't have the gumption. Also, I don't want to read the entire thing, even though it's busting out at the seams with fodder to I'm attempting to stop wallowing in negativity and intentionally exposing myself to things I loathe. Maybe that would help me sleep, give me a better attitude, make me more attractive to the opposite sex, etc. Or, maybe not. I was thinking of writing something about someone that I see posting on message boards, who I have come to know somewhat just through his relentless championing of a lousy band on the internet and his very sad Myspace profile. Something about this person is pretty hilarious, how out of touch he is, his idealized self image projection, and his refusal to see how much people dislike him. He may very well be the most irritating person on the entire internet. That's right, the most irritating person on the entire internet, and since the majority of the world has access (if they so please) to the internet, and since it hasn't been proven that humans reside elsewhere in the galaxy, then Scottie Diablo may very well be the most irritating person in the entire Universe. Maybe someone in some rural village with no computers is more annoying, but for now my vote goes for Mister Diablo.

Re: earlier blog: I will say this though, why do people dislike blogs? Obviously, I am in no position to be objective on this, but if someone wants to post something, quickly, easily, and for free, why is that so terrible? Yes, I am well aware that many blogs out there are very poorly done, that just because any asshole with a misplaced ambition lodged in their noodle and a vague aspiration to be a writer now has a forum, and the desperate cries for attention that pass as writing make up an alarming proportion of blog content... Well, you don't have to read it. If you do, and you search through the underbelly, reading between the lines and getting glimpses of people's private selves, it's pretty incredible. Not well written, but fascinating. But some blogs are great, I can stop fiddling with this bullshit & go to, say
www.crudcrud.blogspot.com
www.recordrobot.blogspot.com
www.sexkittenscratches.blogspot.com
www.vinyljourney.blogspot.com
right now and listen to songs I would never hear otherwise. I can get information on bands that otherwise I would never know about on others. I can go to www.agonyshorthand.blogspot.com and read intelligent, well written, literate reviews about the music I'm not going to see in print anywhere, except maybe Bull Tongue.

Where was I? Where's this going? Doesn't matter. I didn't sit down at the computer on this too hot Saturday morning and have a clear plan of attack for what I was going to write, after I got too lazy to read the entire poorly written and unamusing blog, even though it would have been absurdly easy to make the guy look like the idiot he very obviously is. I'm not even going to mention the blog's name now, anyway. He probably has more readers then me.

Fonts I Despise, Pt. I

Sand

Anyone See The Trailer For Herzog's 'Grizzley Man'?

And am I the only one that thinks this Tredwell guy looks like an insufferable hippy asshole?

Hubble Bubble

Pull up a chair.

There's been a bit of internet chatter as of late over the great debut LP by Belgians Hubble Bubble. Lemme add my ¢2, okay? Mostly notable for having Plastic Bertrand on the skins, Hubble Bubble has lapsed into hopeless obscurity since it's '78 release. It was booted a few years ago, but even the bootleg is worth an inordinate amount of money, far more then even most connoisseurs of such claptrap are willing (or able), to spend.

Well, folks, I listen to Hubble Bubble with far more regularity than I listen to other semi-obscurities as Big Balls and The Great White Idiot (One Okay Lp and A Band That's Just Not That Special), The Kids, or even fellow non-reissued proto punkers, Hackamore Brick. I'd put Hubble Bubble on about an even keel with The Pack (whom I love), but Hubble is a more interesting band - but more on that later.

Big Balls And The Great White Idiot is, let's face it folks: no great shakes. Sure, they've got a funny name and are from Germany, a nation not known for it's sense of humor, but there's not a whole lot more to 'em. Their first LP out of their surprisingly large discography (note: it's not difficult to amass a large discography when you're writing consistently boring songs) is the only notable one. It's just okay. Give me a minute while I reflect inwardly on Big Balls, and shrug.

Hubble Bubble is a better band then fellow Belgians, The Kids. I put the Kids at about the same level as The Avengers, a band that had three or four great songs (that all sound very similar) and a number of mediocre songs, that just sound like pale imitations of their good ones. Yeah, don't get me wrong, The Kids and The Avengers both had their moments, and their moments are great... But, when it's not the cream of their oeuvre and listening to 'em is spread over more then a solid dozen or so minutes, well, it's starts to all sound the same. This may sound like I'm trying to be insulting or mean spirited, but it's just in my nature, a solid dozen or so minutes is far more then 99% of bands will ever do. There's nothing wrong with writing a few classics, that have elevated themselves into the punk lexicon and calling it a day. But let's be clear on this and sgree that the remainder of the LP is little more then an afterthought, okay?

Hackamore Brick & Hubble Bubble are two different animals, whose only real similarity is they both have yet to have a proper reissue. How can someone reissue The Mentally Ill and not those two bands? I like Hackamore Brick just fine, but the later is more my speed.

Hubble Bubble has a welcome weirdness to it. The production is bizarre, and I mean that as a compliment, with the occasional analog electronic blurps, and the drastically different vocalists, different songs on the record sound like a completely different band. They can careen through a song like The Damned ('Look Around'), have a more mid-tempo almost New Waveish feel ('New Promotion'), make you think they are rubbing elbows with synth punk ('Little Jeanie'), or do some great demolitions/covers (Sandy Posey's 'Born A Women', some hippie jerkoff's 'If You're Going To San Francisco', the Kink's 'I'm Not Live Everybody Else'). This is when they aren't doing an overamped solo on what sounds like a broken ukulele ('Freaks... Out!'). Yeah, it's a heckof a record, let me tell you. I'd say it's worth buying, but I can't advise anyone to spend $100 dollars on a peice of vinyl, no matter how magical the contents therein. Spending $40 on a bootleg, well, that's just silly. But I will tempt you by saying it is an unsung punk LP, maybe even THE unsung punk LP, that could go toe to toe with most classic punk records and come out okay.

Now, how come nobody has done a proper reissue?

Edward Bunker

R.I.P.

News Flash: Richard Hell Is An Asshole

This is from the introduction to an interview with Richard Hell on www.bookslut.com a reader forwarded to me.

Dear Reader, strap on your bullshit bullshit guards, strap them on tight, and double check 'em, because this is going to be a bumpy read...

Here's the intro to the piece, which was written by someone I've never heard of, Adam Travis;



Interviewing Hell

During a recent trip to New York City, I stopped by Richard Hell’s apartment in the East Village. We had coffee, made literary small talk, and recorded an interview. Several days later I sent him a transcription of the interview along with an unfinished introduction to the piece. What follows is Hell’s spirited response and critical comments to my introduction.

25 February 2005

Yo, Travis,

Listen, last night I looked at the interview. I'm pretty inured to ignorant journalism, and the second half of my double take regarding your introduction to the interview took about twenty minutes to fully develop, but once it occurred it was energetic enough that it resulted in the attached annotated version of your intro.

Dude, I don't know what remedy there is for your condition but some hard knocks. Anyway, for the record, the line that really ignited my slow burn was, "As a poet now, Richard Hell is perhaps not as good as he could have been had he not spent upwards of twenty years playing music." Though as indicated in the attachment, the whole intro is consistent with the obnoxiousness of that line.

To be fair, I have to admit that when I was around your age, I was nearly as bad, maybe worse. When I was 18 and had started that literary magazine I mentioned, I wrote Allen Ginsberg for a poem and then when he sent one I rejected it.

But, you know, this interview is nothing special. Under the circumstances I'm really not going to break my butt to have it ready for you. It might be interesting to include this exchange with it. If you want to suggest a simple way to salvage it, I'd consider it. The cool thing would be to take an extra week and include this exchange (with the attachment below), but I don't expect that. Otherwise, if you're determined to go on with the process, I'd suggest you write a new slightly more appropriately humble intro, and I'd do the work I'd need to on the interview proper over the weekend when I can find the time. Otherwise, let's just write it off to experience and forget about it.

Later,

Richard



First off, Richard's use of terms such as 'Yo', 'Dude', and 'Later', instead of terms more suited to someone his age, such as 'Oxygen Mask', 'Assisted Living' and 'Irrelevancy' is pretty fucking silly. Let's get a few things straight here: first and foremost, let's be honest with ourselves here: Richard Hell's novels are lousy. If he didn't used to be a rock star with a small bag of tricks and big sack of pretension, whose principle claim to fame was his association with more talented people and a song lifted from an old McFadden record (also, he was on heroin! wow!) nobody would give him the time of day. You see how horrible most of the writing be published now is, right? Richard Hell isn't even that interesting. Honestly, I'm surprised that Hell's books aren't coming out on Henry Rollins's imprint, which is the most mean spirited, hateful thing I can say about a writer (I'm being perfectly serious). Richard Hell made a few lousy albums and was lifted by the tide of a very specific time period into a cultural position he doesn't deserve in the least. When was the last time you pulled out a Richard Hell record? When was the last time you perused a Richard Hell book? Shit, the guy wrote a novel when he thought he was a vampire. Let me repeat that:

THE
GUY
WROTE
A
NOVEL
WHEN
HE
THOUGHT
HE
WAS
A
VAMPIRE

Have you read of his sophomoric, quasi autobiographical, horridly unoriginal novels? His poetry by numbers? Just because shit for brains teenage theorists on the smokey end of a bong sing his praises to high heaven, doesn't make him any good. Richard Hell's music is no great shakes, and his writing's a snooze. Up his.

Okay, on to the aforementioned, much ballyhooed intro (Hell's comments are in brackets).



If Richard Hell had died fifteen years ago he would only be remembered for his essential contribution to the beginnings of punk rock in New York in the 1970s. No small feat, I’d say.

[You would? You'd say? You would say? You'd say both those things? You? Mr. Adam Travis?]



Okay, even though I find Richard Hell's comments here surprisingly funny for someone that appears totally devoid of a sense of a humor, the writer is essentially accurate. If Richard Hell died right now (and if he was in front of me and I had a handgun, he would) his writing would be a footnote. I'm not saying that to fit my argument, it's a fact. Do you think his obit is going to read:

POET RICHARD HELL, ACCLAIMED NOVELIST AND POET, BUT NOT KNOWN AS A MUSICIAN IN THE LEAST, DIES
Late last night, famed novelist and well regarded poet Richard Hell (actual name Richard Myers) died. After a long battle with near deadly levels of ego, he finally succumbed to fatal levels of self delusion. Oh, he was also in this band called Television, as well as his own band, called Richard Hell and The Voidoids, as well as being a founding member of The Heartbreakers, but nobody gives a shit. His book 'L'Oeil du Lexard' has been universally loved by readers the world over and has been universally admired as one of the crowning achievements in all of literature. Even God was quoted as saying 'you spend a week creating the universe, but when one of your children goes and writes a book like that, it makes it all worthwhile'...
?

No, it's going to be something like:

RICHARD HELL, PUNK ARTIST, DIES
Late last night, musician Richard Hell, one of the founders of New York's 'Punk' movement, and a member of seminal punk groups Television, and The Heartbreakers, as well as his own group Richard Hell and The Voidoids, died. Oh, Hell also managed to somehow publish some shitty little books that nobody read that only he and a few morons through were good (they aren't)...

Okay, back to the interview:



Many rock and rollers become rich and famous, but few can claim to have also had a significant impact on culture at large.

[I don't think it's a real interesting subject, but how about Elvis Presley, James Brown, the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Sly Stone, The Sex Pistols, Run-DMC, and Madonna? It's absurd and embarrassing for you to place me among those who "can claim to have also had a significant impact on culture at large" as a "rock and roller" with a throwaway line like that. I do not make that "claim." On what basis do you? You think you're flattering me, but you're just being a condescending twat.]



Okay, Adam made a pretty stupid comment. Not only is it not especially relevant, but let's be serious here. It's not good writers that are going to be commenting on Hell's literary work in anything but a dismissive way in the first place, so Hell should just keep his lips zipped. Calling the guy a twat? What is he, ten?

What's that? Serious writers do like Richard Hell? William Gibson? Dennis Cooper? You mean, William Gibson, inventor of the genre of cyberpunk? Give me a minute, I have to laugh for a good half hour before I can sit back in front of the keyboard. Oh, wait? Dennis Cooper likes Richard Hell's lit, too? You want to see my Dennis Cooper impersonation?

"Then I fucked the hole I made in his neck, did I mention that I'm gay? Because I am." - Dennis Cooper

Back to the interview:



That kind of accomplishment, especially in such a here-today-gone-tomorrow genre of music,

[What?--more poetry survives than music? And/or--what?--poets have anywhere near the "impact on culture at large" as pop musicians?]



Adam is pretty much right, although he didn't articulate his argument very well. Musician's fame, notoriety, and fortune can dissipate frighteningly quick. Just ask the Von Bondies.

More interview:



can be a major obstacle to being taken seriously in any other medium. Since music Hell has devoted himself almost entirely to writing (mostly novels), and occasionally poetry. In fact, poetry was the first thing he did seriously (before music) when he came to New York in the late sixties.

[The first thing I did seriously at that time was get drunk, the second was try to figure out how to support myself financially. Poetry was a distant fourth or fifth.]



Oh, wait, don't you mean the first thing you did was breathe? Or eat? Or act like an asshole? You did write poetry (excuse me while I point in the general direction of New York and laugh) before you were a musician, asshole.

More interview:



As a poet now, Richard Hell is perhaps not as good as he could have been had he not spent upwards of twenty years playing music.

[Fuck you. If you want to say something like that, say it to my face. You don't hear me making claims about how "good" my poetry is, but who the fuck do you think you are? All this writing of yours is presented as if you're a person called upon to make judgments from some position of earned respect. That's not who you are. You're a callow kid with a job reading slush for a pretentious irrelevant "poetry" magazine {Poetry, not Bookslut} ([previous bracket comment's Travis's not, Hell's or Honolulu's]). You sought an interview from me, I was kind enough to grant it, and now you're being an asshole by exercising some grotesquely deluded misapprehension that your role in this includes some call to fucking critically assess my skills. Also, it was not twenty but ten years I spent with bands.]



Wow, as someone that routinely gets really upset over trivial matters, this outburst of Hell's is still really surprising. Yeah, that Adam Travis sure is the asshole here, not Hell. In fact, Hell's being a really nice guy. Sure Adam's mental meter may hover towards nitwit with surprising regularity, but he's directly paying a guy he admires a soft compliment (hey Hell, notice the qualifier of 'perhaps') that while, not true, isn't nearly as sweeping of a statement as he made it out to be. Actually, it doesn't matter if Richard Hell spent ten or twenty years playing music, he would still be just as pretentious and bland of a poet and novelist as if he had never picked up his bass.

More interview:



That statement is so obvious of any occupation it probably doesn’t even need to be made.

[Except by an incomprehensibly self-satisfied fool.]




That's not especially good writing, but not deserving of Hell's jerkisms. I think Hell has the fourth tier rag that nobody reads confused with some big outlet, so he should give the only type of people that want to interview him anymore (idiots) a little leeway.

More interview:



But whereas most poet-rockers’ involvement with poetry doesn’t go beyond one or two volumes of crappy verse,

[Again, who gives a shit what your opinions are concerning "crappy" verse? What have you said or done for us to have any reaction but baffled impatience at your presumptuous, casual, throwing-around of such epithets? This writing of yours is what's crappy: it betrays nothing but unearned self-importance and a complete lack of understanding regarding the nature and purpose of the journalism it's purporting to practice.]



Adam's absolutely right. How many musicians contribute well crafted prose or verse to the world of literature? It's not a matter of opinion here, it's cold hard fact. Hell is living proof, no wonder he's upset. Hell's attitude is also total bullshit, sweeping statements aside, the argument of having to do something in the first place to be in a position to comment on it is totally intellectually invalid.



poetry seems actually to have been a significant part of Hell’s life and work.

[Thanks for your prized approval.]



Well, it is/was, right? Also, I don't see any approval on behalf of Adam Travis being offered in this statement.

More interview:



Even his forthcoming novel Godlike is all about poets and poetry. It is a commonplace to say that poetry does not matter to the rest of culture – and true, most writers, musicians, painters, and even actors, lead careers that are influenced almost not at all by poetry. It is hard, though, to imagine Hell’s work without his involvement with poetry.

[Gee, does that mean I'm accepted into your approved pigpen of the cognescenti?]



It is hard to invoke Hell's work without his misguided ambitions and misplaced literary aspirations. Adam Travis's statement seems accurate to me, but then again, I'm someone that doesn't read much poetry and thinks 'Surfin' Bird' is as good of a song as anything Dylan ever came up with, shit, we are dealing with rock music, aren't we?

There Was Something I Was Going To Post

But I forgot when I signed in. Honest. Oh well.

Phil Honolulu = Just As Relevant As Howlin' Wolf

What do Myself, The Rolling Stones, Mozart, Bo Diddley, Can, Captain Beefheart, The Carter Family, Suicide, The Electric Eels, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Stooges, Roxy Music, Elvis Presley, Hackamore Brick, Ernest Tubb, Devo, and Charlie Patton all have in common?

G'ahead, guess... Guess, c'mon, try it... Don't know? Need a hint? It's hot that hard... Well, I'll just tell you. Like yours truly, the list above is part of the rich history of recorded music, a narrow part of the vast pantheon of musical artists who have recorded their compositions for the ages. That's right, dear reader, you, me, we've had our ups and downs, you've given me a load of shit, and to be fair, at times, I could have been much nicer to some of you. You've written me nasty emails and comments, and I, in turn, have leveled abuse and vitriol at many of you. But, when we get down to brass tacks, you kept reading me, and despite me becoming drastically less productive, I have kept contributing. I could say we have a begrudging respect, but that would be wrong, because I respect very few of you. But, for better or for worse, we're stuck with each other for the time being, me typing my thoughts, and you: your eyes drifting slowly, haltingly over the screen, your lips spastically forming out the words I've written, as your brow furrows and your brain runs hot as you try your hand at literacy. So we might as well make the most of it.

Does this mean I'm going to stop saying things like: Dirtnap is almost totally worthless? Or, ask relevant questions like: Why is it wrong to laugh at someone who is mentally retarded, but okay to poke fun at someone who likes The Willowz? Or state, and mean every word of it: If The Soledad Brothers all got tortured and murdered, I would laugh like a banshee and it would be perfectly ethical of me? No, it doesn't. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it. Despite my impending fame and riches, I remain hateful, spiteful and still thoroughly enjoy making mediocre people question their personal worth, and/or talent (Hello, Brian). Here's the skinny: It's is not unlike Lana Turner getting discovered at Schwab's Drugstore. A longtime reader, upon hearing that I had been playing guitar with another person, contacted me via email and asked me to send him a tape. I did, and he enjoyed it, and asked me to record and release a single on his new record label. I am not going to give away the identity of said record label yet, but suffice to say, their roster includes some very impressive acts and I am proud to be a part of their lineup.

So, expect a single in the upcoming months. I look forward to your criticisms.

People Like You Should Be Shot, And Nobody Will Feel Anything But Happiness When You In The Ground

Anyone out there on MySpace?

There all these bulletin thingamajigs where you can post whatever hoo-hah to whomever your friends are. For all the ones advertising shows, or upcoming parties, or the death of a celebrity or whathaveyou, you get surveys, random remarks, jokes lists, etc. However, you also get assholes who post chain letters, where if you don't forward it to ten of your friends, ostensibly something bad will happen to you, if the tide of fortune receding enough where you have casual electronic acquaintances with that are dumb enough to post it wasn't bad enough already.

What is even worse, and I've seen quite a few these from adult human beings who walk among us, is along the lines of...

MYSPACE HAS TOO MANY MEMBERS! INACTIVE ACCOUNTS ARE RAMPANT, AND THEY MAY HAVE TO SHUT DOWN. UNLESS YOU POST A BULLETIN WITHIN 24 HOURS YOUR ACCOUNT IS GOING TO BE DELETED! PLEASE POST!!!

I get these regularly, and I don't have many friends. What kind of person believes such bullshit? How fucking dumb are we? Your brain is a muscle, folks, and even cursory examination will tell you that too many of us have brains that are sitting in front of the television drinking milkshakes. It's just sad. I talked to a teenager the other day. I have no hope for humanity.

Why can't more stupid people fall victim to violent crime?

Oh, someone sent me The Willowz record in the mail the other day. I have yet to listen to it, but after getting a gander at the cover art, I have a feeling I am going to want to murder them all with an axe, critically speaking.

A Little Bit Of Rainwater

Phil's note:

I wrote this a few days ago, on June Fifth. Today is the Eleventh. I was going to include said song, which is relatively common, but still wonderful and I bet many of you assholes have not heard it. Anyway, I was supposed to get some donated bandwidth that was going to host songs I gab about, but it has yet to materialize. So just pretend you can hear the goddamn song anyway. You probably will be able to eventually...



Say what you will about Marvin Rainwater, but the guy had a varied career that encompassed a startling number a musical styles. Marvin could go from a crazyman rockabilly raveups to lush balladry, cornpone humor to utter sincerity. At one point, he was even backed by Link Wray and The Wraymen, joining the elite company of one Bunker Hill.

I first heard of Marvin Rainwater through his berserk 'Hot And Cold', a loony rockabilly number that is amongst Lux Interior's (who knows more about Rockabilly then any other man to don women's shoes) favorite songs. But unlike, say Johnny Burnette, whose reckless run through evil sounding rockabilly quickly descending into mediocre sap - Rainwater never lost his welcome off-kilterness. Marv's scattershot forays different styles encompasses far more then most artists. You can get hoity toity and dismiss much of Rainwater's later output as goofy novelty cowshit - Rainwater is guilty of exploiting his half Cherokee lineage to the hilt - but it's your loss, cowboy.

'My Brand of Blues' is one of those songs that doesn't sound like it was preformed by bored proficient studio musicians with one eye on their instruments one eye on the clock. Rather, the relentless chugalug rhythm rises and descends in volume and rarely strays from it's relentless propulsive course and fuses mysteriously with the emitted ethereal vocal echo. The whole number sounds like it was whispered into you ear from deep in a nameless void.

Maybe I'm overselling it, but it is still a pretty good song.

Please Refrain From Utilizing The Following In Cover Art For Your Band

Mexican Wrestlers

Cars (Any)

That Expression (You know which one)

Horror Themes

Thank you.

C'mon Already

One of you assholes has to be able to explain to me, in plain English, how I can post an MP3 up here.

Any takers?

If I knew, and you asked me, I would explain it to you.

Look Who Had Two Updates In One Fucking Day

ME. That's right, me.

I have decided, if nobody sends me a record to review in the next two weeks, I am going to start mounting weekly tirades against bands who I think deserve it, ridiculing them mercilessly. I will also try to poke fun at their families and friends. I will do my best to humiliate them, and try to be as cruel and sadistic as I can possibly be. There are some people and organizations I would very much like to make other people laugh and/or wince at their expense (I am looking at you, Dirtnap). Trust me on this: I don't like making friends, and I enjoy hurting people needlessly. In fact, hearing that I made someone upset, or hurt them personally makes me feel really good. So, if you are in a band, send me a record to review for Terminal Boredom or this site, and not only will you be opening yourself open to, as I said, fair and honest critical evaluation by yours truly (you may very well get a good review, too, provided you don't suck shit), but you will also save a lot of lesser people's feelings.

My Update

So yeah, haven't been updating. Do people still look at this anymore? I haven't mounted any attacks on deserving figures or really creamed any beloved new releases. People debating my existence and crying their little hearts out over the validity of my interview with Richard Hell have gone back to doing whatever they did before in their (presumably ample) spare time.

I haven't been writing much. I've been very depressed. My life isn't going anywhere. Nothing I do matters. I haven't been laid since the dawn of man. I haven't accomplished shit with my life. I wish I had more records. I wish I had a better work ethic. I wish I wasn't sitting in front of this monitor, radiation shooting into my face, typing nonsensical, inconsequence into the digital online void. I wish I was sitting in some luxurious resort with a cold beer in my hand, a steak in front of me, and a beautiful girl on my lap. Instead I am sitting here at my lunch hour, a cold, burrito that's cheese has congealed into a unappetizing mess, next to my keyboard, and sipping periodically from a flat glass of soda. Surely, there must be more to life then this, right? What do normal people with things they take for granted, like friends and romantic relationships, do when the futility of life confronts them? Take a hot bath? Go on a bender? I've done both, to no avail. And I'll be dipped in shit if I am going to take any solace in religion.

In far better news, my guitar playing with Jesse has been coming along quite nicely. Beyond Jesse's some what suspect personal habits, in particular his affinity for consistently picking the most outright offensive to the eye articles of clothing he can possibly fine, I get along well with him. He has a very laid back manner, and he is actually capable of collaboration, a rare quality in a person. I've even written a few songs, and started singing occasionally. I don't like singing, my voice has made me the subject of much ridicule (and unfortunate, and numerous Phil imitations at the hands of my peers). I don't think we will ever play a gig as such (who would want to?), but having another creative outlet is always welcome. Being in a band is so ridiculously easy that it makes me dislike bands I disliked already even more. Fuck you guys. If I can figure out how to do it, I will record some songs and post them up here as MP3's for your listening enjoyment.

I wrote a record review for Terminal Boredom. It was a very nice, complimentary piece on the exemplary Fall Peel Sessions box. If any of you sissies out there in garage rock land want to send me your records to review (what, are you scared I'll pan it? Are you? Are you a big chicken? Bock! Bock bock ba-gock! Chicken? Ba-gock?) I will do so. I will offer and fair and honest assessment, the ultimate result depending on my mood (and lately I've been really, really pissed). Contact me if you are confident with the quality of your release, and don't if you are a chicken. Bock.

Very Silly

Writers that investigate crimes. I'm looking at you, John "Only A Semi-Literate Hipster Asshole Would Like One Of My Books" Gilmore, and you, Mickey "The Only Friend I Have Is Ayn Rand" Spillane, and you, Robert "Doodles" Graysmith.

Your methods are shoddy, your conclusions ridiculous, and your credentials non existent. Up yours.

You Know What I Really, Really Enjoy Eating?

Pastrami. I am eating some right now. Goes great with beer and listening to the Brainbombs. I love pastrami. I suppose I should be doing something more productive on a Friday night, but I can imagine anything else being more enjoyable.

Also, you know what gives me the fucking creeps? The new Burger King Commercials with the strange King Guy, expressionless and covered with lacquer and pushing burgers. What kind of braindead worthless dimwits are running the show over there? Fuck.

Is The Fatals CD in print? I keep getting people telling me about how great they are, and I haven't heard shit. I'll be dipped in shit if I am going to track down a bunch of singles from obscure European labels like the common asshole, I'd rather just buy a single (wow, lookit the pun!) comp.

Did a new Terminal Boredom Column today, it wasn't very well done.

Plastic Bud Light bottles? Believe me, I have obscenely low standards when it comes to drinking (even Winos will recoil in disgust at my habits), but I have to draw the line at Bud Light out of a plastic bottle. I have some self respect you know.

I have (two months ago) resumed my habit of smoking reams and reams of pot. It leads to quiet reflection rather then trenchant self hatred, so I think it's healthy.

I don't really feel like writing, but feel like doing something productive. Fuck it. Back to the Pastrami, 'Obey', and the bottles of Fosters.

My Favorite Fall Peel Session Thus Far

'Garden'

I Bought A New Guitar Amp

Yeah. I went back to Guitar Center to buy a new amp. I practiced with Jesse yesterday and despite his company making my skin crawl, it was still pretty enjoyable. He intimated that he doesn't want me to go and keep using his Peavy, so I thought would use my tax refund check (the reverse whorism dividend for Uncle Sam fucking you all year) to buy my own personal one. I didn't really know what I wanted, except one loud enough to hear over a drumset. I didn't want to fuckaround with buying a used amp, mostly because I can't handle dealing with some longhaired music dealer idiot who would be able to instantly tell I can't tell my ass from a Dalmatian and rip me off. I wanted to buy a new amp, so I would have the warrantee in case the eight year old kids in Indonesia that manufactured it at knifepoint did a slipshod assembly job.

Guitar Center is a place where the hand of God has yet to touch, from the horrific parking lot, to the assholes practicing their metal licks inside, to the unequaled horrors of the drum room, there isn't anything about the place that doesn't make me want to grab a machine gun and start mowing down passerby with one hand while rubbing my erection with the other.

After trying my best to ignore everything. I sat down a tried various amps.

Marshalls:

Marshalls make you sound like the kind of guy who stuffs the crotch of his pants to impress girls with fake breasts. Try as I may to fiddle with the tone on the outrageously expensive machines, everything made me sound like someone who was influenced by T.Rex but still just didn't get it. The longhaired dimwit employee, who, let it be known, wore a miniature Marshall on his belt, walked up and told me the amp had a 'fat tone'. He then winced. I didn't know if he thought he was making fun of me or not. Marshalls are completely irredeemable.

Crate:

Crates sound like am amp and twelve year old who wants to buy Marshall but cannot afford it, would get for Christmas from his parents. They are also very cheap and ugly. Not that aesthetics are terribly important to me, but guitars and amps often have a nice, simple utilitarian design that I can appreciate. But not Crates.

Peavy:

Many had a horrible design with some kind of ugly metal grill that seems influenced by the crop of monster garage type spin offs that appeal to men with big trucks and tiny little cocks. They sounded okay, but Peavy reminds me too much of Huffy. In Hawaii, if you owned a Huffy bicycle (as I did), it was open season on making fun of you as much as possible for having the misfortune to own that type of bike. I don't need anymore of that shit.

Vox:

Really expensive. I didn't buy their mix of tube and transistor shit, either. Look, fuckface, MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND. MANUFACTURE A FUCKING TUBE AMP, or MANUFACTURE A FUCKING SOLID STATE AMP. There is no shame in either. But, just don't MANUFACTURE BOTH IN ONE PACKAGE, okay? You can't have everything. I know, you think you might be able to through clever engineering, but you are not that clever. it's just not going to work combining the technologies, so you have to state your preference and go with it, okay? One or the other, alright?

Randal:

I dunno. Just okay. Sounded like an amp, (fine it made my guitar sound louder, what, you want a backrub?) but nothing special. They were also prohibitively expensive.

Fenders:

I don't see what the big goddamned deal is. They sound like Randals, just dipped in a big pool of sissy. They are expensive, they have names that like 'Hot Rod Delux' that make me entire body cringe, and they are also using that goddamned technology where they try and combine tubes and solid state because they are too fucking wishy washey to make up their minds. Fuck Fender.

Behringer:

Behringers are for those people that ride those bicycles where you sit in a reclining seat and have a windshield. They are just to special for a normal bicycle, and they have to advertise their deep iconoclasm by riding a bike that makes them look like an idiot. Yes, Nazi Germany did many horrible things, but they didn't seem like the kinds of people that would tolerate someone riding a bicycle like that. That is the only nice thing I will say about Nazis.

Traynor:

For people that have subscriptions to Guitar Player.

B-52:

For people that start crying if they find out they got crunchy peanut butter instead of smooth.

So, the amp I finally purchased is:

The Line 6 Flextone III

This thing has all sorts of cool shit. It has a bunch of dials where I can have all these effects without having to have one of those really silly little boards with all the effects pedals mounted to it. Echo, phaser, flanger, chorus, tremolo, they are all here, and all of them sound great. I have a dial where I can make it sound exactly like a:

’87 Roland JC-120
or,
Hiwatt DR-103
or,
’64 Fender Deluxe
or,
’53 Fender Deluxe
or,
’58 Fender Bassman
or,
’63 Fender Vibroverb
or,
’65 Blackface Fender Twin
or,
Budda Twinmaster 2x12 Combo
or,
’96 Matchless Chieftain
or,
’02 Cornford mk50h
or,
’63 Vox AC 30 with Top Boost
or,
’61 Vox AC 15
or,
’65 Marshall JTM-45
or,
’68 Marshall Super Bass
or,
’68 Marshall ‘Plexi’ Super Lead
or,
’85 Marshall Silver Jubilee
or,
’90 Marshall JCM-800
or,
’00 Marshall TSL100
or,
’01 Mesa Boogie Dual Rectifier
or,
’02 Mesa Boogie Triple Rectifier
or,
Soldano SLO-100 Head
or,
Bogner Extacy
or,
Gibson Explorer
or,
Supro S6616

The fact that I don't know what a 1985 Marshall Silver Jubilee sounds like matters little to me, but it's nice to know that I spent a fraction of what the real one would sound like, and none of those nitwits that take things like that seriously would be able to tell the difference. I can foresee people giving me guff over my choice of amp, but did you ever stop and think how silly many of your amp preferences are? Sure, your band has some weird one-off amp from the seventies, does that make you an iconoclast? What if many of the bands in your scene go out of their way to buy the weirdest looking, most impractical, strangest amps they can find? Fine I get it, you've got a beat up old amp. I bet I spent less on mine, which is brand new and if I sneeze I can send it back to the factory where a platoon of dipshits in lab coats will go over every electrical nook and cranny with diagnostic gear and find out exactly what the problem is and fix it, post haste.

What about people that buy brand new amps and then deliberately bang them up and scuff them so they will more closely resemble the vintage design they so obviously covet? It's just too sad.

Anyway, I didn't even get buyers remorse. I really like my new amp. I can't wait to really crank it.

Hey, If I Want To Post An MP3, How Would I Go About Doing So..?

Can someone tell me? In exchange, I will post up MP3's. Thanks.

Hasil Adkins

R.I.P.

Sin City

So, I just saw Sin City.

I have a hard time disliking a movie where someone gets castrated twice, or a priest is murdered in his own confessional booth. But, by the same token, it's hard to like a movie that gets so many things wrong. Namely, actors trying to deliver the often cornball dialogue, dripping with adolescent fatalism and snide cynicism, the end result congealing in a puddle of misplaced intentions. As you may have heard or witnessed, Sin City is all hyperstylzed postmodern noir where nobody can just walk out of building, they have to leap out and photogenically soar to the ground while delivering ponderous narration that people who don't know what the word means will describe as existential.

Opening with a lousy scene when Josh Harnet gets to play a grown up, and closing with a suicide that has absolutely no emotional resonance because of the complete inconsequence of the bloodbath preceding it, the movie is purely style. It's for people that enjoy the aesthetic of noir - the harsh black and white, the postwar cynicism writ large, fedoras, trench coats, duplicitous femme fatales with evil hearts and crotches that generate enough heat to sear your eyebrows through the screen, tough talking thugs, and the brutal, tragic destiny inexorably waiting at the end of the dark corridor for the anti hero - but don't have the patience to sit through the real mccoy. Sin City, to it's credit, is paced at full tilt boogie, with oddles of death and gallons of blood, dismemberment, and nudity. Thankfully, the attempts at profundity and seriousness pass with equal breakneck speed. It makes it easier to try and ignore some of the really shitty performances, tougher to appreciate the good ones. Hands down the worst performance in a film full of questionable ones, belongs to the shrill and unlikable Brittany Murphy, whose grating voice and horrible mannerisms had me want to shoot her with a harpoon. It doesn't help anyone that the her dialogue reads like a twelve year old's conception of Hammet. Only Mickey Rourke is able to jump into the proceedings it with a truly admirable gusto. if only everyone was working on the same level of pulpy bravado, what a movie it could have been.

Yeah, I didn't always enjoy myself. I rarely got bored. The three intertwining plots that unnecessarily and gracelessly were shoehorned together were all variations on same thing. The entire movie was a repetitive drone and was so cranked up for maximum stimulus that any new visceral sensation was lost in the overdriven tide. But I did get to vicariously live out my fantasy of tearing of Nick Stahl's genitals with my bare hands through Bruce Willis, or murdering a clergymen through Mickey Rourke, or eating another human being through Elijah Wood.

Incidentally, Why I Refuse To Own A Digital Camera

I don't like digital cameras. I don't even like automatic film cameras. Sure, it may seem like a radical, irrational position, but so is Christianity, and you don't see that stopping people. Someone that doesn't have the patience to grasp the simple fundamentals of photography doesn't deserve the right to preserve images. Yeah, great, Grandma can snap a photo with her off the shelfer she bought at Best Buy. Or your silly ass can snap photos all fucking day with your little digital wonder, and print them up right on your inkjet. Isn't technology great? Hey, asshole, why don't you get a real fucking camera? Why don't you use a little discretion and use real film, where you have to measure the validity of each shot you are taking, rather then just snapping like a machine gun? Why don't you treat it serious enough where you have to actually have to utilize some discernment?

Has this ever happened to you? You meet a young person, recent college grad age bracket, and in the course of your conversation, what to you do for a living? comes up. Rather then just admitting they are living off of the parental teat, or that they are sit in an office fucking around on the internet under the pretense of work like the rest of us, they say that they are an actor, or a writer, or a musician. Fine, you are entitled to your ambitions. But something that really makes my blood boil is when you get the answer, 'I'm a writer, musician, actor, photographer, and filmmaker'. Oh yeah? You are? You mean you're a waiter/day dreamer? If you were such hot shit, then how come I've never heard of you? High end digital cameras make it easy for any jerk off with some money burning a hole in their pocket to start snapping off half decent photos and call themselves a photographer. Fuck all that.

Segovia Vs. Honolulu, Who Will Win?

So I actually played guitar with a drummer this last weekend. It was interesting. He hasn't read this, nor is aware of my blog as such, so I can speak freely about him and his often semi-suspect habits. I met him at a record store, where he was buying a Can CD, and I struck up a conversation. Turned out he plays drums, recently moved to town and works at a local supermarket in the produce section, and wanted to play. I warned him repeatedly of the fact that I had never played guitar with another person, but it didn't seem to faze him. In fact, I get the impression because he moved to my unusually inhospitable town, that he was aching for a friend and it's a sad state of affairs when he couldn't find one more suitable then me. So, the bad: first off, the guys name is Jesse, which is no name for a man. I don't know why, but I hate the name Jesse. It makes me think of freckled bucktoothed congenital idiots with unisex curly hair and ill-fitting sweatpants. I have had much grief over the name Phil during the course of my life, especially during high school when a group of Samoans stole my backpack after I left it on the bus, which included, in addition to my books and lunch, a copy of the Tube Bar tapes. So, my nickname thereafter became 'Philmyass' (aka 'Fill My Ass'), a particularly irritating part was, obviously, that the irony of my nickname being derived from something I enjoyed that was stolen from me. But I think being named Jesse would be pretty much the worst thing that could happen to a male person. Second off: Jesse dresses like an idiot. He wears weird big ugly pleated pants, bloated, dumb sneakers, and has an assortment of tanktops (at least I assume it's an assortment, I've only met him twice and each time he was wearing a different loose, billowy tanktop). Third: Jesse still doesn't have access to the internet, which is inexcusable. Don't give me any of your newfangled 'look folks, I am being iconoclastic' Luddite shit on this one either, because if my memory of Luddite belief is correct, the practice of being a Luddite wouldn't have included reading a blog in the first fucking place. C'mon, Jesse, you can't get a free fucking account and check it at the library. Fourth: Don't get me started on Jesse's hair, which if I was on a rooftop with a hunting rifle about to start a killing spree, as soon as someone with hair similar to his stepped into my crosshairs, I would take special glee is blowing his brains out. Anyway, I went over to Jesse's place, which was a guest house, and he had a semi soundproofed room where he practices his drums. He's got a loft above, with clothes scattered everywhere. There was an alarming amount of gym socks in all corners of the room, and I got a quick glimpse of Jesse's record collection (lousy) and his bookshelf, which was back issues of 'Men's Health' and coffee table books with photographs of high end musical instruments. The drum set, in itself, was pretty excessive. He had multiple rack toms (why are those necessary?) all sorts of dumb shit sticking out of every stand. He recently/thankfully 'stopped playing double bass' and hadn't played with anyone in awhile, which was 'killing' him. He had a Peavy bass amp which I plugged into, and we played some music together.

It was strange playing with another person. I can pluck around all I want by myself at home, and it sounds vaguely in time because there is nothing to offset it, my inept playing floating unmoored through space where standard temporal rules need not apply. I realized how off I was once I was playing alongside someone, and I had to concentrate much more. After awhile, upon a change, we could more or less figure out when the other person was going to do so, either by a fill on his part, or just the culmination of listening to so many songs that you can figure out when transitions are going to be almost unconsciously.

It sounded pretty good, too, if I do say so myself. At least it sounded recognizable as music as such, which was better then I was expecting. I would often fuck up my time and it would dissolve into shit, but for the first time playing with someone, I got to feel the minor exhilaration I have heard people mention when playing with another person. It made me realize the work of being in a band isn't the musicianship, it's dealing with interpersonal relationships, as I would smile non committedly when Jesse would make a pathetic attempt at humor, or make an incredibly obvious observation and pass it off as great wisdom, etc. But yeah.

Almost done with 'My Life In Heavy Metal' which I abandoned for awhile but recently started again. I'll probably finish my review soon. I think I might play guitar with Jesse a few more times, if I can bear his harmless, yet deeply offensive company

More From Mr. Dinosaur Mahaffey

Letters Have No Arms presents a review from the keyboard of Mr. Dinosaur Mahaffey...

Frank Miller's Sin City (official title)

Believe me, I share(d) your reservations about the recently released movie version of "Sin City." The Tarantino insufferable hepster-doofus connection, the CGI thing, the foregrounded artistic self-consciousness tribute to noir pov,  the graphic novel connection when graphic novels and the particular author for this one, Frank Miller, are so 1987, Bruce Willis, Bruce Willis bound and naked, Bruce Willis macking with the scrumptlicious NINETEEN YEAR-OLD Jessica Alba (not nearly enough half-naked whip dancing from her in the movie) . . .etc.

However, it turns out that "Sin City" is the greatest movie ever made so far this year. Despite the unavoidable specter of the "heroic" Willis character sucking face w/ the teenage Ms. Alba--far more horrifying than the movie's multiple shootings, stabbings, decapitations, dismemberments, rapes, cannibalism--the movie is about as perfect as it gets as it races helter skelter--like the best punk rock music--to its inevitable nihilistic conclusion.

To be honest I didn't "like" the movie as I sat watching it, cringing as, for instance, a character gets castrated FOR THE SECOND TIME or at the whole look-at-this-ain't-we-cool-to-have-done-this aspect of the Sin City's b&w (w/ pretentious coloring of key artifacts and/or bodily fluids for the symbolically impaired) retro, outre look. In fact, I felt a little queasy at "Sin City"'s conclusion and couldn't wait to talk to my fellow viewers about how pretentious it was, how pointlessly violent it was, how it's a bad idea in any context to have people gaze at a nude & wriggly Bruce Willis  . . .but then . . .

I  began to recall in chunks of memory of increasing proportion  the first--and maybe only--time my life was changed by a movie. I snuck into see "Bonnie and Clyde" while in college. We crashed the joint after the movie had started and when I scuttled to my seat in the middle of a semi-crowded theater, I was greeted by one of the movie's many "realistic" scenes--which basically translates to great gouts of blood spewing from "real" people while they screamed holy hell in a crowded '20s jalopy and banjo music played over top of it all. I was at once horrified and mesmerized.  Up til this night I had seen plenty of "movie violence" but "Bonnie and Clyde" was a movie about real violence, the violence of the Civil Rights struggle, of Vietnam, of America's cities burning . . .Not specifically the "same thing" but the effects were the same. I'd never seen a movie before (and few since) where I was made to feel as if I'd actually been shot. Ultimately, it's as simple (and intense and complex) as that. When I left the theater that night it seemed as if the world had somehow titled on its axis, that my equilibrium was out of whack (not necessarily a bad thing).

Almost 40 years from B&C's release date and these are different times Jim. FCC fines for curse words, a huge furor over Janet Jackson's booby at the S. Bowl, people taking seriously the preposterous argument that video games, comics, movies, rap music, fill-in-the-blank with today's spotlighted pop culture pariah, can be the SOLE CAUSE for people to kill, maim, torture . . .And along comes "Sin City" to render a giant FUCK YOU to these censorious forces of darkness. So now I LOVE the movie if for no other reason than that, its transcendant (above co-director Robert Rodriguez'  [Miller got a nominative director credit apparently just to further piss off the Hollywood est.] ultra-forced hey-look-I'm-an-outsider-stance,etc. as well as the aforementioned forces of d.) ability to wave a giant middle finger at our national government, our cowering mass media, our acquiescent entertaiment industry, especially the craven bottom liners who make movies these days, to be able to scream, "Hey look here's how we do it and you can too. And if you don't like it, 'KISS MY DICK.'" Before I chop it off. Again.

Moving from the specific to the general back to the specific in terms of my understanding and appreciation of "Sin City" I then realized that there's not a wasted second in the movie, that it careens at breakneck speed--again just like that gooood got damn punk rock-- and that despite its mainly stoopid, comic book dialogue, it really says something important about how "free" America might actually be. And--in terms of America's freedom--I should say now that not all of the movie's specific dialogue is stoopid, as when one character tells another:  "Lying is powerful. There's power in lying." or something along those lines. And although the movie is overwrought (in a good way) in almost every respect the BAD--censorious and hypocritical force of d. FAMILY--the Rourke's--in terms of pure venality, skeleton in the closetism, horrid machinations for their own self-preservation, furtherance of stature, etc. could be almost any prestigious American family of the last 50 years, Carnegie, Hearst, Bush, Kennedy, and so on.

The particulars of "Sin City" are these:  There are four loosely connected crime (pedophelia, murder, murder, pedophelia) stories, w/ the last one containing a flashback/wraparound set in a hyper-real future urban nightmare. "Sin City" is relentlessly self-referential, each "frame" filled with hints, clues, etc. to help the viewer make more meaning from it. You gotta pay attention if you want to "get" it.

The acting--from Willis, Clive Owen, Benecio Del Torio, Nick Stahl, Elijah Wood, Rosario Dawson, Alba, Powers Booth, Rutger Hauer,  is highly stylized and mannered, with Stahl (as the Roarke family ur-pervert) and Wood (as the Roarke family's formidable and silent cannibalistic hit man) especially creeptifying. I'm trying to think of a point of reference for the scene where Wood's character is chained to a tree and ea--ah never mind, don't want to give too much away.

 The women characters are by and large meat objects (at first glance anyways) dressed for the next DETAILS magazine cover. On second thought though . . .escpecially if your second thought focuses on what's-her-name, the little sylph flying around, weilding the twin samurai swords that she uses to, among gruesome delights, turn the Del Torio character's head into a Pez Dispenser. The violence is w/ out abatement and offered as nothing more than visceral and endless and pointless.  Be sure all the popcorn is gone before Willis begins punching out a character who "bleeds" rivers of yellow bug goop on to the screen.

Oh yeah, and Mickey Rourke is stupendously great in "Sin City", giving rich, human dimension to his essentially serial-killing (but with a heart of gold that even lesbians can appreciate) character Marv despite being burdened w/ what looks to be a ten thousand dollar prosthetic head. And when's the last time--if ever--you could say that about a flick?

Let's just hope "Sin City"'s a portent for the future of movies. But we all know it's not.

I had the sad misfortune of having to watch the "Jennifer Garner Vehicle" "Elektra" a few days after viewing "Sin City" which made me appreciate the latter all the more. "Elektra" is a typical 2005 "action-adventure" w/  lethargically stylized "action" and very little "adventure" unless your sense of that is to be caught on the tilt-a-whirl that won't stop at some backwater carny. You know and I know that we can expect much more "Elektra" and much less "Sin City" in our multi-plexes if American pop POP POP (emphasis on popular) culture continues its swirl around the toilet bowl.

As P.T. Barnum or H.L. Mencken or Michael Bay or some fuckin' body once said, "Give the suckers what they want" ("Elektra") as opposed to what they need ("Sin City" and much more of it). Sorry but I can't get past the temporary euphoria of thinking about millions having seen  a chunk of pop culture like "Sin City" that is truly subversive. But if you're now interested, hurry--"Sin City" had a precipitous b.o. drop between weeks one and two which typically sound the death knell for most movies in wide release. I didn't check specifically but I'm sure a sodden, lethargic wide-release mess like "Elektra" probably found its legs & made money hand over fist for its gutless perpetrators. So it goes.

Am I The Only Person That Notices How Dumb That Is?

From 'Venus' on 'Marquee Moon':

Then Richie, Richie said
'Hey man let's dress up like cops, think of what we could do!'
But something, something said 'you better not.'

Wait a minute, so you are telling me you didn't dress up like cops? You just thought about it? Hey, jerk, I can do that and you don't see me singing about it. Sheesh.

Letters Have No Arms Presents Special Guest, The Esteemed Dinosaur Mahaffey

Direct to you, the reader, from the pen of Dinosaur Mahaffey...

Suicide: No Compromise by David Nobahkt.

Put simply:  an exceedingly awful book about a great, some would say heroic band.

First, the band. If you are reading this blog, then chances are you know about Suicide, have formed an opinion and even if they ain't your thing you have to acknowledge their sheer bravado and their influence on a number of punk, post-punk and un-punk (in one of the books many failings Nobahkt focuses more on the relationship between Suicide and lightweight synth bands like Soft Cell than the band's relationship to their Max's, CBGB's contemporaries) combos from 1970 something to the present day. Me, I can't get enough of Frankie Teardrop, their new LP american supreme (which provides the soundtrack for the churn that you are reading) and all points, solo and combo, in between. So, you'll agree:  Love 'em or loathe 'em Suicide's legacy can not be denied. Rev, Vega and the whole scene they created, countervaled, ignored, were ignored by, propagated and perpetuated, in fact, seem to be worthy subjects for a multi-volume Proust like rendering.

Second, the writer. David Nobahkt is no Proust nor is he even Judith Kranz. Here is a man offering himself as a "writer" yet he can not string together two coherent sentences. I have no quotes to offer you. Just go to a bookstore or library and do a "No Compromise" dive, Take the book from its shelf, flip it open to a random page, strike with your finger and there's a 99% chance you will find an incomprehensible sentence, some inappropriate, ineffective word choice, so-called "oral history" that sounds like a soap opera actor reading from a teleprompter, questionable spellage, the salt and pepper approach to punctuation (sprinkle on the commas, some of them are bound to land in the correct spots) or a multi-faceted combination thereof.

Now since Nobahkt has taken the oral history approach--an effective rendition of this can be found via Legs McNeil's "Please Kill Me" or even his less effective follow-up about the porn industry "The Other Hollywood--No Compromise could have been enjoyable or at least something other than objectionable despite Nobahkt's--who, by the way, resembles one of Peter Bagge's grotesque humanoid caricatures from HATE--massive problems with written English's basic challenges. However, as it turns out, the author has no skills as an interviewer and/or transcriber.

Rev and Vega, two of this mortal coil's more fascinating humans, make up the bulk of the book's talk and, while they seemingly yammered plenty to the obsequious Nobahkt, they really don't say much. Minimal history, minimal bio, minimal social commentary, nuts & bolts factoids about one damn album--group and solo--after another, the fans hate 'em, the fans love 'em, blah blah blah.


It's fascinating reading about the show where for the first time fans spit on 'em, less so when it happens 50 or 60 more times and you get the same rote account of such now tiresome ennui. Other stuff I've read from and about these guys has piqued my interest as to how they feel about art, love, violence, rock and roll, race, gender (you can substitute my inflated categories w/ like minded ones:  dope, guns, fucking in the streets, etc.), but Rev's and Vega's endless droning is--unlike the endless drone of Suicide--ultimately of slight interest.

Also missing is any extensive commentary from their NYC contemporaries, especially that of the negative variety and I've read and heard enough to know that Rev and Vega had some difficult doings w/ many of their Big Apple counterparts over the years. WHERE'S THE DIRT?

Instead, the book's other yakkers range from producers (like the Cars Ric Ocasek, a long time champion of the band) to family and friends and--again I object--celebrity hangers on like the melon head Henry Rollins (any time this guy talks it's all about him and his empty vessel of a career or his not-on-purpose anti-art in a variety of media) and the far more loathsome Michael Stipe and his drunken spear carrier Peter Buck. I  tell ya if I hear one more fuckin' story about that fuckin' record store in Athens and how these two gave each other handjobs while listening to the Velvet Underground . . .but I digress.

For a description of the actual content of the book's other talkers skip back a few paragraphs and apply the Rev-Vega matrix to this bunch. Every once in a while someone, like the guy from Primal Scream or the guy from The Jesus and Mary Chain or Ocasek, says something remotely interesting, but a lot of  the so-called jabber does not "sound" like people talking and a lot more of it is repetitive and shallow to the extreme. I guess it's a perverse kind of "art" to be able make Rev and Vega seem boring, but here it is, in the blather-without-end of No Compromise.

For the book's organizational principle (seemingly developed w/ the goal of maximum reader tedium in mind) Nobahkt "links" the various talking points (of varying duration) together via the "brilliant" (""=saracasm) strategy of finding every review everyone has ever written about Suicide, live and on record, determining every pieces' most insipid passages  and slapping them onto the page with all the grace and positive effect of a prison cafeteria worker slathering mac & cheese on to a convict's tray. These largely content-free excerpts  are "links" only in that they continue the book's tiresome chronology and for some of Nobahkt's more outrageous butcherings of written English check the tortured way most of the quotes are offered.

I will now confess. I've read most of the book, but find myself physically unable to read any more of it. The few attempts I've made at re-opening it have resulted in its words rearranging themselves into some kind of heretofore unseen, unreadable language and then a soundtrack starts up in my head:  Soft Cell, REM, Rollins Band,  Flock of Seagulls, Kajagoogoo . . .

All in all you'll get more a feel for New York and Suicide by reading a Zagat's Guide to the Lower East Side (is there one?). Really, one of the worst rock and roll books ever and I've read a good bit of 'em, even the ones by Chuck Eddy.

I Took Some Time Off, But I Don't Feel Any Better

Yessiree, I haven't been writing much. I've been practicing on the guitar, and have gotten the whole bar chord thing down pretty cold. Solos/scales/etc. are a little more taxing on the fingers, but I can occasionally make a sound come out that doesn't sound half bad. I wish I could plug into a real amp and just crank the thing, but my apartment is small and my neighbors are hateful evil people who extract their only pleasure in life from bitching to my landlord about the amount of noise I make. This is after I had switched to headphones for listening to records. They have even gone so far as to complain about the AMOUNT OF NOISE I MAKE WHILE SLEEPING. I am not making that up. Apparently, while I am deep in the intermittent slumber that passes for my sleep, the slight shift of my considerable bulk causes the floorboards to scream like banshees through megaphones. I also 'snore like a bear', according to the women who lives under me, who is, coincidentally, a whore at the alter of Lucifer. So unplugged I will be. For the past couple of weeks, rather then write and get a rash of shit from people, I've been working, going home, drinking, then going back to work the next day. It's not a horrible way to spend one's time, and rather then attempt to really do anything with my stagnant, unpleasant life (and undergo the horrible disappointment when I inevitably fail) I took a dry run and punching the clock until I die without trying to do anything even marginally creative. Either way is equally unpleasant and lonely. I don't know why I do Letters Have No Arms in the first place, I don't feel any real catharsis when I'm finished with something, nor do I look back at something I've written and feel any kind of pride. The free records I've gotten (and the books I am expecting now that I am part of Joe Bob Brigg's crack review team) are certainly nice, but I understand the reluctance of someone to send me something that I may just eviscerate because (like the past 31 years of my life) I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. On the rare occasions when I do look at something I've written, I feel ashamed. Not only at my very loose, childish grasp of the fundamentals of grammar, but more so my frustrating inability to express what I'm feeling, (which is usually hatred, disgust, or the strong desire to cause emotional pain in others). So, having not posted for awhile, I discovered I do miss expressing my hatred and bile rather then solely internalizing it. It doesn't make me feel any better, but it is nice to know I may cause someone else pain.

I am proud to announce that in addition to interviews with Ben Wallers, and Richard Hell (and more interviews are forthcoming), Letters Have No Arms has had it's first contributer, Mister Dinosaur Mahaffey. Mister Mahaffey is a reader who has been corresponding with yours truly over the past few months, and generously offered to share his contempt for the recent Suicide bio and his disdain for it's writer. I have yet to read the work, even if it seems like a black eye on the blood and viscera soaked crime scene that is contemporary rock writing, I am curious, if only for the subject.

Enjoy the words of Mister Mahaffey, and keep an eye peeled for some upcoming updates.

Yours,

Phil

Some Damn Good Cookies

I was just mentioning this to a reader in an email, and thought I would share it with all of you:

Yesterday I went down to the supermarket yesterday afternoon to purchase some alcohol, chips, and some sausage so I could have my own private gastronomical Easter Party. I was delighted to see that it was Girl Scout Cookie season. Despite having business practices only marginally more ethical then the Mafia, I dearly love Girl Scout Cookies. They had a folding table manned in front of the market by two Girl Scouts and a grim-looking old Scout Master in a frumpy sweatshirt, who, and I am not trying to be offensive or outrageous or too topical, was almost a dead ringer for Terri Shavo. I passed by and saw the two Scouts playing some kinda fuckaround game while the Master was otherwise distracted trying to look as grim and uninviting as possible. Anyway, after my purchases inside, bottles clanging in the plastic bag, I went up to the Girl Scout cookie stand and asked one of the little Girl Scouts for a box of Thin Mints. I wanted to buy another variety of Cookie, so I asked the Scout (whose name was Rachel) what she would recommend as a second box. Rachel was a cute little thing, older then a toddler, well under ten. She was able to stand still, which is something a have rarely seen a child do successfully. She did math really well for a little kid, and she was still half engaged in said fuckaround game behind the back of the Master, which, wasn't some plea for attention like kids normally engage in, but was some actual fun activity she was successfully doing behind Shavo's back. If you are going to talk in detail with a little kid, it might as well be about cookies, something that myself and this child both had an active interest in. So yeah, we had a pretty frank and detailed discussion about it, we both came to the conclusion that Thin Mints are where it's at. The Lemon 'Low Fat' bars are strictly a dispatch from Disphit town. Tagalongs (with the coconut) take it up the ass, which I didn't mention verbally but her opinion was rendered by a very convincing nose wrinkle coupled with a cringe. They didn't have any 'Iced Berry Patties', which apparently Rachel had sampled before. 'How were they?' was answered with a 'They are just okay' and a shrug. I came to a deadlock regarding my second box of cookies: Peanut Butter Bars are no slouch, nor are Peanut Butter Patties. I asked her which she preferred. She responded, and was exactly right, that Peanut Butter Patties are better, because they have chocolate, whereas Peanut Butter Bars do not. My hat's off to Rachel, so I bought a box of Thin Mints (which I have yet to open), and a box of Peanut Butter Patties, which I have already consumed and left me feeling sick, although they were excellent.

But, for the first time I can remember, interacting with a child didn't result in disgust, or irritation, or and urge to strange the child in front of it's parent. Deep in the reptilian part of my brain, unsolicited, involuntarily, I began to feel the first pangs of paternalism, surfacing in a 'having a kid might not be the end of the world' cloud that I couldn't repress or shake. Not that I am going to go to an adoption agency or actively look for a mate to inseminate (although interested parties are invited to write), but not feeling horror at the though of a child is a new one for me. I said goodbye to Rachel, who smiled and waved and said 'Goodbye Mister', and the Scoutmaster shot me a glance that made me hope whatever she was wishing happened to me never occurred. I guess it's all part of aging, I turned 31 this month, and the evidence of my brain shifting it's focus from getting as drunk as possible and doing my best to avoid all forms of responsibility is rearing it's ugly head in my interaction with children. Or maybe Rachel just caught me a good mood, when I had cookies on the brain.

Even though I think it's a load of shit, have a Happy Easter, readers. Even you people that are fortunate enough not to be raised Christian.

"Dead Birds"

So, I rented semi-balleyhooed straight to video horror flick 'Dead Birds', and would like to mention that it isn't especially good. Asshole soldiers rob a bank inducing a bush league Pekinpah shoot-out where they gun down children, the elderly, and many innocents. There are few things I enjoy more in life then the sight of my fellow man being torn limb from limb on a movie screen, but in this movie it is so patently obvious that the wanted to add some of the hep violence that the kids love at the expense of logic or story or decent acting to back it up that I couldn't even enjoy someone getting their head blown apart, or a small child being shot. Two things that, may I note, usually result in me masturbating after viewing. So yeah, fuckheaded tough guys, led by the kid from ET (when he's your tough guy leader of brutal soldier/thieves, your movie is in some serious trouble, fella) take their gold, which I was waiting to be revealed as washers, but the filmmakers thankfully didn't add three subplots too many (folks behind 'Dog Soldiers', take a bow), and then they hole up in a cabin. Supernatural doings transpire, along with music cues blatantly stolen from 'The Shining', oh wait, did I give anything away?

It's a decent cast, but it is mostly wasted in too many shots of people looking around in pointless horror movie cliched shots when there is no real reason for the characters to be doing so. All the Confederate Soldiers, including, um, Isiah Washington (did I miss something?) look like well fed actors from Orange County, except Mark Boone, who looks like an exceedingly well fed actor from Brooklyn. I don't think anyone on set even knew what the Civil War was, much less had the time to do five minutes worth of research about it when they were too busy staring blankly off into space. As for the sole female cast member, she about as convincing as a tough as nails Confederate Spy who will cut your throat at the slightest provocation as the bargain basement special effects, which is to say, not very. The ending is straining for some kind of circular profundity, and the filmmakers fell right on their faces. Yes, this is a movie where a character shoots in the first twenty minutes what appears to be a Chupacabra. The soldiers, who would presumably know such things, Civil War era Southern soldiers having a passing familiarity with the outdoors, don't find it the slightest bit out of the ordinary that a naked, hairless hominid with fangs was shot and no further comment is made once the shit hits the fan. "Yeah, Jethro, I know I just shot an unearthly monster, but even though we are all at a rural outpost a dozens of miles from anywhere that even we couldn't find, we should just go inside after shrugging our shoulders. Wait? He disappeared? Oh, he's probably just wandering out around in the dark for no reason. Let's go look around the house again, but be sure to split up first. Yeah, I know we already went through here and there is no reason to do it again, but let's do it anyway.".

The lead characters are all total pricks/morons/scum/shit for brains hicks who I was rooting to get murdered and tortured. Apparently Tarantino's influence stretched to the civil war era, where all the characters tote a gun in each hand, get in Mexican standoffs, and spout choice macho jargon. I never even got to see a really good murder at the claws of a demon. If this movie was a person, you would never, ever want to spend any time with them.

Something that people should notice when watching a movie and react accordingly, by becoming suicide bombers and attacking poor filmmakers (and I don't mean poor in the economic sense):
"Yeah, I know I just saw a child with fangs and visions of unspeakable suffering, but it's RAINING OUTSIDE, therefore I cannot go anywhere. I mean, shit, RAIN, you know? I don't want to get wet or anything. We'll just stay here, even though a few of our numbers just disappeared, and I just saw visions of hell, but I'm sure everything will be fine. I just don't like getting wet, you know?"

Phil Honolulu's Favorite Guitar Solo Of All Time

The Fall 'F-'Oldin' Money'

A Song You Should Not Include On A Mix CD-R You Give To A Girl

The Brainbombs 'Lipstick On My Dick'

I Am Not Actively Soliciting Murder, However...

If someone out there was to kill Jimmy Fallon, there will be five dollars waiting for you in your paypal account.

Ten for Chris Kattan, or however you spell that fucking guy's name.

Scientist Vs. Scientist

Yeah, flush from the monies accrued by shepherding the White Stripes to international renown, Sympathy For The Record Industry, ironically enough, began slowing their flow of releases to a manageable trickle, and began releasing some highly recommend, classy reissues rather then the high volume, scattershot efforts of years hence.

Beyond the rerelease of The Gun Clubs fine 'Death Party', the underrated 'Miami', and the highly inconsistent 'The Las Vegas Story', Sympathy released multiple compilations of the work of the Australian band, The Scientists. It's rare a band has as drastic of a division between periods as The Scientists. Their early work, the best of it, compiled on the excellent 'Murder Punk' series (for my money, the 2 LP's are my all time favorite punk compilation) are serviceable pop punk tunes. I like 'em fine. Sympathy rereleased the compilation of much of this material as the 'Pissed On Another Planet' double disc. The Scientists switched lineups, started listening to the Cramps, and mutated into a wholly different band, whose material was compiled on the excellent 'Blood Red River' and 'Human Jukebox' records. Permit me an allusion, if the early Scientists were a weather, it would be a late summer's day, bright and clean and and fun and devoid of darkness. If the later Scientists were a weather, it would be a gray, ominous overcast day, with menacing clouds descending on the horizon.

I like the early Scientists, but I am not a huge fan. Even by the standards of someone who has more then a passing familiarity with the sub-genre, while good and serviceable and fine and worth multiple listens, the early output isn't extraordinary. They are good songs, to be sure, but there is little to distinguish them from dozens, if not hundreds of bands who are easily comparable. As for the later Scientists, I really dig them. The music does not bounce, the music throbs and oozes.

This is high school stuff; there is going to be debate about objectivity vs. subjectivity in criticism, obviously. Right? The act of reviewing, when done in an especially engaging manner, is more autobio then criticism, telling about oneself moreso then the objective contents to be evaluated. So yeah, with some, you find out what they likes and why they do because it tells much about a person, rather then looking for a wholly objective analysis, which is especially difficult in terms of talking about (Saints excepted, Birthday Party hot on their tail, Radio Birdman nowhere near close, Fun Things just didn't have the numbers) THE Australian Punk band - where subjectivity reigns just 'cause it's so difficult to quantify and explain an emotional reaction. This is a long winded way of saying this: I don't know why I like the later work of The Scientists so much more then their early stuff.

Am I trying to be iconoclastic and go against the trend of enjoying the early, more accessible stuff and viewing their later output as an aggressive deterioration and overly reminiscent hodge podge of influences? Do I just prefer the gutter crawl to the early pop, like I just enjoy the former genre more? Or is it more like a the finals of a Dog Show, where totally different breeds are compared and a the best of judges do no take in their own preferences into any consideration? Do I just like it more for whatever reason that I can't explain? Fuck, I don't know.

Is it a litmus test? Are the people that prefer the early stuff people that are slightly less inclined to enjoy things off of the beaten path? Or is that a gross oversimplification, the type of sweeping generalization which I am very fond of employing as the punchline for a joke? I don't know that, either.

But, in any case, I like the later stuff better.

Readers, how about you? Late Scientists? Early Scientists? I am actually inviting comments, let me see how well (or more likely, how poorly) this works out. Comment away, folks...

My Life In Heavy Metal Pt. I (Pages 1-26)

When I saw some reader asked me to review Steve Almond's 'My Life In Heavy Metal', I assumed that said reader was a latent sadist, hoping to corral me into reading a book about said style of music and getting their kicks from picturing the horrible sufferings I would endure. For the book itself, I pictured some metalhead numbskull convincing some idiot editor, who harbors a sad sentimental attachment to the utterly meritless form, that enough heavy metal fans were actually capable of reading and made enough money where they could purchase a book; at least enough to warrant a marketable book about the subject. I was, of course, wrong. When I saw this book in the store, and after reading some of the reviews on the back cover, all about an author and book I was wholly unfamiliar, I began to fear a different type of sadist had recommended the tome. One who would realized my distaste for postmodern hipster scrawls written by assholes coasting on some sad delusion of Henry Miller grand passions to write books only enjoyed by other smug graduate students and morons who think reading a book for urban hipsters will make them seem more intelligent.

Oh wait, according to noted literary powerhouse Entertainment Weekly, the book is; 'An assured debut. Almond's unsparing viewpoint rarely makes for happy endings... He chooses instead to capture the often brutal miscommunication between the heart and the mind.' Someone from the Houston Chronicle (no, that isn't a joke, apparently there is someone at a newspaper in Texas that reviews books) writes; "These stories are rhapsodic without being false, and lustily comic." Hey, Tex, when does being rhapsodic indicate any type of falsehood?

Since my own reading is subject to great gaps between me sitting down and reading passages, interspersed with me doing other activities (i.e., attempting to pick up girls on the internet, staring at the wall, or going on long walks), not to mention hitting the keyboard and trying to craft a coherent review of the book when I have finally polished it off. I'm trying something new, I'm going to review portions of the book, as I finish each individual passage.

What's happened between page before page 1 and page 26;

After three pages of 'rhapsodic' reviews from various fuckfaces/book reviewers, a sentimental dedication to the writer's Grandparents (is that type of shit really necessary?), the legal stuff, and really ugly typeface on the table of contents, the book, like too many books, opens with a quote from someone else that apparently may add something to what is to follow. This one is from the Song of Songs. I will write it, but the act of typing such sentiments makes me want to chew my fingers off.

I slept but my heart was awake.
Listen! My lover is knocking.

I resisted the urge to throw this book in the trash right then and there. I hate love. I despise it. It's a vile horrible, largely non existent and misinterpreted emotion whose perception that is responsible for far more pain, suffering, and death then the momentary happiness that occasionally befalls people. If love was a person, I would find him and back over him with my '92 Toyota Camry.

So yeah, onto the summary...

The author, or narrator, or whoever the fuck is writing first person. I don't know if it's autobiographical or not. Narrator talks about great sexual experience with an attractive object of overwhelming sexual desire while in college. Q: Was it graduate school? A: Don't remember... Q: What does she see in him? A: Don't know. He moves to the desert, lusts after a female lifeguard. Former sex partner moves in with him, they live together, while the narrator has an affair with the lifeguard, who female ejaculates like nobody's business. Narrator lies about ejaculator to the lover he lives with. All the while, the Narrator begins attending to, and enjoying, and following the worst kind of horseshit heavy metal you can picture. This starts as a work assignment for the newspaper he works for, but devolve? mutates? into actual enjoyment. He blows off his lover/roomate, who is apparently very much in love with him and want him to go as her date to her best friend's wedding, to attend a Guns 'N Roses concert with Miss Ejaculate. He fucks her on his bed at home, and his lover arrives, sitcom style, right when she is squirting all over the bed the other two used to share in some semblance of domestic bliss. He skeddadles to follow her an apologize, the lifeguard hits the road, and when I closed the book, nothing much was happening.

Okay, now for critical thoughts, evaluations, etc.

First off, the prose is, um, nice. It's descriptive, moves along at a healthy clip, doesn't get bogged down too much, and lacks the pretension and preciousness I expected. It's not going to be a chore to get through this book, and for that much I am thankful. However, before I start clapping and make noises with my mouth like a seal, I'm getting the feeling this is going to be one of those books where the writer relates stories about all the girls he's fucked, a genre of literature that gets tiring mighty quickly. While it isn't yet to the level of those books where an older gentlemen describes the various youngthings with loins of nitroglycerin who lust after the writer, a fatass middle aged men who spends most of his time in front of a keyboard (notice how this subject is not often tackled by youngthings with loins of nitroglycerine), I can easily picture that occurring. I'll have to wait and see. Since most writers are the types of people that no female would willingly go to bed with, in general, grand passions and romantic liaisons and open natural sexual promiscuity as occurs to an irresistible writer literature is often quite problematic. This, like I mentioned, hasn't occurred yet. But for now... Yeah, better then I assumed, but not a book that knocks my dick in the dirt (why can't they put blurbs like that on the cover?).

And now, for some other stuff: it's hard to feel sympathy for this asshole, when is cheating on one girl, and misleading the other one. While most guys have made horrible discussions dictated by their dicks (I have made what would probably be horrible decisions, had any of the females complied and been coconspirators with my cock) if he's looking for a shoulder to cry on, he's not welcome on Mister Phil Honolulu's meaty shoulder, dig? Maybe because when I was in college, which, in a rare show of optimism, I pictured as a bohemian enclave where girls would look past little things like a repulsive physical appearance, a poisoness attitude, and implacably grim attitude (exacerbated by how horrible college actually ended up being), to want to engage in some grand passionate love affairs with the likes of yours truly, I couldn't get a date to save my life. You see what optomism gets you? Maybe that has embittered me, and made me so jealous that when Almond breaks out the man-hanky, I want to laugh heartily at his pain. But maybe not, perhaps Almond is just kind of a dickhead, and self centered (a writer? self centered? say it ain't so!) enough where the pain he knowingly inflicts on people that care about him, while eliciting remorse, is not enough to prevent him from doing so. Another problem: he likes heavy metal. While he does explain it in more intellectual terms than a; Q: what do you like about heavy metal? A: that it ROCKS!!!!!!, and thankfully didn't flea-dip in the irony tub and mention that he likes it for whatever camp bullshit reason (he actually likes it out of theatrical experience, the shared sensation with 13 year old mustached social misfit enpowered by big riffs and homoeroticism), he still really likes heavy metal. That's like being in NAMBLA. It's like being a nazi. It's like being a contemporary slave owner. It's hard to take anyone seriously that it a fucking metalhead, because metalheads are horrible people.

Anyway, next time I polish off a portion I'll be back with more.

It Sure Feels Like I Am A Real Person

So this is a new one. I feel a need to defend myself, namely, people have been emailing me, accusing me of NOT BEING A REAL PERSON. Do you know how strange of an accusation that is? What am I then, a goddamned ghost? Fuck.

Some points of contention:

1. 'Phil Honolulu can't be your real name'

Well, no shit. It's not Phil, it's Philip. You think when my family came over from the old Country that they changed it to Honolulu at Ellis Island? Of course my last name isn't Honolulu, you fucking nitwit. This is really strange, because obviously fake names on people like 'Dan Gerous' and 'Steve Sleaze' and 'Brian Cozomel' have written to express displeasure with me, in addition to complimentary folks like Todd Tricknee, Eric Lastname, and Madam X. How come nobody gives any of them shit? Huh?

2. 'How come you don't go under your real name?'

In addition to the instant revocation of what little social status I have, imagine the untold damage it would do to me at work if Letters Have No Arms ever came up in the Boss's browser. I've also had people write and threaten to MURDER me, so you can imagine my reluctance to put my real last name up publicly.

3. "All the stuff you've described is bullshit"

This is the strangest. Here I am, describing things that happened to me to the only people that will listen (i.e. the anonymous masses), and I get guff. I ate a 3 lb. salami, and I won more then eighty dollars. I'll be happy to leave my stool on your doorstep if you don't believe me. I made an asshole of myself multiple times in social situations. Why would I make something like that up? You think I intentionally go out of my way to appear like an asshole? Why the fuck would I do that? Maybe I should go for Garage braggadocio persona instead, like many of you readers/pinheads:

"Yeah, this weekend after drinking a case of beer and snorting three grams of coke I got so many rare singles that you won't believe it. This all went into my collections, which is huge. I got singles so rare that they don't even exist. You should see the size of my record collection. I get twenty records a day. I've got a big record collection. I also got many seventies punk singles. Originals, I know I can get the reissue, but it just doesn't sound the same. So I grabbed my skinny girlfriend and then hot footed it in my original Chuck Taylors to the show where I saw three bands that were so unbelievably world changing that I can only describe it in totally pedestrian terms. Then I posted on ten message boards."

No, instead I just related information from my pretty fucking uneventful life, and all of a sudden I'm not a real person anymore. Fuck.

And one last thing:

Yes, the fucking Richard Hell interview was made up. You think Richard Hell would take the time off from talking about how smart he is to read a blog in the first place? Oh, what, you're angry now? I'm a jerk now? I'm immoral because all of a sudden I'm a journalist and I'm making shit up? I upset you? I mislead you?

Here's my response: FUCK YOU, and if you thought it was real and now you're unhappy about it, get angry at your mother for allowing the weakest sperm to fertilize the egg that eventually became you, don't take it out on me.

Plenty of updates coming this week. Get ready. It's going to be some great stuff.

My Romance Is Wilted And Dead

So, you may have noticed (or may not have) that I haven't been putting much down about my life, instead concentrating on interviews and some of my typical sub bush league music scrawl bullshit. Work is the same old thankless rut (as I imagine it is for you, too), and in my spare time I've been drinking at home with a book rather then going out. But, the big news for me (sort of), is that I started (sort of) seeing a girl. She's nice. I met her online. We've been out three times, twice for food and once she came over and we watched a movie ('The Village', it was fucking terrible). She is a genuinely nice person. I try my best to be humorous and kind around her, and she seems to like me. At first it was alarming, because it doesn't happen to me that often so I always feel it is part of a an elaborate prank when a female is being nice to me. But it is also flattering.

But, it's also horrible, because as much as enjoy her company in brief doses, I am not especially attracted to her, emotionally or physically. It's not that my standards are any more particular then the everyday sort, but she just doesn't do it for me. She is kind, but beyond both needed the aid of a computer dating service to make each other's initial acquaintance, we have absolutely nothing in common. She doesn't like to read, I enjoy it. She like movies like 'The Village', I hate them. She doesn't 'like music', whereas despite vocally disliking much of it, I love. She doesn't seem to have must interest in anything. I can try and admire that attitude, but it is difficult. I do not want someone that shares my interests (oh dear God, no), but it is nevertheless strange to be with someone without the slightest bit of cultural curiosity. So, as you can imagine, our conversations are often stilted and awkward, even by my standards, and I have much experience in that area, let me tell you. She is studying to be a social worker while she works at some lousy office. I imagine much of her attraction (as minor as it may very well be) stems from her same noble, altruistic desires to help others that motivates her to become a social worker. That's my theory, anyway, even if I haven't shared it with her. I'd like to be friends with her and all, or more accurately, I would like to rarely see her and have her bear no long term ill-will towards me or personal pain on her part, but I cannot handle spending much more time in her company, which I should find pleasant, but do not.

There you go, no special plans upcoming, but try and read anyway.

I Am A Distinguished Literary Critic, Like That One Guy

I am going to start writing occasional book reviews for Joe Bob Briggs. According to him himself, I need to pick a genre, then it'll be off to the races.

So, any suggestions from you out there in Internet-land on the genre of book you would like to see me review?

Axis Annie Can Take A Back Seat

So, according to hearsay and rumor, when David Koresh's fun loving Branch Davidians were held up in their bunker in Waco, Texas, one of the strategies our Government employed to harass the innocent gun toting cultists into giving up and getting a fucking job was repeatedly playing Nancy Sinatra's perfectly pleasant number 'These Boots Are Made For Walking' on giant speakers for days on end. When this failed, they had to go in with tanks and machine guns. If I only I had been employed in a the PsyOps division of the FBI and could formulate a CD-R to make those turn those cultist into good Christian soldiers who don't dare act different, many lives could have been spared. In case of future extended sieges, our Government would be advised to follow my advice, this could turn devout anti-US Militia Members into pencil pushing bureaucrats, make fanatical Muslim religious extremists shop at Wall Mart while singing Christmas carols, and make IRA members worship at the alter of Tony Blair.

A caveat, I did not include any song that I do not personally enjoy to a degree or at least listen to a few times a year. I'm not one of those assholes that deliberately seek out terrible stuff and embrace the novelty of something worthless either. Therefore, this doesn't include the gratuitously unlistenable. I am also only including songs that at least have some semblance of a melody, so some of those bigticket noise acts are out. These are all, more or less normal songs, just really fucked up for whatever reason. Here goes;

Phil Honolulu's Ten Song Mind Control CD-R

1. Suicide 'Frankie Teardrop'
I remember listening to this as a teenager on headphones. Already thoroughly disturbed, when Alan Vega's screams ripped through my headphones, it sent chills down my spine and gave me a horrible case of the fear. Fuck, one horribly harsh, scary number. Could you imagine the Feds blasting this on the biggest speakers they could find?
2. Patty Waters 'Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair'
Special thanks to SS Records head honcho Scott, who recommended this one in a separate context. I was vaguely familiar with it through Lester Bangs, but after Scott mentioned it, I went to track it down. Holy shit, this one is something else. It's one thing to have a maniac hollering in your ear on a Suicide record, but when a jazz artist lulls you into complacency in 1965 with a more or less harmless music collection of piano and vocal ballads and then unleashes and unspeakable aural wave of sheer ugly naked emotion that, amongst other things, was enough to inspire the entire career of Diamanda Galas. This song is a monster, and I can't articulate the impact.
3. The Blue Men 'Entry Of The Globbots'
Wisely left off of what would be most record buyer's introduction to the work of Joe Meek, the excellent 'It's Hard To Believe' compilation, 'Entry Of The Globbots' starts out okay. In fact, the whole album (and for the record, I don't know if I buy the whole 'First Concept Record' jive either) starts out fine. There are definite hints of what is to come, buried under crude echo, compression and God knows what else, under some vague vocal noise on the title track, but you have to be expecting it. After two enjoyable instrumentals, we get some cool sounds on 'Entry Of The Globbots', until the Globbots actually enter. I remember my exact reaction upon listening to this for the first time, it went like this: Fuck, well, this song is totally ruined. The Globbots - one of the alien races that Meek is ostensibly delivering the story of on this record - chant like the Chipmunks in a repetitive nonsense drone, it's oddly soothing, almost hypnotizing, and horribly annoying all at the same time. This one ought to have Cultists holding their ears and shrieking in terror after a few spins.
4. Black Randy & The Metrosquad 'Idi Amin'
The peak of Black Randy's rotgut brilliance. Listening to this on repeat after being up for a few days is unthinkable.
5. Bunker Hill 'The Girl Can't Dance'
Primitive is a adjective thrown around entirely too much when describing music, but it's appropriate here. So is minimal, since the song track is just a vocal, sparse background singing, a perfectly recorded marching drum beat, and some very simple, subtle bass. There are entirely too many superlatives casually laid out when writing about music. It's hard not to, there is something so personal about the emotions something that subjective evokes, especially when coupled with enthusiasm and excited temperaments. Let me say this, Bunker Hill's harrowing, overamped scream is one of the harshest ever put to record. Bunker Hill screaming in your ears after your nerves have already been throughly frayed?
6. Wavis O'Shave 'Mauve Shoes Are Awful'
The song is horrid. It's by far the worst thing in the Messthetic Series, which because of it's completist nature is a valiant but often inconsistent effort. I don't like the song in the least, but every so often I give it a spin trying to figure out what other people see in it. After my Messiah had abandoned me and I was facing down an army of armed Officers and this was being blasted into my compound, I would be trying to tear out my eardrums.
7. The Birthday Party 'Deep In The Woods'
Before Nick Cave got too silly, he had offerings like this. It is normally something I would enjoy making fun of (just because you've got sycophants telling you how much of a genius you are doesn't make your Murder Ballads any less ridiculous) but there is such conviction and genuine unpleasantness going on in 'Deep In The Woods' that I love it. It's one of those songs that makes it impossible to relax while playing.
8. The Hospitals 'Missing My Hands'
The Hospitals debut is one of my favorite records of the last couple o' years. There is a delicate line between music and noise, and The Hospitals toe it which alarming accuracy. The production is absolutely punishing, the cymbals jump out of the speakers and you have to aurally hack your way through the feedback and sheets of torture to get to the actual songs, which are catchy and great. Currently, this is my favorite Hospitals songs, erupting at points where you can't imagine it getting any more fucked up and then it gets on top of you in a cloud of electric shrieks. You know H.P. Lovecraft? You know his old dark Gods that want nothing but the worst type of pain to befall mankind? Who are so horrifying that even momentarily glimpsing one would cause you to go stark, raving mad? The embodiment of hopelessness, death, rape, and pain? This is what they listen to. While not a noise music junkie, I nevertheless have a high tolerance for fucked up recordings, but for a total amateur to be exposed to this, it would cause nothing but incomprehensible horror.
9. James Chance & Pill Factory 'That's When Your Heartaches Begin'
I like James Chance a whole lot more in theory then in practice. I'm glad he exists, he's great to read about, but I end up picking up the tonearm on his records pretty often. Trying to figure out the most grating track of his prolific career - which I assess as either irredeemably pretentious or sporadic genius depending on my mood - is pretty thankless. They all grate. I picked this one mostly because of his 'that's the ENDDD OF HIS SWEETHEARTTTTTT!' pinched scream towards the end and some guitar work I really enjoy.
10. The Collins Kids 'Hey Momma Boom-A-Lacka'
I'm sure whatever frightening Psychiatrist that picked Nancy Sinatra off the shelf to torture the Davidians into giving up has pretty good explanation for why he picked that song. Maybe it's the just how catchy it is, maybe hearing it repeated unlocks dark doors in the human mind that were never meant to be opened. On to my shame, as much as I don't like admitting it, I have a weak spot for the really vapid, crassly commercial, grossly stupid pop songs the Larry Collins put out after being the the greatest rockabilly guitarist youngster to ever hit the scene. This song is a toe-tapper, one that urges, with disarming friendliness, for you to sing along. Hearing it's inane idiocy and manufactured pop wedged in with this company could break any man.

Way To Almost Ruin The Whole Fucking DVD, Asshole

Just bought the Wire DVD, albeit late from it's release.

Goddamn, is Graham Lewis hard to look at, he is like a fork in the eye every time I look at the screen. The rest of the band is going along with a dignified, reserved intensity, (even Robert Gotobed manages to not seem like an idiot after reaching a point in the set where he cannot play drums and wear a shirt at the same time, no easy trick) and then there's Graham with his perm bouncing along like he's a final contestant in a Clash lookalike festival. Fuck him.

"My Shoe Is Covered With Blood"

Okay, here’s something weird for everyone out there in internet land. Richard Hell contacted me via email to tell me that he enjoyed the site, and we exchanged correspondence to the point where I asked him to do an interview, and he happily accepted. Conducted via phone last week, Richard was an articulate, erudite speaker who measure his words carefully and never failed to impress me with his intellect.

Enjoy,

Phil Honolulu: Okay, yeah it worked. It’s recording again and I could hear myself when I just played it back.

Richard Hell: Okay great. What kind of recorder is it?

PH: Just some cheap piece of shit Radio Shack job with a few connectors.

RH: Ah.

PH: This is kind of the token question I guess, but I wanted to ask you anyway.

RH: Go ahead, that’s what I am here for.

PH: What do you think about digital recording, downloading music, all that current bullshit?

RH: In 2000, I was commissioned to do a track exclusively available for download on MusicBlitz, and I gathered up all the Voidoids and we did it, so obviously I have no problem with it!

PH: No shit?

RH: Yeah, playing music is still fun, although it isn’t as easy to come up with a song anymore, but getting paid seemed like the perfect excuse to gather up the old gang.

PH: What were the dynamics like, playing again after all those years?

RH: I think that it was a sense of resignation, the goodwill and pleasant sentiment led to more of a pleasant nostalgia so the bad feelings never had a chance to surface. I am sure that had we recorded more that would have been more of an issue! But otherwise, it was a great experience, just to be in the same room with those musicians, where we have so much shared experience.

PH: I bet.

RH: So to answer your question, I have no problem with digital music or recording, provided it is used properly and not as crutch. I’m not much of a technological theorist, I delegate my own artistic urges to documentation of street and junkie culture, so for me to offer some William Gibson theory on where digital music distribution is going to go would be futile.

PH: When did you hear Bob McFadden’s ‘Beat Generation’ first?

RH: I saw it in the movie. I was always a big fan of the movies, and I had it in the back of my mind that I might try my hand at acting.

PH: Like Nick Detroit!

RH: [Laughs] No, not the pantomime, but real acting, so I would see any movie I could, and something about that McFadden song just stuck with me. I was familiar with him through ‘The Mummy’, I would hear that on the radio around Halloween as a kid.

PH: Yeah, The Fall had an amazing cover of that song.

RH: Really? I wasn’t aware of that.

PH: What actors do you admire nowdays?

RH: I think Jake Busey is very good. I also like Harmony Korine, even though he is not an actor. I like Jim Carrey, 'Eternal Sunshine' was possibly my favorite movie of last year. I think Jude Law projects the kind of sexuality that I admire.

PH: Did you like 'Sky Captain'?

RH: I did, I thought it was a wonderful mix of ernest, old fashioned entertainment with a great use of contemporary technology.

PH: Did you see 'Closer'?

RH: I did. I liked it, although I didn't find it especially cinematic.

PH: I read somewhere that when you wrote ‘The Voidoid’, you thought you were a vampire.

RH: Yes, I did.

PH: Really?

RH: Yes.

PH: A vampire?

RH: Yes.

PH: So you literally thought you were a vampire?

RH: Define ‘literally’.

PH: Uh, in terms of, you survived off ingesting human blood, sunlight would kill you, had to avoid crucifixes, and that the full moon made you go crazy?

RH: That’s a werewolf! [Laughs]

PH: Could werewolves eat garlic? I can’t picture this big monster dog getting gourmet all of a sudden and avoid mauling someone because they had a garlic clove in their pocket…

RH: No, I thought I was a vampire in terms of it being an absolute rejection of traditional society. Roles that I was actively trying to reject, by being a poet, a rock star, and just avoiding what normal people accepted - being a vampire seemed to encapsulate all those ideals. Coupled with the drug addict’s need for drugs, it just seemed like a very natural, comfortable progression to being a literal vampire, with them both sharing such parasitic tendencies. It’s the same with Big Buckshot Jim.

PH: ?

RH: Big Buckshot Jim was Theresa Stern’s pimp. To fully comprehend Theresa Stern…

PH: Wait, Theresa Stern was your alter ego, right?

RH: Phil, before you interview someone, you should do a little more homework! [laughs]

PH: And improve my spelling!

RH: Yeah!

PH: I listened to your records and that ‘Time’ collection again today, so I thought I was caught up.

RH: [Laughs] No, I published a book of poetry under the name Theresa Stern, she was conceived along with Verlaine. Stern was a junkie prostitute. The notion of a junkie, prostitute that wrote poetry was undeniably attractive to me. It seemed like something Genet would have come up with. Let’s put it this way, I felt at the time I could come up with ideas that Genet would have wished he could have conjured, and I had a rock record. I mean Patty Smith was doing the same thing, but I was doing it better and I didn’t have the advantage of pendulous breasts, you know? You throw breasts in front of a concert promoter or the two or three male poets who aren’t homosexuals, and you got yourself a ticket in. But Big Buckshot Jim was conceived as Theresa’s Pimp, he was a former modern pirate from Jamaica, who used pimping as a way to support himself while painting and writing poetry. The whole symbiotic relationship of pimp vs. prostitute with myself as the artist orchestrating the relationship was to me, the pinnacle of fiction, because it is based in what seemed to be a very real truth. I had worked on Jim’s character, without Verlaine’s interference, and was conceiving a work that would combine an experimental novel, with poetry and excerpts from my notebook that were painting modeled after Buckshot’s own work, but I was just too busy.

PH: So how come you left Television, I’ve heard conflicting accounts…

RH: Well, Verlaine was a close friend obviously, and I am grateful for him aiding me in getting my foot in the door. But his behavior, and his band was the antithesis of what I thought constituted a punk band, even though the word didn’t really exist yet. I would be at his house, and we would be drinking wine and shooting up heroin after memorizing the good reviews we had gotten and having sex with our groupies, and he would point to Lloyd and say ‘Hey Richard, look, Lloyd worked out another solo! He’s utilizing this scale that I hadn’t even had a chance to use yet!’ and he would sit in front of Lloyd and both their eyes would glaze over and Lloyd would solo for literally half an hour. I would try and be polite and appear to maintain interest, but it was difficult! He would just play interminably. Then when he finished, which seemed like it NEVER HAPPENED, he would lay down, spent, and say ‘that is the best work I have ever done’. Then Tom would clap, and say ‘My turn!’, and he would try to out solo Lloyd, by playing even longer. Then Tom would go again, and this would go on for literally days. It was sheer torture. Then when I was in the Heartbreakers, it was the opposite. I don’t think Johnny ever picked up a guitar except to record, play a show, rehearse (which he never did), or pose for a photograph. Television was always holding guitars and working on solos and getting anyone around to listen to this flurry of notes. Lloyd just lived to play guitar.

PH: What an ASSHOLE.

RH: I think Lloyd was the biggest asshole in the entire scene. I mean, you had a maniac like Alan Vega who was scaring the shit out of people and living on the street, but off stage he was a sweetheart. Then you get Lloyd, who would just play guitar, granted playing it better then I ever could (but still nothing compared to Quine) but appearing just generally like a decent person, even though he was a total prick. Johnny had his moments. He would routinely do things like make off with one of my favorite shirts and wear it himself and pretend that it was his and not notice in his heroin fog that he was wearing it in front of me, or trade one of my poetry journals for some bad skag, but I was scared of Lloyd, frankly. Richard has a violent side. We were once in the Alphabet City, he was buying a stolen guitar, a really beautiful Fender, for ten bucks. A junkie fan had it and sold it to Lloyd at a discount, it was a great deal. Hilly [Kristal, owner of CBGB’s] gave Richard the money, even though Richard said it cost fifteen bucks and kept the extra five, and we were walking back after buying it and this skinny Puerto Rican, I mean he couldn’t have been more the fourteen, he was falling down drunk, his limbs all flailing… And he sees Richard carrying the Telecaster and he says ‘Nice guitar!’, and Richard immediately, without hesitating, just smashes it over this guy’s head, and he goes down like a ton of bricks. You ever pick up a Telecaster?

PH: Well, the chickenshit Squire ones.

RH: [Sighs] Well, they are really heavy, and this was a one piece, and Lloyd just destroyed it on this guys head, who just looked demolished, then he wedges his foot in the guys mouth, he was bleeding, and Lloyd managed to work in half his foot into the guy’s mouth and he screams ‘YOU LIKE MY FOOT MOTHERFUCKER?’, and I had to grab Richard and hustle him out of there. He just kept muttering on the way home ‘I wasted ten bucks man! My shoe is covered with blood!’, so even though I was dissenting in the direction that Television was going. I dislike admitting it, but I was afraid Richard would beat me!

PH: [Laughs] How come this didn't make it into Leg's McNeil's book?

RH: I talked to Legs for two days, sixteen hours, so there was plenty of material that never had a chance to see the light of day.

PH: Richard Lloyd seemed like a sissy to me.

RH: He wasn't, don't let the precision guitar playing fool you, he could easily laspe into violence. It all seems absurd in retrospect. But there was so much unchecked ridiculous machismo going around, that it seemed plausible.

PH: Did you interact with Lester Bangs much after your first interview?

RH: I would see him, and we remained friendly even though I had disagreements about the nature of his piece, but I liked the guy. He was a great writer and it was sad to see him go. I would occasionally talk to him and he was always honest if you asked his opinion about something, which is a mindset I have nothing but respect for. He definitely had his fair share of problems, but he was at his core, a good guy to have around. I even saw his band, but they were terrible. Just embarrassing. It’s sad in retrospect that he took me to task for crafting an almost nihilistic persona, which is an assessment I disagreed with at the time, while he was much more of a humanist. And I was a junkie whose heroes all died in their youth, and I survived, while he died. It’s sad.

PH: Do you miss doing heroin?

RH: When I initially started it, it was truly wonderful. You could do some heroin, and escape into a fantasy world. I would visit Edgar Allen Poe’s apartment, or drink tea and discuss poetry with Rimbaud. So I miss that aspect terribly. I don’t miss kicking heroin, I don’t miss scoring in the middle of the night, and I don’t miss any of the more obvious and sordid aspects. But when I first started, it was great. You ever have tiramisu?

PH: Yeah, I love tiramisu. I think my most treasured sexual fantasy is having sex with Anna Karina – you’re familiar with Godard, right?

RH: Of course. I have a film column for Black Book magazine, I talk about Godard quite often. [Laughs] You really aren’t very good as researching your subject!

PH: Yeah, I know. I’m working on it. I did an interview with Ben Wallers, my only other interview.

RH: I’m not familiar.

PH: Oh, he’s great, he’s in this band called the Country Teasers, kind of a great big unique clusterfuck between The Carter Family, The Fall and Joy Division, they’re really great. You’re a fan of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and The White Stripes, right?

RH: Yes, the later more so, but I think they are both great.

PH: Not doing my research…

RH: [Laughs] Well, you got me there!

PH: Anyway, I can say definitively, that The Country Teasers are about a millions times better then the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The White Stripes combined. I’m not exaggerating.

RH: [Laughs] I take it you don’t like those bands.

PH: No, I think they’re fine. I sure as shit wouldn’t buy any of their records, but I just like the Country Teasers so much more. But back to the interview, I thought I did a pretty good job, even if I felt like a pinhead for not knowing who Tammy Payton was.

RH: Tam Payton?

PH: Yeah, now that I did some perfunctory research on the guy, he seems to resemble McLaren. You dealt with McLaren, right?

RH: I only dealt with McLaren really casually, he was always very nice to me, just a funny English guy nobody took seriously. I think he only resembles Payton in a real facile sense. It’s like saying a horse resembles a dog, because they both have four legs.

PH: Yeah, but he was a manipulative huckster, and McLaren was the same thing, even if he could mask some of his bullshit in his art theory verbiage.

RH: I though you were referring to the sensationalistic aspect of Tam Payton fucking passed out people and were analogizing that to McLaren metaphorically fucking the Sex Pistols.

PH: No, but that is better then what I had come up with! Back to Godard, my favorite sexual fantasy involved having sex with Anna Karina in a giant vat of tiramisu.

RH: That would be great! Well, I had this fan, his name was Eddie something or other. Nice guy, I would see him at CBGB’s and he worked at some bakery, I would go in and he would give me free blintzes and tiramisu, just because he was familiar with my work. But I would shoot up heroin and eat tiramisu, not so much for the flavor or the nutrition or because I was hungry, but it was free and the sensation in my mouth aided in me heroin travels. So I would be breaking bread with Genet, holding hands and speaking about our deepest thoughts and ambitions. I think the sugar and texture triggered deeper sensation. It was incredible, we would participate in the greatest of decadence together, arm in arm, like lovers and I could orchestrate the entire encounter into how exactly I wanted it to go. Or Rimbaud and I would visit ancient Parisian brothels and eat Swedish Fish in a library composed of first editions of ‘Against Nature’, that sort of thing [laughs]. Rimbaud, Genet and Poe would get together and have symposiums teaching me aspects of writing, while we shared tiramisu and I would wake up with tiramisu smeared all over my face. Later on I had tried it when Ivan Julian was living with me and the heroin had lost any of it’s power to allow me to travel and dream, it was just a matter of staying on top of things and keeping the pain away, but I had some excellent stuff and I had tried it and Ivan walked in and I was laying on my floor with a half eaten tiramisu on my chest and the pastry smeared around my mouth. Ivan asked ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ and I couldn’t explain it to him, so I just [pause] and then…

PH: What was that?

RH: I’m sorry, I tried to snap and my fingers don’t seem to be cooperating. [Laughs]

PH: I’ll assume you snapped.

RH: [Laughs] Thanks, but I snapped and said, I made you in this town, and I can unmake you, so you tell anyone you saw Richard Hell stuffing his face with cake while laying on the floor, you’re out of the fucking band!

PH: [Laughs]

RH: Yeah, heroin does nasty, nasty things to people.

PH: What is your favorite artistic medium?

RH: Writing. In a sense, punk rock was perfect because it provided me with both life experience as fodder for writing and sufficient notoriety to get published.

PH: What did you think of LA punk?

RH: I wasn’t exposed to much of it, although I liked The Germs. There was a definite sense of LA punk being totally unimportant and riding on New York’s coattails, a view I think is not entirely without merit.

PH: But you liked Cleveland Punk?

RH: I enjoyed the Dead Boys, it was difficult not like them. I liked The Cramps but didn’t take them very seriously. I was reading very difficult, intelligent literature and attempting to bridge the gap between poetry and rock and they were singing about Monsters, it seemed terribly immature at the time, but in retrospect they were a good band, even if nobody took them seriously at the time.

PH: How do you spend your time now?

RH: I write, read books, I feel no pressing need to be prolific and can create at my own pace.

PH: Any things you feel like saying, closing out this interview?

RH: Not really, I’ve done so many interviews as publicity in the last few years that I feel I have nothing new to express.

PH: That sucks.

RH: It does! [Laughs]

Another Big Interview Coming Up

This one is also a surprise. Avoid getting too excited.

"Snow On The Fucking Sand"

Letters Have No Arms is proud to offer this interview with Ben Wallers, aka 'The Rebel', the man behind the Country Teasers. Conducted via email, offered for your enjoyment:

Phil Honolulu: What kind of music did you listen to as a child?

Ben Wallers: Albums like Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’, JJ Cale’s ‘Naturally’, The Moody Blues Greatest Hits, Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen… When I heard ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ as a late teenager I got a mental picture or a white bookshelf to the left of a doorway in my Aunt’s section of the house which my Dad, Grandparents, Aunt and her daughters shared in Pimlico, Hemel Hempstead, Hertfordshire (a huge house with massive grounds, including pond, woods, and three lawns) so I believe that the first song I heard may have been ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’, These musics were programmed into me, I still love them and cannot either change it or give a critical review. If someone says “Elton John is shit, it’s provable by maths”, I can only reply “That may be so, but it’s programmed into me, I love to listen to it.”

PH: Was there any one big deciding factor in going from listener to performer?

BW: My parents suggested I try composing so I bought a four track, the Fostex X-30. May I mentioned that I am collecting them, I have got two which don’t work anymore (Larry Hardy got me one from Ebay when I told him my original one had died, but it died the other day, it had a stroke: the left side became paralyzed. Then the whole thing died.) So if anyone owns one they don’t want, or knows where they can score one, please score it for me, I will be very grateful. So anyway, at the time I was heavily into The Fall but still not cured of an infatuation with The Cure about which I am still embarrassed about because R. Smith’s lyrics are awful but I think his melodic sense is a brilliant instruction manual for anyone interested in songwriting. So my transition from listener to composer was a narrow leap: I just imitated the The Cure and The Fall. I don’t know how I learnt to compose, I just did it obsessively. I got a guitar when I was doing my A levels (exams aged 18) and I just couldn’t concentrate on my studies because songs were just pouring out. I mean melodies. Lyrics were a real struggle and I still consider writing lyrics a big fucking chore. I found performing completely natural and easy, there was no nerves or caring about what the audience thought. My attitude to presenting music is that if people don’t like it there must be something wrong with them and I should keep clear of them whoever they are.

PH: Could you talk a little bit about initially forming the Country Teasers?

BW: Well I was playing solo at an open-mic night for folks singers and my friend’s boyfriend was so impressed he asked to form a band so that he could play drums for me, he wanted to play drums as a relief from his day as the singer/guitarist in beat-group The Kaisers whom garage punk fans should know, his name is George Miller. I love that line in Jon Wayne’s ‘Is That Justice’ “She was hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire”. So I formed The Country Teasers with George and my friend Simon Stephens in 1993 in Edinburgh there. I have never intended to have a band, I was just into recording, the four track meant that I could pretend I was a band already. Alan Crichton of the Male Nurse was staying on my floor so he joined on guitar and Simon started playing bass.

PH: When did you first hear The Fall?

BW: 1987. John Wilson, the brainiest boy in the school, was going to see Napalm Death in Camden (our school was Harrow, in North West Greater London) illegitimately of course and he asked me to tape The Fall’s Session on John Peel. It was the ‘Frenz Experiment’ Session: ‘Twister’, ‘Guest Informant’, err… I forget. I didn’t realize there was four songs, I missed one of them. ‘Australians In Europe’ I think… It remains my favorite Fall Session: so fucking tough, alienating, cold, arrogant; but coming up to ‘Kurious Oranj’, the pinnacle of their big proficient sound, never again equaled on vinyl until the good bits of ‘Levitate’. I wasn’t really impressed immediately but then it grew on me like cancer and I was obsessed. I think the first album I got was ‘The Wonderful And Frightening World Of…’ A Completely underrated masterpiece. ‘No Bulbs’, ‘Copped It’, ‘Stephen Song’, ‘Craigness’ and ‘Bug Day’ are all in my all time Fall Top Fifty. Then I got ‘This Nation’s Saving Grace’, ‘Perverted By Language’, ‘Room To Live’ etc. and I couldn’t believe it, it was like being drowned in a tidal wave. Poor choice of image this year perhaps.

PH: What did you study in college?

BW: Fucking useless English Literature and impossibly difficult philosophy. The powers at my school wouldn’t let me do art because I was good at academics but they made a big mistake and fucked up my life. I didn’t want to go to University, I should have gone to art school.

PH: How do you feel about the first Country Teasers records now?

BW: Nostalgic. I’d like to have that youthful confidence still. I hated the sound of them but I like it now. Some of the lyrics make me cringe when I have to sing them live because I don’t actually feel them anymore, but I felt them at the time and so they’re valid, I just have to put myself back into the character I was then.

PH: Has the Country Teasers sound REFINED into what your originally desired it to sound like, or was it more a matter of evolving?

BW: Interesting question… I think if I could go back to 1994 with a tape of how we sounded on our last tour and play it my 23 year old self, he would be very pleased, because we’re a lot more sophisticated but just as tough, soundwise, as then. Evolution, yeah, we just get older and mature. I write pretty much the same kind of songs, the bands learns them better these days.

PH: Has your distaste for studios softened at all?

BW: Nope. I still think there’s a communications gap between composer and studio technician, caused by the seductiveness of technology.

PH: About the lyrical subject matter, do you see yourself as more of a projection of a character or as you yourself as the subject?

BW: A bit of both. Despite being socialized, man has instinctive responses with are unacceptable and therefore buried. I let these out sometimes in the non-dangerous medium of song lyrics. Sometimes however I adopt a bad character to satirize bad characteristics in white male society.

PH: Are you a reader/what do you read? Of in general, what kind of everyday pop cultural type stuff do you enjoy?

BW: I’m a horrible reader, my mind just flies off every ten words. I’m trying to read ‘1982’ by Alasdair Gray. My favorite novel is ‘At Swim Two Birds’ by Flann O’Brien. I like to watch movies. My favorite is ‘Eat Drink Man Women’ by Ang Lee. I recently enjoyed ‘Dune’. I was a huge Seinfeld fan and now love ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ of course. Looking forward to seeing more, I don’t have cable right now. I like to listen to the BBC World Service with my wife. You get the world news and good programs without the middle class filter of English culture, which I fucking hate. I fucking hate English culture.

PH: What current hip hop to you enjoy?

BW: Kool Keith is my fave rave. I haven’t heard anyone else as good since he started. Otto Von Schirach is good.

PH: Do you listen to modern country music?

BW: No, not really. But I liked Gillian Welch for a couple years very intensely. Now I find her a little too airtight, a little cold. Brilliant though. I think that clean, expensive recording techniques destroy country music. No one hears music like that you fucking idiots except in your fucking suites listening to your fucking demos in Nashville. Bring back Billy Sherrill, or burn down all the studios.

PH: What are some of the big country influences on your music besides the Louvin Brothers, Carter Family, Tammy Wynette and Johnny Cash?

BW: I love big country : The Crossing is perfect, Steeltown is 60%. The Stonemen Family: Cleoma Falcon (Cajun); The Cooke Duet; Jon Wayne; Dolly Parton is my second favorite after Tammy; I like some Burrito Bros.; not Graham “Git Yer Bra Off” Parsons though; fucking junkie; The Delmore Brothers ‘Blues, Stay Away From Me’; The Miller Sisters; Patsy Cline of course; wow, it’s really snowing here; can’t think of anyone else just now.

PH: What would be your ideal lifestyle?

BW: Errr… In the country, twenty four hours a day recording except when I’m with my wife. I just love to record, I’m not really very comfortable doing anything else. I hate society and being social, I hate going out. I would really like to be extremely wealthy and think I could be of great service to mankind if I was.

PH: Do you enjoy recording other people?

BW: I prefer to record girls then boys. I don’t really have the patience. I like telling people how to get a good sound. I love to tell people that all studios are bullshit.

PH: What were you doing on September 11th?

BW: Working in a basement folding t-shirts, listening to the radio coverage. Then I went upstairs to phone Robert in NYC but we couldn’t get through. He could see the Towers coming down from his apartment on the lower east side.

PH: Is ‘Deaths’ factual?

BW: Yes. Crichton was Alan Crichton the guitarist in Country Teasers and The Male Nurse who had a very miserable last couple of years as a junkie alienating everyone, well we weren’t good friends to him at all, especially me, I fucking hated his guts. Then he got the cure and died of an overdose because his tolerance had dropped during the cure. Cigarettes emptied to roll joints and the ‘Futurism’ book lay around the sofa where he copped it. He was very unsatisfied, he wanted to be successful at music. Strong personality, much too straight-talking for this lies-lies-lies society we have created for ourselves. Very sad, he crops up in my dreams a lot, but at the time I was glad he died, it was a relief. Bad situation. The other corpse in the story was my dear Aunt Pen who got cancer. She was a strong character too, very straight-talking. Very healthy, went surfing at Christmas etc. with the snow on the fucking sand. Then she got a cough and it was cancer, she lasted about three months, it was totally fucking bullshit. I didn’t understand why Elvis or Bob Marley of whoever’s in charge ended her very useful well-lived life instead of my miserable, self-hating “please end it!” life.

PH: Who is Tammy Payton?

BW: Tam Payton was Bay City Rollers manager. He likes to chloroform young boys and fuck them asleep.

PH: I catch a lot of Manchester type punk influence in your stuff, but are you a fan of American punk?

BW: Hmmm… Do you mean Joy Division, The Fall, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses, The Smiths? I’m not really au fait with Magazine, etc. and hate hate hate the Buzzcocks and Cabaret Voltaire. I’m really not a fan of punk at all. I love John Lydon but the rest of it sucks for me, musical-tastewise. I like the approach and the politics of course, but like those other ethnic groups gay, women and black, I just don’t like the aesthetic. I like rotten expensive arrogant self-destructive white male culture. Punk was too energetic and positive for me. Let’s see, what can I say to contradict that… I adored Pussy Galore of course. And one of my favorite albums of all time is ‘Chainsaw Masochist’ by Rancid Hellspawn. But the thing with these punk groups and Joy Division is that they have a lot of music in them, either in the rhythm, the melody or the production. Excusing for a moment the horrible generalization, punk music all sounds the fucking same. The Jam, The Clash, The Buzzcocks, The Stranglers: pub rock. I’m exaggerating for effect.

PH: What do you think about Americans like The Urinals, The Electric Eels, and The Gun Club, who might be more on your wavelength?

BW: No, no, no. Haven’t heard The Urinals; I like The Electric Eels but would never need an album; The Gun Club leave me completely cold.

PH: Do you enjoy the collaborative nature of recording/performing music?

BW: Not really. I like doing it all myself on my own. Having other people milling about just puts me off. Playing live is great though. I like improvising when it works, especially live. Country Teasers line-ups though the years have always been expert improvisers. The current line-up is extremely hot shit at this. Improvising in a practice room is OK, but the real thrill is doing it live. Yes that’s real rich music, made poignant by it’s intransigence i.e. nobody’s taping it, it only exists in the moment. Bands who don’t do it are square. I can’t think of any band I’ve seen apart from us who do it. Maybe we do it because we’re bored of playing after such a long time plugging away at it getting nowhere.

PH: Would you want to go on to far greater renown, even with the loss of privacy?

BW: I would definitely sacrifice everything except my wife to fame, yes. I want to be promised immortality before I cop it. I want the Priest to assure me that I will be remembered forever by millions. Otherwise my life will have been a waste of time.

PH: What are your most lucid memories from the Oblivians/Country Teasers tour?

BW: Sniffing poppers on a patch of lawn outside Anti Nazi League squat complex playing football with Greg, Richie and I can’t recall who else, in a small town in Germany. Sniffing Poppers on stage in Hamburg. The Rider in Fontenay Le Comte, France : wine, whiskey, and a table overladen with cheeses, meats, etc. Boy oh boy. Greg saying one morning in the van, blue skies outside, weed joint smoked : “I think it’s a good time to listen to Wings Greatest”. Listening to Trio. Stage diving in the van while we drove to a hotel after a gig. Playing “I’ll Never Change” with the Oblivians. Taking a heavy painkiller and lying on the floor of the van listening to ‘Satan Is Real’ I conceived ‘Satan Is Real Again’.

PH: Do you write prose or poetry or paint and by that I mean, do you pursue other artistic endeavors?

BW: I’m always jotting things down and sketching. Mostly I just write comedy routines. I draw a lot. I don’t write poetry exactly; I’m trying to write lyrics.

PH: What was the worst Country Teasers gig?

BW: The worst for me was one time in Cleveland 2002 I hated it and jumped on my guitar, smashing it to pieces. I felt like the band was separate from me, like a wild pony.

PH: The best?

BW: I can’t remember the best, there’s about 600 best ones. The Wesley gigs in Florida 2001 were good, because the kids hates us when we started and chanted “WESLEY ! WESLEY !” and “YOU SUCK” but by the end the usually liked us a lot. Those were great gigs because afterwards I could enjoy watching Wesley.

PH: What is your proudest accomplishment?

BW: I don’t know. I feel pretty fucking good about myself that this amazing girl Sophie thinks I’m great. I like her taste, and she likes my stuff, so I’m proud of my stuff. I’m very pleased with my albums – not Country Teasers, The Rebel – and whenever I listen to them when I’m copying them for people I feel something but I don’t know if it’s pride or narcissism. I feel proud when I read the map well on tour and we make the gig in time.

Reunited With Acosta & Nixon

I'm not looking forward to perusing the popular reaction to the death of Hunter S. Thompson. There's a whole lot of bullshit that's going to be spat out. A bit of background: I remember coming across Thompson initially as a teenager in Hawaii. People in Hawaii, much like the majority of America, do not read. Nobody I knew read for pleasure, save for a few asshole hippies that read self published books of poetry penned by surfers or the musings of local hippie burnout's sold at tourist traps. Occasionally someone that risked being labeled an intellectual by digesting the latest Grisham potboiler, but even that was rare. Since I was personally was held in low esteem by my less enlightened peers, I was left with time on hands. I began reading and forming the musical tastes which continue to confound casual acquaintances to the current day, rather then drinking beer on the beach, bedding my female classmates and all the other typical trappings of American suburban life. I was lonely teenage idiot who was convinced that literature was an exotic animal created solely for my pleasure and certainly not enjoyed by another human being (someone else that read? It just seemed too abstract...). I forgot how, but I came across 'Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas'. I dearly loved it, and I still do. It's easy to see what would attract a teenager who was totally out of sync with his peers: it's a hilarious, intellectual, accessible counterculture tome full of drugs and excess and amphetamine wisdom, paced at leadfoot full tilt boogie rhythm. I was floored. It's just one of those books that perfectly encapsulates a time period, invaluable as artifact or dispatch, the prose utterly relentless. I began digesting Thompson's other works, irregardless of quality or how unrewarding it ended up being, going so far to read the uninformed biographies that were eventually published, when all involved were banking on Thompson's imminent death. I wanted to know more about the man, but little information was available, besides vague accounts of his domicile in Woody Creek and sparesly documented self professed tall tales of behavior as monstrous as he had previously chronicled so beautifully.

I had lost interest when Gillam's horrible cinematic adaptation was released and Thompson's public profile was raised again. Let me say this: the 'Fear And Loathing' movie is an abomination, even by the standards of Hollywood. A humorless effort marred by, amongst other things, Bencio Del Toro's totally unwarranted affectation and mumbling, it's a hollow film without bereft of wit or insight, content to indulge in pointless overwrought visuals and a Cheech And Chong level understanding of drug culture. All of which likely contributed to the shitty film's relative popularity amongst eagerly impressed set. The movie introduced Thompson's seminal work to a new generation, our dumbest one yet. Thompson's resurgence with the American public led to his 'Rum Diaries' getting it's belated release. I had long since thrown in the towel on the man with the aviator shades' work anyway, and have yet to read it. I remember when Thompson made the news when he inflicted minor injuries on his housekeeper with a shotgun, before he sank back into obscurity. I didn't give the man much thought. Then he shot himself, today.

It's one sad fucking story. Thompson's brain had been running on fumes going multiple decades before he put them permanently out to pasture a couple of hours ago. The king of excess had been more or less dead for years now as the result of the constant abuse he loved to brag about. Let's face it, his books, besides 'Fear And Loathing' and 'Hell's Angels' are often flat-out pathetic. Desperate publishers and frazzled editors attempted to cobble together coherent texts out of rambling, incoherent diatribes or outright imitations of most successful work. It didn't really matter much, because Thompson had long since been content to be propped up as a hero by sycophants eager to bask in the glory of someone who had pissed away his talent to settle on being yes, a caricature of his former self. Thompson had a non-conformist streak and often embellished and exaggerated levels of drug and alcohol intake coupled with propensity for crazy behavior (and eagerness to share stories relating it) made him the hero of many too blinded by the man, the myth, the legend, to see just how pitiful of a person he had become. It's telling that he didn't meet his maker with a snout full of cocaine, a belly full of whiskey, intestines full of pills, brain soaked in acid, wrapping a customized sportscar around a pine tree at a hundred and thirty miles an hour while shooting a handgun and screaming foul obscenities about our current administration. Thompson was no longer a drug crazed wildman or the romantic legend of the writer who wrote cold hard truths blended seamlessly in gut laugh machinegun prose or the man who got stomped while crafting an incredibly vivid account of now nearly lost culture or the man who turned journalism upside down or wrote a remarkable book costarring a friend that died that we should all be thankful that the publisher was not too timid to accept; he was a lonely, self delusional old drunk who lived up to his potential too early and road his own coattails into the sunset. Maybe that very realization was what had hit him earlier today.

Hunter S. Thompson

R.I.P.

A Song I Don't Want To Like, But I Do

I was recently giving Brazilian nutjob Raul Seixas' LP ''Krig-Ha, Bandolo!' a listen, and I was struck by how much I found myself liking one of his few English numbers, 'How Could I Know'. Personally, I don't see the big fucking deal about hit 'Ouro De Tolo', I don't speak Portuguese, but doesn't prevent me from enjoying 'Metamorfose Ambulante' any less then if I could understand the lyrics. Hearing one of his few English numbers makes me pretty thankful I can't decipher what he's talking about anyway, because Raul's interest in Spiritualism and Metaphysics, coupled with the atrocious cover art for his aformentioned LP, makes a big part of me wish I was a redneck in a pickup truck and I saw him on a motorcycle and was able to shoot him, leaving a bloody heap of tasseled leathers and a headband peppered with buckshot holes and brain matter at the side of the road.

Speaking of which, am I the only person that enjoys the hippies getting murdered, and little else, in 'Easy Rider'?

Anyway, I found myself listening repeatedly to 'How Could I Know', an earnest, heartfelt, personal ballad, normally the type of thing I enjoy poking fun at (especially when said earnest, heartfelt, personal ballad was produced in the early seventies), but there is something about the overblown singing and the epic production, with it's strings, background singers, and surprisingly lo-fi sounding drums that tickle me where I didn't know I needed it. The lyrics, often marred by his accent, are pretty stupid, and even someone with very poor understanding of the grammar of my native tongue (myself) winces at such bizarre couplets such as the opening:
'Reformulation, rearrange the game you're in/
Let us start from the begin'
and has a very difficult time not bursting into laughter at:
'As I was growing, and my hair was getting longer/
I was feeling so much stronger'
But there is something in the song I found majestic anyway, despite all the horrible surface elements. I loathe mentioning it in the first place, because it's embarrassing to like a song this dumb. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll wake up and give it a listen and wonder what I was thinking. But for now, I'm going to listen to it again.

IT'S IT'S IT'S

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The Best Spaghetti Western? No.

Sergio Corbucci's 'The Great Silence' is the director's best film. It's got a lot going for it, and incredible cast Jean-Louis Trintignant, Vonetta McGee, Luigi Pistilli, and Frank Wolf, a odd, grim snowbound setting, a hero that takes the quiet gunslinger hero to new extremes, and one of the most unhappy endings ever filmed. I'm not kidding. It's fucked up, even by the wonderfully low standards of Italian cinema.

Corbucci's known mostly for 'Django', which is a highly recommended film featuring a hero that carries around a machine gun in a coffin which he utilizes to gun down dozens of people, and a Klansman hood wearing badguy that shoots Mexican farmers in the back from hundreds of yards away with a high powered rifle just to be an asshole. Corbucci's other Western to achieve a degree of notoriety is 'Navajo Joe', featuring Burt Reynolds in the role he came to be continually typecast in, the Indian. 'Navajo Joe', while admittedly amusing, if just to watch Burt Reynolds attempt's to channel the noble Native American's inherent spirituality though copious squinting, has a admirable amount of violence and a great, often quoted score.

Nevertheless, 'The Great Silence' is considered Corbucci's best film, and it's easy to see why. 'Django' and 'Navajo Joe', which fine features in their own way, lack the substance of 'The Great Silence'. One of the great things about it is, it's unusual structure. It starts like many other films of the genre, with the Gunfigher arriving in a town ruled by a bad guys, before going off to spend more time on the big Villain, who is even more evil than usual. And nobody does a Villain like Klaus Kinski, who is able to channel mankind's natural, and understandable hatred and distrust of Germans into one evil, racist fascist fuck of a Bad Guy. The whole film seems slightly off, with it's extreme editing, surprisingly tender interracial romance between Trintignant and McGee, and the off-kilter setting. How many Westerns have you seen set in the Utah Mountains featuring Mormons? The outlaws, living on the outskirts of town subsisting on Horsemeat and whatever they can steal, due to Luigi Pistilli's Banker character's typically evil financial machinations, which despite being heavy on the proletariat sympathies that run rampant through Italian cinema, is still just strange. Trintignant isn't trying to save some Orphans or innocent homesteaders here, he trying to save a bunch of outlaws.

So after the Hero, his girlfriend, and the only sympathetic characters are gunned down like dogs by the Kinksi and his Kohorts, the film has a title crawl vaguely alluding to events which supposedly took place in Utah, but I have my doubts. I think Corbucci just wanted an excuse to subvert any expectations and brutally gun down a bunch of people, which is fine with me. That is happens to lend the film more substance then the relatively light 'Django' and the cartoonish 'Navajo Joe', but this greater meaning seems almost incidental in retrospect. 'The Great Silence' suffers from phenomenally poor dubbing, even by the standards of it's time (I think when the Jerk Offs at the Dub factory took a break from the daily diet of fortified wine and bologna and saw that the lead characters is mute, they let the Junior Level dubbers take over), and the filmmaking occasionally lapses into the slipshod, with appallingly poor use of camera filters, and some horrible, distracting shaky camera work.

Alex Cox, an enthusiastic cheerleader for the film, mentions that it might very well be the greatest Spaghetti Western of all time. Alex Cox is totally wrong, and while the film is certainly good, elevating it to the level of 'Once Upon A Time In The West', of 'The Good The Bad And The Ugly', to compare it with Leone is totally ridiculous. Don't believe him, his own attempt at a Spaghetti Western was 'Straight To Hell', so obviously his perception is warped. Believe me, I'd rent it if you haven't seen it, it's better then watching whatever is on television, you illiterate, uncultured, ignorant asshole. Fuck you.

Phil Honolulu, Renaissance Man (Blogger, Columnist, Musician)

So I bought a hundred dollar junk shop guitar the other day. I saw it in the window at some dusty Korean shop that mostly sells ugly little tables and lamps with garish shades. I just decided to buy it impulsively. Later on I went to a music store where the very condescending asshole guitar guy got me to purchase:

1. long cable
2. short cable
3. tuner
4. little amp
5. some beginner's guitar book where I can learn how to play very simple public domain compositions
6. a bunch of strings

I laughed in his pierced face when he suggested a buy a little red doohickey that goes over the tuning pegs, and the springish thing you can squeeze to make your fingers stronger, but I still walked out of there feeling like I had purchased more than necessary. I'd like to say I bought the guitar so I could learn some basic stuff, to get more insight when I ridicule the output of bands, but that would be a lie. I just bought it impulsively and because it looks fun. I got home, tuned the guitar, plugged it into the little amp and fiddling away when I the person under me started whacking on my floor, probably with the broomstick she rides to work. She came up and told me I was being too noisy and mentioned that our leases (which I filed away in a drawer and haven't looked at in years) specify no 'electric instruments', followed by her screaming at me. I shut the door, drove down to Radio Shack, and bought an adapter so I plug my little ipod headphones into the giant headphone jack on the amp. Then I resumed playing.

Playing guitar sucks. Your fingertips hurt, and even if you are just playing on one or two strings it's a pain in the ass. My chords sounds like shit in a sleeping bag and it takes me a minute or two of intense concentration to try and finger one correctly. I'd like to find the guy that invented the 'F Chord' and kick him in the ass. As I imagine normally occurs, I tend to muffle things moreso then playing then smoothly. I wasn't expecting to plug in and immediately sound like Comets On Fire, but nothing I have done sounds even vaguely musical. I also feel really self conscious sitting down by myself playing a guitar. Something about the entire enterprise seems more masturbatory then productive. Nothing about this made me walk away with any greater respect for musicians though, so don't start getting that idea.

And oh yeah? 'Louie Louie' isn't easy to play. It's very difficult.

You Want To Know A Zine That Sucks?

Razorcake. Just fucking terrible. I would go into more specific detail, but that would entail having to read it. No thank you.

Let's Make Fun Of The Stones For Being So Old

Yeah! It’ll be fun! Look at Mick, running around on stage, preening and prancing! At his advance age, he could really use a wheelchair, or at the very least, require a use of a walker. Be careful Pops, don’t snap a hip! Keith? Keith did a lot of drugs when he was younger, but he is old now. Hey Keith, why don’t you recommission your old sweater and hit Senior Tuesdays at the local multiplex? At Ron Wood’s age (old) he should be feeding pigeons in the local park and complaining about teenagers! Charlie Watts? More like Grandpa Watts!

Every time I hear some nitwit middle aged suburbanite pass wind through their massive guts and through their beef clogged windpipe to give the Stones guff for going on tour again, along with a few easy, token smart aleck quips for getting along in age but still charging along, I want to shit on the top of their heads. Whenever I see some young dipshit in hornrims and tightpants try to get a chuckle at The Stones’s expense, I want to ram a broken malt liquor bottle deep into the recesses of his brains. Listen Fella, cut The Stones some slack. Sure, I had to walk into a Best Buy to purchase the 'Forty Licks' dvd, but you see the fucking thing? The setlists? They did ‘Monkey Man’, for God’s sake! When the other lauded drummers of the age were in a contest to see how long they solo for, impressing an audience of longhaired burnouts, Charlie never added to his minimalism. When the trend of the age was seeing how many drums you could fit on a tortured rack and utilize during excessive theatrical drumming, Charlie occasionally utilized a rack tom before going back to his tried and true hi-hat, snare, and kick (and not hitting the later two at the same time). Keith still hasn’t succumbed to the allure of over the top guitar theatrics, and is still mostly just using his fucking index finger. Sure, I admit, up close Mick Jagger is probably a very unpleasant sight, a fearsome visage of crags patched by latest trend in plastic surgery - but have you seen Mick running around, putting on a show? I’m thirty, and I get severely winded walking uphill, while Mick runs around like an excited puppy. You can accuse the man of not trying to put on a show. Yeah, I didn’t see Mick’s last foray into the movies ‘The Man From Elysian Fields’, either but I know goddamned well it’s better then ‘Masked And Anonymous’ and ‘Greenfield’ put together.

Oh what, their clothes are funny? Yeah? What about these other goddamned bands I see running around? I don’t mean those big chart toppers, that goes without saying, no, even those small fry bands you hold near and dear to your heart. They are authentic, traversing the land in a tiny van for a handful of people and recording singles for tiny labels and helping the scene… Well asshole, where’d you get the sleeveless shirt? It come like that? Oh you just found that nicely distressed jacket with all those pins in your closet? The artfully ripped jeans? The composed tasseled wash of hair to give the carefully calculated illusion of casualness? What, your self image isn’t something you work at, fuckface? So if Mick wants to slap on a designer T-shirt, who the fuck are you to say anything?

Sure, the last couple of Stones records are, to put it kindly, no great shakes. But you hit a certain age, your youthful vigor and exuberance and desire to write good songs just wanes away. But the ‘The Storm’ is pretty good. Oh well. But, hey, what about those last couple Beatles albums, you know those ones in the early Nineties? They sucked. Oh wait, forgot, The Beatles broke up. The Stones didn’t. They are troopers. Hey, Beatles, even the goddamned Kinks managed to stay together, and they were genuinely mean, unpleasant people who were sheer torture to be around. Say what you will about McCartney, but he was probably a decent guy to sit around with, where as either of the Davies was a real fucking prick.

I just watched much of the Forty Licks DVD, and think the Stones are still great. The Stones are old enough to be Grandparents? You know what my Grandparents were did? They sat around not saying anything, staring at the television. When they did speak you would have to do your best to ignore it, because otherwise you ran the risk of getting caught up in a garbled web of bland, incomprehensible digressive speech where you couldn’t get a word in edgewise. While the Stones were becoming Grandparents, Charlie became a junkie and kicked it, while Ron became addicted to freebasing coke, Jagger cheated on his wife with Brazilian supermodels before weaseling his way out of his marriage, and Keith stole guitars from fans looking for an autograph. It seems kind of unfair to compare them, doesn’t it?

Guess What?

I don't feel like writing anything today.

Curious, do people just keep hitting 'Next Blog' until they find one, read it, and then give the person shit when they find something objectionable? That doesn't sound like much fun at all. Perhaps those people should write their own blogs, to see how difficult it is. That was a joke. I know it wasn't funny, but I wrote it down anyway, what are you going to do about it? Anyway, how is blogging supposed to work? I thought it was a free way to post stuff, a way to have a website without that Geocities bullshit or having to learn programming. Are you supposed to make friends with other bloggers and have links to their blogs? Are you supposed to have other people come and read your blog? Do people come and cruise these things out of some kinda quasi anthropological voyeurism, looking for people's diaries and private thoughts? Can you post anything? Can I put the manifesto for my hate group up on here? What about those security plans for the airport that I was selling to that guy? Are there some hardworking, bleary eyed, depressed drones from Blogger headquarters looking at shit like this right now? Alright, fuck it, my creative well is running very low today. Find something else to read.

Has Anyone Seen My Car Keys?

I can't find them anywhere.

Guess What I Am Going To Do, Right Now

Eat an entire pizza. Just try and stop me.

Hat's Off, And Even Your Fish Thing Seems To Work

I just got a promotional package featuring, among others I may write about later, The Aluminum Knot Eye 'Trunk Lurker' CD. I don't really have the time to go into it now (I'm at work), but I will say this; the second song 'Scales In The Tub', is a monster, I can recommend whole heartedly. I'm not totally familiar with the contents of the remainder of the disc yet, but the aforementioned song seems shorter on the art noise then the rest, but with enough dabbled in there for it to be very interesting. Sounding like vintage Horrors stomp, cross bred with Cramps thud, effortlessly dropping into a proto Hart Gledhill occasional Beefheart growl, the song crawls along with ugly tension. Three quarters of the way through, the instruments drop out, leaving the vocalist to do his lone Interior/Cave howl over a perfect, simple drum beat, before the song returns to it's drunken groove with impressive ease. Great song.

Further Explanation About My Conclusion Regarding Firemen

Like many absurdly macho activities (wrestling, football, the rodeo) something about being a Fireman just seems really gay to me. A bunch of guys that live in a house that cook for each other, whip each other with bath towels, lounge around in their underwear, and slide down a greased pole. This is when they aren't busy grabbing a big phallic hose shooting liquid or all sleeping in the same room. So yes, for all my former tormentors who talked about aspirations to be a fireman to 'save lives' and 'bang chicks after I saved them' in between throwing me into pineapple patches, dropping sand down the back of my pants, or covering me with surf wax, I just wanted to mention how gay your lifestyle is. Think about it.

The Gayest Activity You Can Indulge In Without Physically Placing Your Penis In Another Man (Not That There Is Anything Wrong With That, Thank You)

Being a fireman.

A Great Drummer I Forgot To Mention Earlier, If You Prefer John Bonham To Her, You Are Suffering From Severe Mental Retardation

Palmolive

My Personal Space

So, I joined Myspace a few weeks (or was it months?) ago, and didn't really do anything with it. Now I have a few friends. A few times I have simply perused profiles of people (if you must know, usually random young, pretty female people), and asked them to become my friends. I was amazed at how easy it was. I wasn't doing this out of any kind of lascivious purposes or because I am operating under the delusion that said young, pretty females are going to become so enraptured with my line of jive that they will traverse multiple states for a piece of my action (having said that, I wouldn't mind if that occurred), especially from someone that has such a (justified) low opinion of my own face as to not include it, but I was curious as to how choosey people were in picking their friends. Either not very, or I am just a charmer. I'm leaning towards the former.

If you'd like to add me, and risk scorn and derision amongst the web community, search under 'Phil Honolulu'. My current life goal is to try to date more, via Myspace, and I will let you know how it goes. Hopefully it will read like Penthouse 'Letters', but I imagine 'Hunger' would be a more apt comparison (just with more food).

I Hope It's You Dying In The Gutter Next Time

Why do people just stop when they hear a siren? How hard is it to pull over, asshole?

Jazzbo's Be Damned

Phil Honolulu's Five Favorite Drummers:

1. Charlie Watts
2. Al Jackson
3. Mo Tucker
4. Nick Knox
5. Earl Palmer

Maybe If I Do No Think About It, It Will Go Away

Went to a bar that an internet site voted as 'Best Place To Find A Date' last Saturday. Immediately felt uncomfortable when I arrived, had a difficult time even attempting to strike up a conversation, which was difficult anyway because all the patrons were in groups. Don't anyone ever go to a goddamn bar by themselves anymore? How come everyone is always in a fucking group? Does everyone make plans every fucking time they go eating? I never see anyone by themselves. So yeah, instead of just settling in a seat I just walked around the interior of the bar, up the steps, looked around the top, kind of pretended I was waiting for someone to arrive and feeling like everyone was looking at me, before going down the stairs and doing the same thing. Repeat. Wasn't able make conversation with anyone and drank too much. Nervousness accentuated my natural desire to drink, and general unshakeable doom/antsy/a lack of fruitful activities to indulge my hands in, led me to drinking more and more. I don't even remember how I got home. This is where it gets BAD: Sunday morning there was a dent in the front of my car. About six inches wide, vertical, if you were looking at my shitbox head on, it would be a little bit to the right of the front left wheel. My car is parked in a garage (so nobody could have bumped the front of my car therein). I skimmed the papers, and thankfully saw no reports of hit and run accidents.

I've lately been trying to get through Fats Domino's recordings, and as much as I like him and can respect his vast accomplishments, yadda yadda yadda - a little of his stuff goes a long way and it gets really repetitive after a few songs. I feel the same way about Smiley Lewis, who has his great stuff, and plenty of material that basically indistinguishable. I'm at work and too lazy to look it up on the internet, but his song 'Down Yonder We Go Ballin'', with it's opening Shave And A Haircut riff and jaunty hillbilly strumming over a beat so deliriously simple it's complicated is probably his masterpiece, and the most divergent sounding of all of his stuff. Yep.

Johnny Carson

R.I.P.

A Mediocre Book Review For A Mediocre Book, That Nobody Reading This Has Probably Read, And Rightfully So

EYEING THE FLASH by PETER FENTON

Reviewed by PHIL HONOLULU

It’s easy to see the attraction Conmen have on the American public. There is something undeniably alluring about men that rely on their wits and charisma to purloin money from people that didn’t deserve their giant bankrolls in the first place. When the nation turns on it’s television to see how a drug addict murdered the corner grocer for a spare change or a young man with a history of mental illness beat his a Grandmother to death with a tire iron before raping her lifeless carcass, to pine for the relative innocent of the con man is natural, even inevitable; and who among us wouldn’t want to live a dishonest, yet oddly honorable life of splendor and excitement? Yes, the Grifter often fancies himself a card carrying member of an honorable vocation, & an often repeated maxim in their line of work is ‘You can’t cheat an honest man’. Of course, that’s bullshit. It benefits you to steal from criminals the Greedy who do not have the benefit of being able to cry foul and go running to the police, but it is by no means the only thievery that takes place. Lowlife swindlers run real estate scams and will happily bilk the nice old Couple down the street out of their eating money, morally inferior slime will dupe people into giving up their credit card numbers via internet chicanery, the stupid are preyed on from all directions, and all in all, honest hard working people get bilked with far more regularity then greedy mustached Texas Millionaires who were just aching for it.

I remember when I got conned by a Carney. I was at my Aunt’s house on the mainland, as us Hawaiians called the great landmass that incorporates the majority of northern America, when I attended my first County Fair without adult supervision. Yours truly was a wet behind the ears innocent shitheel that didn’t know his cock from a curtain rod and I had some money burning a hole in the pocket of my shortpants. I walked, wide eyed down the midway, looking at girls I was too horrified to talk to and checking out the various games, seeking one that seemed inviting enough for me to try my luck at. A bored looking Carney half assed invited to a free throw at a game consisting of throwing a softball into a wicker basket. All I had to do was sink it without it bouncing out. Sold. He had me at free, I grasped the dirty softball, gently arced it into the resilient basket, and despite a slight bounce, it landed, and ricocheted around the inside without bouncing out. I won. Had I played for money, I would have won a prize, and furthermore I was far too athletically inept and mentally deficient to have ever won anything previously. For the first time in my life, I could taste my victory, and I wanted it. It was only a dollar a ball, and shit, for all intents and purposes, I had won once already. I paid the man a dollar, noticing how large his stack of bills he kept deep in his filthy apron was, and tried my luck. I threw the same perfect arc I had thrown before, and the ball bounced off the bottom and landed on the grass floor of his flashy booth. I was close, but not very. I tried twice more, at a dollar a throw, and kept failing. I decided to cut my losses. My adolescent mind rationalized it thusly: it may have been a lucky throw the first time, I must have distracted by the toothless drunken coot operating the game in addition to the live green folding money at stake, it all threw off my aim.

It wasn’t until later I realized that the dirty son of a bitch had switched balls on a ten year old, dooming him to failure. He happily took my money, probably to secure crack and/or prostitutes. I hope you enjoyed my three dollars, you bastard. Fuck you.

You’d think a book written by the same type of unethical scumbag that would not only willingly make a living by fucking ten year old kids out of their allowance, but do so with malicious glee, too say nothing of the routine outsmarting of rural shitkickers for a big portion of their government subsidy checks, would be a lot more interesting. Problem is, humorist Peter Fenton’s memoirs of a Teenage Carney, ‘Eyeing The Flash’ doesn’t go anywhere. The packaging was misleading, with no description on the back of the dust jacket, just a portion of prose describing the excitement of separate people from their money via the Carnival. It wasn’t written by some Carney that they had dug out of a free clinic after a ten year bout with the DT’s as I had hoped, or by some enterprising reporter who risked his personal sanity and a whole host of diseases by going on the road on a troop of Carnival folk. Nope, Peter Fenton is an already published humor writer and who forgot to be funny in his latest book. The 'true story' follows Peter, a scrawny former football player and adolescent math, as he manages to make the acquaintance of his vastly more interesting friend, Jackie. Jackie’s an offspring of generations of dubious Carney breeding that results in a natural born scam artist. The kid didn't have a chance, his Mom’s a monster, his brother’s an idiot, his Dad’s a dickhead, and Jackie’s pulling down thousands a week (in 1960’s money), before he is legally old enough to stick his dick in something over eighteen. As you can well imagine, Jackie isn’t the most trustworthy guy around, so Peter’s trepidation at throwing his lot in with Jackie is totally justified. But Peter isn’t especially trustworthy either, and the reader has no reason to suspect any experience he relates - which often sound like a mundane imagination trying to craft an interesting read than verbiage relating a true experience - as being God's honest truth. Peter’s homelife is no picnic (and whose is?) Dad is a pathetic drunk, his Mom’s a delusional nitwi, and he scrams from the homestead and becomes a Carney, gradually working his way up to the glamorous position of flat store operator under his friend's tutelage. However, this is only for a summer, before our Narrator goes on to college and a successful career working for a second rate tabloid paper.

Therein lies part of the problem: Fenton daintily dipped his big toe in sleaze, before going back to his comfy squarejohn life. There is an aspect of condescension to the book, that our high school age narrator who willingly went down this road is somehow better then the other scam artists. As for said other scam artists, what could be a great, colorful supporting batch of characters is, well mostly, kind of bland. We get a glimpse of it all, from the sad, untouchable drunk losers known as ‘Ride Boys’ to the successful hot shit well heeled Flat Store operators. But what could have been a fascinating rogue’s gallery features people that are not notable or fucked up, or interesting enough to be very memorable. The narrator isn’t especially appealing either, never going into the real mechanics or psychological aspect of being a professional lowlife. He's just in for his summer vacation before working for a shitty paper and putting out so-so books I regreat spending money that I could have used for buying beer on.

You want to read up on Carney culture? Hang on to your hat and dive into William Lindsay Greshem’s ‘Nightmare Alley’, which isn’t so much of a book as a solid punch to the solar plexus. Want to read about Con Men? Go with ‘The Yellow Kid’, Joe Weil instead. His book is back in print. You want a mediocre, sporadically amusing, reasonably entertaining book that is nothing to write home about? Go with ‘Eyeing The Flash’. But why would you want to go and do that?

I Am Not Going To Try To Provide Any Valuable Insights

A BAND I REALLY LIKE:

The Rolling Stones

A BAND I DO NOT LIKE AT ALL:

Korn

A DIRECTOR WHOSE WORK I CONSISTENTLY ENOY:

Don Siegel

A DIRECTOR WHOSE WORK I DO NOT LIKE AT ALL:

Brett Ratner

A WRITER I ENJOY:

H.L. Menken

A WRITER I DO NOT ENJOY:

Dean Koontz

AN ACTOR I LIKE:

Warren Oates

AN ACTOR I DO NOT LIKE:

Freddy Prinze Jr.

A TELEVISION PROGRAM I REALLY ENJOY:

The Twilight Zone

A TELEVISION PROGRAM I DO NOT ENJOY:

Friends

A PLAY I REALLY LIKE:

Rhinoceros

A PLAY I DO NOT LIKE:

Cats

AN AWARD THAT IS AN HONOR TO WIN:

Nobel Prize (Any)

AN AWARD THAT IS NOT AN HONOR TO WIN:

A Billboard Music Award (Any)

A CAR I WOULD CONSIDER PURCHASING:

Corvette Stingray

A CAR I WOULD NOT CONSIDER PURCHASING:

Toyota Scion

AN ALBUM I LIKE:

Ascension

AN ALBUM I DO NOT LIKE:

Jock Jams, Vol. 3

I Don't Feel Like Writing Today

A BRIAN ENO ALBUM I REALLY LIKE:

Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)

A BRIAN ENO ALBUM I DON'T LIKE VERY MUCH:

Another Green World

Should I Be Worried?

I've been getting something lately that has been occurring frequently. Under my left eye, some vein will start pumping, causing my lower eyelid to flutter. It's never happened to me before, but in the past two days it has been happening every half hour or so.

Is there something wrong with me? Is it a symptom of some bigger problem, or is it just some normal bodily function I was previously unaware of?

S.-A.-T.U.R.-D.A.Y. NIGHT!

Friday was an especially long day at the end of an especially long week. The especially late drive home was in especially dense traffic, and took and especially long time to get home. I was especially frustrated with no outlet, so I sat at home in front of the television and watched especially annoying Friday night programming, ready to leap out of my skin. I took an especially shitbucket walk down to the liquor store, past smiling couples and laughing groups of well scrubbed folks out for a night on the town, bought myself an especially cold case of beer, and walked back home. I started drinking my beer and it didn't seem to release any of my tension, and I was getting restless so I decided to walk down to an all night diner, where I bought myself a burger, scarfed it down, walked home and finished my case of beer. Saturday I slept in past one, then went down to a local pizza place and ate a pie while reading my book. I drove home and called Bob, whose wife, Nina answered the phone. 'You're Phil? Bob talks a lot about you.' I didn't know if that was bullshit - our interactions are so limited that there hasn't been enough social fodder exchanged to generate enough worthwhile material to mention to a spouse - but she sounded so sincere and chippy, just like Hubby with his blinding smile, that I believed her. Which isn't to say I liked her and looked forward to our dinner, but there you go. 'You're not a vegetarian, are you?' 'Fuck no!' I answered, then she paused and started giving me intensely detailed directions and I told her to just give me her address and I would look it up on the computer, she asked 'are you sure? it's difficult!' and I assured her that I would be okay. It's difficult? It's a goddamned HOUSE. On a goddamned STREET. In the same goddamn CITY. She was acting like Indiana Jones couldn't find it. I spent the remainder of the sunny afternoon reading, and looking at pornography on the internet. Eventually, the time for me to leave rolled around and I took a shower, dressed in some of my nicest duds, and looked up the address on Yahoo Maps. I've been fucked by the disgusting sludge at Map Quest before, so Phil is a Yahoo man. Yahoo gave me directions, which had a distressing amount of information, including many streets I was to be on for .1, and ,2 miles. I carefully folded up the directions are carried them to my car, and drove to the liquor store and bought a bottle of wine and a small bottle of vodka. I looked for the best deal, and I found a dusty bottle in a bin that looked fine and was drastically marked down. I paid for it, cleaned it off with my sleeve, drank the small vodka bottle, and drove toward their house. Finding their place was a world class pain in the ass, they were located up on a hill filled with switchbacks, one way streets, streets that stopped and continued blocks later, streets with the same name and different Ave, Blvd., Pl, St. suffixes, and to top it off, it was located in a neighborhood with no parking, and streets that were not wide enough to allow more then one car to pass at the same time. I immediately got lost and spent half an hour driving around not knowing where the fuck I was. I got sweaty and agitated and was considering calling the whole thing off and driving home (if I was lucky enough to find a way out of the nightmare, rather then having to spend the rest of eternity driving forlornly around in the hills), when I just happened to come across their street. Parking was another ordeal, and I parked a few blocks away and had to negotiate my way back. I arrived late and disheveled and short of breath, but their front door was open and I could hear inviting music inside. I walked in holding the wine. Bob said hello, profusely thanking me for the wine and shaking my hand. I met his wife, Nina, who was pretty, but had some weird eye thing going on where if you looked at her straight, both orbs seemed to be focusing in slightly opposing directions. It was distracting. Their home was small, but very tastefully decorated. A very pleasant home, they had been nice enough to take the time to set up a cheese and crackers spread, and they was a tin tub full of cold beers on ice. There was some wine that had already been opened, and they poured me a glass and gave me the grand tour. I was very impressed, the decor was all well done, with carefully placed bric a brac and framed prints, all making me more insecure about my apartment, which is a fucking horrible mess that isn't fit for human habitation. I started draining the expensive tasting wine and eating the cheese and crackers and drinking beers and the booze started getting on top of me, but it made the conversation much easier and I was feeling more comfortable - they did most of the talking, about Bob's transfer from different workplaces, and Nina's freelance work at home, they told me stories about Uncles, Aunts, close friends, siblings, successful nephews, and a Brother in Law that had just gotten out of jail after killing two people in a drunken car accident. I was glad I was rarely directly addressed, because when I did talk the I seemed to be missing a gear between my brain and my mouth, and my comments were stuttered and slurred from alcohol and general nervousness. I don't think it mattered, I wasn't a guest, I was an audience for their presentation of The Happy Couple Show. Eventually we got into my wine, and I saw Bob flinch when he took the first sip, but he gamely kept going. After his glass he went on to the beers, so I finished my bottle of wine. When the food was finished Bob & I retreated to the dining room table while Nina prepared the meal. It was a big hunk of roast beef, steam gently wafting on the side, and Bob carved it in front of me. It was great. They kept talking and I kept drinking, and they seemed to be filtered through fog and were always at least ten feet away, and I was always behind of their conversation by at least one sentence. I was dimly aware that I was chewing with my mouth wide open, and I didn't know if the horrified gazes on the part of the couple were alcohol induced paranoia, or legitimate. I had to get up to go to the bathroom, and when I got up I knocked over my chair, which crashed into some end table, which made a lamp fall over. I apologized profusely and offered to help clean up but my visit to the bathroom was getting urgent and the deep pangs of horror in my bowels were getting more insistent. I remember going into the bathroom, and the next thing I knew I was woken up by someone pounding on the bathroom door. I got up off the floor, not able to figure out if I had even managed to use the bathroom, and opened the door to Bob, who was flushed and angry looking. "I'VE BEEN POUNDING ON THIS DOOR FOR HALF A FUCKING HOUR!" he yelled, Nina screamed something, and then he screamed at her, and she screamed back to him. I tried to apologize but gibberish rather then intelligent defensive verbiage spilled out, so I started walking out while they yelled at each other. As soon as I got out the door, I heard it slam so hard that I heard a crash immediately after.

Then I couldn't find my car. I induced vomiting in some bushes and wandered around, my feet were heavy and not responding properly to my brain, I had a difficult time staying on the sidewalk, I was getting confused and lost my orientation and eventually became completely lost, verging on panic. I eventually made it back to Bob and Nina's house, where I was able to properly figure out the direction I arrived from, and made it to my car. I opened it, stuffed myself in the back seat, and fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up, got in the front seat, and still drunk (but not catastrophically so) drove home. I figured the only people on the road at that hour were drunks and teenagers up to no good, so if by chance I passed out and killed someone, the odds of me killing someone I would later feel guilty about were pretty low.

I woke up the next day with a horrible hangover. I tried to call Bob and Nina, but they didn't answer. I saw Bob at work today and he ignored me, which is fine by me.

I Am So Goddamned Hung Over Right Now, I Wish I Was Dead

Even typing is almost too much physical exertion. The usual soft pad of the keyboard has been replaced by a harsh, sharp industrial clang.

I had dinner last night at the Co Worker's house, and it was a disaster. I'll probably post about it later, but I am not sure. It was more of a boring disaster then the usual thrill a minute content over here at Letters Have No Arms. I will say this: I don't think I'm going to make an effort to every interact socially with anyone ever again, unless they are a prostitute, a liquor store clerk, are willing to send me some free records, or are buying me something on my wishlist (it's in my profile - and my birthday is coming up in a few months).

I'm going to resume laying down and blurring the boundary between life and death.

You're Talking To The Person Behind Me, Right?

We got a new guy at work, and he's a real happy asshole - nice to everybody, always smiling, waves when he see's you, exudes empathy, etc. Anyway, this fucking guy Invited me to his house to eat dinner with him and his wife this weekend, and I could 'bring a date'. I don't know if he was fucking with me that crack. I told him I have to check my schedule (my schedule is actually this, from now until I die, with the exception of work, every single day is free). Although the guy is giving me a grade a case of the heebie jeebies being so nice to me for no real reason, and usually the though of eating with a stranger and his wife gives me vivid nightmares, getting to demolish a homecooked meal instead of the swill I normally ingest might be nice. I just don't know what I am going to do.

I drank eight of those surgery Starbuck's cold prepackaged mocha bullshit coffee things, and now I feel like I have a horrible disease.

My Boss Just Yelled At Me

For no reason, I was just in the copy room, copying. He must have been really angry about something, because I heard him screaming at other employees. When I say screaming, I mean it, just forcing as much volume out as he was able. I poked my head out to see what was going on and he told me to 'get my worthless fat loser ass back in the fucking copy room' before he fired me. So I did just that, before coming out here to post. What's his fucking problem?

I've Got A Wishlist Now

You can look at it in my profile.

My Opinion Is Worth Fifty An Hour, I Will Setup Paypal Soon And Will Be Expecting Some Money

So, a few days ago I was at the Big & Tall, buying myself a few new pairs of pants. Workplace garbage, dresscode changed, my occasional forays into donning black, grey, or if I was feeling especially rockstaresque, navy blue slacks is no longer allowed. Strictly khaki once I past through the hallowed doors, otherwise I get on the receiving end of all manner of bullshit. I only own one pair of khaki's, and I'll wear them a few times without washing, but they smell something horrible. I was walking into the Big & Tall to buy a few pairs of the cheapest tan pants they have, when a disturbingly attractive young female with a clipboard stopped me. She asked me if I played online poker. I said I did. It is a lie. I do not. I have been ignoring poker's recent increased popularity, but I thought talking to the girl with the clipboard would be good for me. She asked me where I played. Poker.com, I said. You mean partypoker.com?, she asked, eye's twinkling. Yes, I answered. I play poker at party poker.com. I play constantly. Yes, I play for money (what kind of asshole plays poker, for no money?). In truth, I don't play and I am sure as shit not going to start, because I just don't fucking care. I read a recent article, where a writer compared poker to chess, in the sheer mental power and numerous subtleties required to successfully become a good player. Let me say this, anyone that compares poker to chess is a nitwit. Chess is a mental bullet train, poker is one of those old fashioned self propelled train carts Buster Keaton used. To analogize, I have reading numerous articles on pornography, where the writer will make the dubious claim (backed with no empirical evidence) that it is often couples purchasing pornography nowadays. Sure, whatever makes you sleep at night. I often see couples frequenting grim industrial parks, with fresh new copies of 'Extreme Anal Atrocities Vol. 38, The Dirtiest' in their hands, and smiles on their faces. In fact, at the last wedding I attended, the couple was registered at 'Ray's Adult Video Palace', and my copy of 'All Of My Holes, Special 4 Hour VHS Edition', was very much appreciated, as were the containers of Amyl Nitrate, handcuffs, and 'Stick It In My Ass' I gave to my Parents for Christmas. It's the new thing, in fact, at swank dinner parties nowadays, after the salmon is polished off and they are into the third bottle of wine, a copy of 'Massive Cocks And Huge Tits, Volume 23' is slipped into the DVD player and discussed over a genteel post dinner coffee. As for all the lonely men with poor posture that will never look anyone in the eye? They are at home playing poker online. Anyway, yeah, online Poker is loser's racket, and all that old game, respected gambling tradition jive is bullshit that I refuse to indulge in, even if many of the players could easily get beaten in tic tac toe by a mentally handicapped toddler, and someone with more then one marble rattling in his skullbox could clean up. So she asked me how often I played poker. Five times a week, I smiled. She smiled and made notations on her clipboard, and asked me if I would be willing to attend a focus group on Thursday night, one hundred dollars for two hours of my time. Yes, I would.

I had to call a number the next day and got directions, and thankfully the session started late enough where I would have no problem making it. I arrived fifteen minutes early with a book in a florescent lit, expensive looking advertising agency. They had Quiznos out for us. For those of you who currently live in a Country whose main export is not homonogization, you might not be familiar with the Quiznos chain. To stand out amongst other lackluster sandwich franchises, their novelty is toasting the bun, thinking that the browned edges will distract you from the mediocrity of their disgusting, semi-edible food. So, a tray of cold Quiznos was sitting out, untoasted. It was horrible, but I ate a few various halves anyway, and they all tasted the same. I looked at the other middle aged dipshits also attending the focus group, and immediately regretted my decision. Everyone except me had some article of Sports Team Affiliation on. They were talking amongst themselves. Not a single thing interesting or worthwhile was exchanged. They complained about their wives, made snide comments about the Female Secretary when she wasn't around, and talked as if they were authorities in all things. Eventually our Moderator, some blonde dipshit, came out and invited us into the conference room, which had a projection screen on one side and a mirror on the other. He explained that their were people behind the mirror observing our conversation. We had to introduce ourselves and explain how often we played video poker, and weather we did it for money or not. I repeated my earlier lie. Their were eight of us, and three had never played for money, but still play often. The Moderator, who was very good at his job, shifted to the topics he wanted to discuss with ease, and never registered the disgust he must have felt at listening to these idiot's opinions. Once they began talking about 'Security' of various poker websites, I nearly drowned in the deluge of bullshit. Everyone was a frightened little girl about the prospect of Identity theft, thinking that there are actually people out there who would be reduced to stealing these asshole's identities. Everyone tried to bend the conversational protocol into a story about someone they knew who, through no fault of their own, got involved in a giant Orwellian nightmare of Identity theft, like a grim Noir film. First off, the initial story was neither interesting nor informative, so why did everyone have to chime in with their own? How do these people function? The conversation in general made me want to start stabbing everyone in the room, you can tell these schlubs are in menial positions where nobody in their right mind would ever listen to their opinion if they didn't have too, so they took a chance at having people who were soliciting their opinion and ran with it, talking about themselves, try to appear witty, and remind people of past accomplishments and current possessions. The Moderator was able to keep it moving along nicely. When The Moderator asked us if we desire a 'Premium Poker Site' a dickhead actually said: I spend an extra one hundred dollars for my NFL Jerseys, because I know it is the same ones the players have been wearing, THAT'S PREMIUM. Banging his hand on the table to empathize his point. I asked the guy next to me, if buying used NFL jerseys was like buying soiled schoolgirl panties for the middle age closet homo set, and he just stared at me. Said jersey purchaser was the biggest cynic/asshole in the room, which is rare for a room that contains myself, and complained about everything, and when the site was revealed, where various Professional Poker Players are somehow affiliated, and will offer advice, and the asshole went into a five minute tirade about how little these Professional Poker Players are actually going to help you, they are just going to take their money offered for their image. Well, no shit. I asked him, You just mentioned buying NFL Jerseys, but you go into a hissy fit when it is revealed that Poker Players are going to be affiliated, what's the fucking difference? Everyone looked at me, and the Moderator explained (too patiently) that we were not supposed to ask each other questions. They ended up showing us various poker site designs and asking us how we rated them according to various criteria, and I had to listen to morons try to explain how one aesthetic design seemed 'more secure' then others. I eventually zoned out completely by staring at the ceiling, until directly addressed, which eventually stopped happening all together. Loudmouth cynic whose opinions were all uniformly negative about the design, the concepts, and anything having to do with what the Moderator asked was eventually asked to leave the room, and I saw him walking by himself outside to his dismal little car. Eventually, thankfully, the forum finished and I walked outside at and the remaining sandwich halves and got my envelope with one hundred dollars. A few of the guys were asking each other if they wanted to go out for drinks, much merriment involving avoiding wives was exchanged, and they all took off to some local sports bar. Nobody invited me, but I wouldn't have gone. I already spent my hundred dollars, on booze.

Take Heed

Common phrases used in contemporary criticism, and the actual meaning:

For music:

"Sounds like the Stooges/MC5"
Sounds like the Hellacopters.

"Sounds like the Stones/New York Dolls"
Sounds like a bar band.

"Sounds like the Germs/Electric Eels"
Does not sound like the Germs or The Electric Eels.

"Uncompromising"
Pretentious.

"Hilarious"
Stupid.

"Kraut Rock Influenced"
Wanky.

"Classic"
Slightly better then some of the other records released this month.

"Maintaining their credibility"
They are getting old and useless.

"Mellow"
Boring.

For movies:

"Existential"
I don't know what I am talking about, but I think using big fancy words will make me look smart and my readers can't tell the difference anyway, can I have my check please?

"Noir"
Another lousy modern crime movie.

"Witty"
Obvious.

"Quirky"
Incapable of sustaining a consistent tone.

"Uncompromising"
Pretentious.

"Not since 'The Graduate'"
Not since that other movie last year that also got compared to 'The Graduate'.

"David Lynchian"
Contains barely perceptible, slightly surreal elements.

"A Young Marlon Brando"
A drug addled Actor with a career doomed to failure.

"Good sound design"
I still need a few more words to make my minimum.

"Improvasational abilty"
Able to repeat the same phrase with minor variations in tone of voice.

"A Young Meryl Streep"
Not as attractive as the others in the cast.

"Personal"
Self indulgent.

For books:

"Well researched"
Poorly written.

"Savage"
Frequent profanity.

"Brilliant"
Possibly better then average.

"Genius Author"
Overpraised, overrated author.

"Uncompromising"
Pretentious.

"Conservative"
Hopelessly out of touch.

"Liberal"
Clueless Hippy.

"Southern"
Closet racist.

"Bukowski influenced"
It sucks.

The Other Roger Miller

First off, let me say that I am in no way a definitive authority on Mission Of Burma. Let me explain why, I bought the reissue of 'VS.' a few years ago, despite being unimpressed by both 'Academy Fight Song' and 'That's When I Reach For My Revolver' and I found it so bland I never pursued any more of their recordings. I just don't get it. I tried. I strained. I listened patiently. I tore off my outer ear and placed my naked eardrum on the speaker cone in a desperate effort to decipher whatever arcane minutia that appealed to people, and it didn't work. I couldn't lie to myself anymore, I just don't like Mission Of Burma, and cannot for the life me understand why people do. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that they suck. 'Secrets' meanders around pointlessly for about two minutes until Roger Miller finally decides to sing; and when he does, it just isn't worth it. He sounds like David Byrne after one primal scream therapy session and the shoddy backup vocals sink it. I find the production flat, the guitar sound unmemorable, and the melodies uninteresting. Don't try to sell me on their tape manipulation bullshit either, fella, 'cause I ain't buying. Chrome did the same with much more finesse and menace years before, and on 'VS.' I can't figure out what this Martin Swope guy is doing. Sure, subtlety has it's place, but when you specifically employ someone for 'Tape Manipulations, Loops, and Percussion', I want hear what the fuck the guy is manipulating, looping, and pounding. Where is this incredible, unrestrained feedback I keep hearing about? Okay 'Fun World' starts of great, like Greg Ginn trying to play Burlison, but then all that unresolved tension fizzles out and drifts into the kind of extended instrumental passage that was great on '30 Seconds Over Tokyo' but falls apart without the strong bookends, and the shitbucket chorus doesn't help any. And for the love of a God I do not believe in, let me never hear 'Einstein's Day' again.

Don't Go Girl Crazy

I just don't understand the Dictators. It all sounds great on paper, various lowbrow wrestling fans (with the writing pedigree, no less) playing unpretentious proto punk. Sign me up. But, how come when I listen to it, it's just boring goddamned hard rock? 'Go Girl Crazy' is boring, overrated record. Yeah, I get it, nyuck, nyuck, nyuck they covered 'I Got You Babe', really funny, what, you want a fucking medal? 'Teengenerate' has some of the worst lyrics I've ever had the deep displeasure of coming across. And yeah, thanks, I understand the concept of someone intentionally being dumb and something being stupid in a smart way, but The Dictators are too far gone on the wrong side of those particular lines. What was so novel about doing a third rate Who ripoff in the first place? Yeah, fine I'll grant you that '(I Live For) Cars And Girls' isn't a bad song, but it's nothing that the Flamin' Groovies hadn't done a hundred times better in the first place.

And Christ, don't get me started on 'Bloodbrothers', what a lousy fucking record that is.

Tyrannosaurus Rex 'A Beard Of Stars', And Others

My apartment manager, a nitwit, misplaced my first (and only) promo shipment I have received, and he promised to dig through the supply closet and find it sometime this week. Since the primary reaction I have garnered with my tastes is disgust, I think the prospect of me receiving more promotional recordings is at best, limited. So, until the manager emerges from his hovel with my package, I thought I would write about a thirty five year old record that anyone reading this has a pretty fair idea if they'd enjoy or not.

I'm a big T.Rex fan, but I have never had the slightest affinity for the Tyrannosaurus Rex recordings. T.Rex's ill advised, thankfully occasional, forays into musical minimalism usually resulted in his least interesting shit. Needless to say, the thought of one of Bolan's half assed, seemingly unfinished songs on a lone acoustic guitar with bongo accompaniment didn't appeal to me in the least. Anyway, I was reading Dave Lang's excellent blog (www.manwithoutshame.blogspot.com - and may I note I have never in anyway communicated or corresponded with Dave, and know nothing of the man save for his writing) and he recommended 'A Beard Of Stars'. Even though Lang's tastes are far more broad then mine (he expresses fondness for bands like Magma, who I am not a fan of, and various hardcore groups that bore me to tears) his description of the record as including some 'screamers', made me pencil in a mental note to purchase the record. One impulsive day I picked up the four Tyrannosaurus Rex CD reissues, and listening to them in my car on the way home I immediately began regretting my purchase. Sure, it's interesting, more or less harmless, and offers insight into what Bolan would eventually become, blah blah blah. Nevertheless, those first two records test my patience and make my skip finger itch something fierce. A notable exception off the debut is the bizarre, 'Strange Orchestra'. Beginning in odd time, like a Scott Dunbar outtake, before shifting into in dazzling stream of incomprehensible gibberish and grunting before ending out of nowhere. It's a pretty unsettling track, and one of the few that have stood out on the unfortunately frequent occasions when I have nothing better to do then test my patience.

If I was going to enjoy any of the records, it was going to be 'A Beard Of Stars', Bolan's guitar worked had improved, but he was still not entertaining delusions of being a virtuoso, Took had departed and longtime collaborator Mickey Finn had been brought in, and the transitional period before Bolan dropped the 'yrannosaurus' and went into full electric lushness, was most likely to yield some interestin' listenin'.

So yeah, Phil, what's it sound like? Well, I'll tell you; it sounds like, predictably enough, some of the lesser T.Rex tracks off of their first couple records. Lesser T.Rex tracks are still a whole lot better then most people's A-Sides. Even though there aren't any revelations to be found here, the welcome elements are far more prevalent. The often comped 'Fist Heart Mighty Dawn Dart' and the great 'Elemental Child' (with it's stunning, menacing guitar coda) are basically indistinguishable from T.Rex, and the arresting electric solo on 'Pavilions of the Sun' is a nice dose of ugly rockabilly. The record grooves like T.Rex instead of lurching around awkwardly like the more ungainly Tyrannosaurus counterpart.

This May Take A Few Minutes, If You Have A Large Blog

So, ate out the other night, by myself on a Saturday. Since I have had to cut down my record purchasing drastically, I've been learning to get comfortably adjusted to it, to not buying new music and have been gradually cutting down on impulsive purchases. So, I upon checking my pitiful balance, I noticed a little more money than usual and decided to treat myself to a decent meal, rather then the poorly cooked sludge I prepare myself of the horribly unhealthy cheap swill prepared by an embittered mistreated immigrant I usually subsist on. I put on a clean shirt, didn't wear a belt, and called a newer restaurant that has been garnering good reviews from the pretentious local food critics. I made reservations for one (I could feel the Headwaiters' raised eyebrow of barely concealed scorn/pity through the phone line) and drove across town, anticipating gastrointestinal glory.

Waiter sat me in a prime spot by the window, must of figured my corpulent exterior hid the heart of bona fide gourmand, rather then someone almost completely ignorant of the niceties of upscale culinary experience. I ate all the french bread that was put in front of me, and all the french bread continually replaced by a rattled looking Busboy. The menu was all over the place, what foot critics normally deem as 'whimsical', but I would describe more accurately as 'thematically inconsistent'. I ordered some pot stickers as an appetizer, since they were the only item offered where the Chef didn't include some bizarre ingredient that felt out of place in what I presumed was an effort to rope in the pseudo sophisticates that patronize such establishments. As for me entree, I settled on some kind of venison, just because I had recently been thinking about Bambi.

So, yeah, I mulched down my pot stickers, had been drinking pretty heroic levels of their cheapest red wine, when a homeless guy settled right into the window in front of me. The restaurant didn't have the normal flat window that reached to the sidewalk, but instead a cement outcropping, with the window settled inside, making for a concrete bench of sorts before the drop out to the sidewalk. A homeless guy, complete with cart, sat on the cement step and smoked. I turned and looked at the various diners, all of whom seemed like assholes (and how come people don't eat by themselves? Isn't the act of putting food in one's mouth by it's very nature an activity not conducive to company?), and most of whom were couples. Eventually looking at the people put me in danger of losing my appetite, so I turned my attention to the homeless guy. He was now sleeping, directly in my window, in fact, a large portion of his back was pressed against the glass. When I was a kid I was once impressed seeing a some kind of creature sleeping, it's fur pressed against the glass at the Honolulu Zoo. It was the same thing again, the concrete frame of the restaurant's fashionable modern exterior framing a homeless person perfectly, with the outside as a appropriate backdrop. I'm ashamed to say it did distract from my dining experience, and as much as would like to put on the face of a tolerant, open minded individual, I didn't like it in the least but didn't want to ask the Waiter to chase him away. Eventually the homeless guy turned around and stared at me while I ate my venison (it was great), followed by him emptily staring at me eating my mud pie (also great), before he fell asleep again, his eyes closed and his forehead resting on the glass. I tipped 20%, and drove back home.

Bests Of 2004

In no way definitive or accurate, filled with oversights as well as omissions, and crippled by a lack of serious research:

BEST EP OF THE YEAR:
The Rebel 'Exciting New Venue For Soccer And The Execution Of Women'
On a different plane than everything else. Looses points for not having 'Spiderman In The Flesh' as disturbing as it is performed live, but still head a shoulders above everything else.
Runner Up: The Piranhas 'Pisces Clangor'
Takes some getting used to, but worth it. Gets bonus points for provoking people enough to give me angry comments.
BEST LEAD OFF TRACK OF THE YEAR:
Black Lips 'M.I.A.'
Bass elbows it's way in over the skittering guitar riff and the song careens around drunkenly - the best song of the Black Lips's career.
Runner up: The Hunches 'Where Am I'
Relentless drums, the guitars settles into a groove, the bass gradually layer themselves in, the song pauses, then explodes.
BEST NEW SONG FROM A BAND WHOSE PREVIOUS MATERIAL I FOUND TO BE REALLY BORING, IF NOT OUTRIGHT STUPID:
Liars 'There's Always Room On The Broom'
I didn't like their yawnsnore post punk Brooklyn asshole hipster debut, but I did like their almost phenomenally unlistenable followup, especially this song. Video game keyboards and ominous lyrics.
BEST REISSUE:
DNA on DNA
Great having (almost all) of that racket in one place.
Runner Up: Flesh Eaters 'No Questions Asked'
Cheers to Atavistic.
BEST SINGLE:
A-Frames 'Crutches'
Worth it all for the soaring guitar break, followed by the simple but incredible drum solo, before rocketing back into a wonderful riff.
MOST QUESTIONABLE DECISION:
Not using any of (often excellent) bonus CD Intelligence tracks from Narnack's reissue on the Intelligence's fine debut CD, 'Boredom And Terror'.
BEST SONGWRITING ON A RECORD WHOSE ORIGINALS ARE INDISTINGUISHABLE IN QUALITY FROM OFFERINGS FROM SOME OF THE BEST SONGWRITERS OF ALL TIME.:
Reigning Sound 'Too Much Guitar'
BEST COMP:
SS Record's 'Babyhead' Compilation
All sorts of seemingly disparate outfits that manage to form a seamless, cohesive LP without any filler. Kudo's.
BEST RECORDS OF THE YEAR:
(Tie)
The Hunches 'Hobo Sunrise'
The Reigning Sound 'Too Much Guitar'
I like 'em both, but for different reasons.

A Dream I Had Recently

It was at a picnic, big family reunion, something like that. Running on peculiar dream logic, so particulars didn't matter. Friend from high school dragged me along, whatever the event was, it was more his deal and I was just along for the ride. We immediately split up and I forget about him and go wandering around. Attendee's (and there were hundreds) dressed up extremely nice. Women have dainty umbrellas and the old fashioned dresses that made them look like bumper cars covered in curtains. Men have black tuxes or suits with tails, top hats, and canes. I just glided along the ground in smooth dream movement. Arced over gradual, sloping green hills. Everywhere I looked the people were artfully distributed across the landscape. Wasn't enjoying it, or disliking it. Merely an observer, and nobody noticed me. Heard: distant gunshots. Didn't seem alarming or incongruous. Followed the cracking gunshots over to a small fenced pen, with bleachers filled with people on either side, of the knee high fence, softly clapping. One person in the middle of the pen, holding an old fashioned hunting shotgun. In front of him (all were facing me) were two dogs, looked like golden retrievers. The retrievers were a foot or two away from the shotgun toting guy, backs to him, laying down. All legs facing the same way, heads raised up, staring straight forward. Shotgun toting man lowered his gun, shot one dog in the back, recoil drove the barrel upwards, followed by him lowering it on the other dog and shooting it. Dog let out a pitiful yelp before it expired. Spectators let out polite applause. I looked around, behind left bleachers (both bleachers: decorated in ribbons) was a pen of hundreds of happy golden retrievers, panting and smiling and wagging their tails. I walk closer to the shooting pen, notice dozens of dog carcasses. I am appalled. Face down shotgun toting man, spectators on either side. I scream unspeakable obscenities. I wait to be ejected from the premises or shot. Know, in dream universe where all seems very plausible, it is very likely my infraction will bother the mannered attendees to the point where homicide would be the only solution. Very few notice, those that do just give me a little look before going back to staring at the pen. Some have opera glasses. I walk back to the dog storage area. See a man I can immediately assume is the dog keeper, dressed in khaki coveralls (still elegantly pressed, but not the gala black tie wear of everyone else). I start talking to him. He says he actually triggers the shotgun with a remote switch, and that people aren't clapping because of the dogs being shot. Rather, the person what the person with the gun is trying to do is suitably demonstrate how upset he is with the act of having to kill a dog, and judges are grading him on his acting ability. It is a new sport, he explains, taken up by dog lovers. The Man I just saw was pretty good, he explains, he pretends he is shooting his childhood dog (the dog afterwards in a bonus round) and has gained quite a following. Now I realize I have to let the dogs go. I wander away from the Dog Keeper who actually seems like a very nice guy, and is the only person at this picnic that has acknowledged me personally, and took the time to patiently explain what was going on. I like dogs, at these golden retrievers are so absurdly cute, (remind me of the childhood dog, Hokule) and the entire charade seems so inhuman that I have to do something. Instinctively know that if I let the dogs go, there probably are not going to go running away over the hills and the horizon for safety, but will likely stay with the people who are going to kill them, happy with their tails wagging. I have to try anyway. Fear that I will get shot with the shotgun, or beaten to death by the spectators. Decide to try anyway. In the same way that you realize when the hero of a movie steps into the elevator with a Doctor he will be able to administer a non fatal easy beating and walk out wearing the Doctor's getup, I am physically confident I will be able to beat the Dog Keeper. Dream logic again: know I will have no problem finding nice big rock or thick, baseball bat equivalent branch to sneak up behind the Dog Keeper and beat him with. Know that after I beat him, and he is on the ground in a bloody heap, I will grind my heel into his trigger finger and break it, as a dog shooting penalty, then, go to release the dogs. Start approaching the Dog Keeper from behind. Dog Keeper has no idea what is going on, and everything looks like it going to work. Fixated on task at hand, walking with the proverbial grim determination, everything focuses and ready when my alarm clock goes off. Typical waking disorientation results. Felt vaguely unsettled all day. Dunno how to interpret this one, and don't think I want to try. Personal psychoanalysis and reflection rarely brings me any insights, and those that I come up with I probably would not like to reflect on.

Wow, That's A New One

I elicited some angry comments for liking something this time. Strange. You people are fucked.

Anyway, someone named Anonymous, regarding The Piranhas, said:

[...The Piranhas still blow. Who the fuck do they think they are? The William S. Burroughs' of avant-punk fucking rock? The cut and paste technique was boring in print when Billy Boy was trying to pull it off in the first place. So what the fuck makes anyone think it's going to work for music? Dumb fuck art students. Oooh, you guys are so far out. Their shit albums don't even fucking matter, and none of them are fit to even load in Timmy Vulgar's equipment. If I wanted painful listening, I'll refer to Harry Pussy or someone else that is at least rewarding and honest. Piranhas records are nothing but empty poses and fruitless attempts to convince themselves they are relevant. News fucking flash: they aren't. Never were. And anyone who is falling for their starving artists making music line of crap is a bigger fool than that mongoloid man-child the Piranhas call a front-man.]

Hey I'm not a fan of Burrough's either, except Edgar Rice. I rarely care that much about lyrical content (and I try my damnedest not to read a lyric sheet, unless I'm looking to make someone look stupid) so the cut and paste doesn't bother me. As for someone being 'rewarding and honest', uh, I don't find The Piranhas to be unrewarding and dishonest. As for their 'relevancy', they managed to get under this fella's skin, which is good enough for me. I never made any starving artists type comments, so I don't know if the reader is referring to yours truly as a 'bigger fool than the mongoloid man-child', but if he is, it's refreshing to be insulted by someone with a degree of literacy. As for: "The cut and paste technique was boring in print when Billy Boy was trying to pull it off in the first place. So what the fuck makes anyone think it's going to work for music?" - that is wrong. People cut and paste in music all the goddamn time. Both in terms of lyrical content and in the actual music.

Anonymous Pt. II made the following thoughtful comment:

[Oh great, another fucking moron. There's good art (say, The Fall, or Chrome, or Swell Maps) and then there's the bad art for the sake of art barrel scrapings that the Piranhas put out. OOOh, they're so challenging to listen to. Man, they're really doing something innovative. Wow. The sounds of Greg Lowery taking a dump has more artistic merit than 'Piscis Clangor', which is probably the absolute height of self-impressed drivel posing as dangerous and experimental music ever. And I hate the Zodiac Killers. The Piranhas are the poster boys for all you faggots out there who now think they are too cool for garage-punk and have moved on to something 'meaningful' and 'exciting'. Retards.]

First off, it's not my place to imagine the sonic artistry resulting from the cacophony of Greg Lowery taking a dump. Second, this guy's intellectual engine has limited horsepower if he is making a serious claim that 'Piscis Clangor' is 'probably the absolute height of self-impressed drivel posing as dangerous and experimental music ever'. How much 'experimental' music is this guy listening to? Even if he don't like The Piranhas, the field of experimental bands is a a tough one to get through, and trust me on this, there are far worse 'experimental bands'.

Piranhas Just Got Better

The Piranhas? The general consensus amongst those who indugle their noodles, flap their gums and peck at their keyboards about such topics is that they came out of the gate strong with some dynamite singles and a a well regarded first record, before getting their heads stuck up their own asses. 'Sure The Piranhas are still a great live band, but that last record was no great shakes, I mean, c'mon, it's just like weird noise! It's not as excellent as my [insert mediocre band here, say The Fuctional Blackouts, or someone like that] LP! Now that's a recording!' Listen: I don't indulge in contradictory rhetoric just for shits and giggles, but if you ask me (and by reading this, you are), the general consensus is wrong. For those with a sense of adventure lodged deep in the earhole, The Piranhas surpassed their first recordings and mutated into something unique.

I don't know how they found the time between murdering rats and frightning showgoers to shitcan much of their momentum and goodwill among the fickle scenesters hip to the Piranhas' recordings. The release of 'Erotic Grit Movies', a strange, almost inaccessible record that can be disorienting to listen to, managed to loose them some listeners. It was followed by the even weirder (and vinyl only) 'Pisces Clangor', which did little to reclaim those previously put off by pervasive strangeness. Their loss.

Take 'Blinking Lights' from Erotic Grit; atmospheric intro, verses alternating between portions primed for eruption and portions that are oddly catchy, shooting off into a bridge I can best describe as Bowie covering Phillip Glass, before lurching into a closing passage that sounds like (in the best possible way) they made it up as they went along, before the songs comes sputtering to a stop, in perfect time. You want something creative? Different? Challenging? The Piranhas went from writing pretty catchy (though bent) punk numbers to taking traditional 'rock' songwriting and song structures and shiting all over them. A great band, and it's too bad they're gone.

Some More Pointless Feuding Over The Internet With No Clear Result

I just copied the text verbatim from the comments box, my initial words are in brackets, the responses I got are in parentheticals. My current comments are unmolested.

[--I guess punk rock fanship is okay, as long as you don't express negative criticism of bands that aren't really popular, and are in band.]

(No, it's not okay. Yay-band or nay-band. It's fucking boring. You're fucking boring. I never said we were "immune to criticism." I simply said there's no hype going on here. Some people like us, some people don't. What do you care?)

Seems hung up on the whole 'hype' thing here, I simply said 'Grade C hype', which he's manage to extrapolate. Look: Functional Blackout's label's website has a comment from John Peel, arguably the most important DJ of all time, with 'Functional Blackouts may have themselves a bit of a classic here', alongside many other glowing (i.e. wrong) reviews, that sounds like hype to me.

[Okay, if we suck so bad, and if the Mistreaters and Taxi suck so goddamn bad, start your own band. It's easy. It just takes a little bit of courage. Do you have a little bit of courage?]

No, but I am able to recognize when it's probably best that I am not in a band.

(--What, and now I have to be in a fucking band just to state my opinion?)

[Yes. Write some songs. Find people to play music with. Book some shows. Make an effort. That's the essence of punk rock. Trying.]

I think the 'essence of punk rock' is up to interpretation.

[It's not whining about the state of music in a jiveass blog. We know it sucks. Turn on the radio. Yeah. It's bad. Change it. It's active vs. passive, and now you're in the latter camp. Then, I would actually be interested in what you have to say. Then, since you're now doing something besides complaining, you'd be forced to actually know what it's like, and you might have to be supportive in a constructive, mutually beneficial sort of way, thus advancing the world instead of miring in its self-evident muck.]

What is this guy, a hippy? Maybe at the next show I attend I can get everyone to hold hands and sing the praises of everyone, just because the made a fucking effort? Who gives a shit? Merit counts, not effort. I wasn't even especially mean to the Functional Blackouts. I don't mind them, I just find them boring. If they come out with another record, I'll probably give it a listen. No matter how whiny and defensive and incapable of receiving criticism some of the members are.

[No, I don't want a gold star for my efforts. I don't want universal acclaim. I do the things I do to find friends and allies who share my interests. This is small potatoes, and there are always room for new bands. All I want is for you to do something interesting, musically speaking. That's your challenge. Respond to this not through your shit talkity talk talk, but by starting your own band and showing us peasants how it's done. --BC]

[If you can do better, yeah, I would listen and actually care about your opinions. Otherwise, in the punk rock world, they're invalid, impotent, and as mentally masturbatory as a suburban housewife's subscription to People Magazine.]

I don't understand either argument. If my 'opinions' (which are, after all, just opinions) are so invalid, impotent, and as mentally masturbatory as he tells me they are, then how come it got him so angry?

Not Just Chicken Kabobs & Sex Tourism, And Anyone Who Disagrees Is Apparently Wrong, And An Asshole

I'm pretty burnt out on 60's punk. A solid decade of picking up compilations that very drastically in quality have left me pretty cold to anything recent reissues. Occasionally, a real gem will be unearthed (Paul Bearer and His Hearsemen's 'I've Been Thinking' and Michael Yonkers well deserved recent critical accolades both spring to mind), but there are many other things I'd rather catch up on listening to rather then the often stale 60's punk compilations. Unless a record comes along that has been highly lauded, or recommended by a trusted source (like the consistenst, but overall rather forgettable 'Quagmire' series), I've got other places to spend my dollar. However, the recent 'Thai Beat A Go-Go' caught my eye. I don't know shit about Thai music, and it sounded intriguing.

Far more rocking then the mellow 'Cambodia Rocks' series, but with a similar vibe of way-out, wonderfully underproduced purity, it's an interesting record. Starting off with the one two punch of Johnny's Guitar's relentless instrumental 'Kratae', think of The Gories version of 'Ichiban' reworked as a 'Las Vegas Grind' track, followed by Payom Moogda's reworking of 'What'd I Say' (as 'Tamai Dern Sae', translating to 'Why Do You Walk Like A Drunkard'), combining some incredibly harsh treble, great reverbed guitar tones, all while deflty sidestepping any 'gee whiz' Foreign novelty quotient. Good stuff. The whole thing is worth a listen, but a little goes a long way. It ends up dragging a bit, as my intial glee gradually gave way to a powerful itch in my skip finger. I'll buy the next volumes in the series, but I don't know how often I'm going to listen to this.

Also, I'm getting tired of anytime I disagree with someone, or offer a disstening opinon on the status quo of the insular world of the people musical tastes who occasionally overlap mine, I get a bunch of fucking grief. Even when I'm writing about something that has nothing to do with anyone, I get a bunch of fucking grief. For people ostensibly into, y'know, 'punk' music, many of you are overly defensive little girls prone to bigtime hissy fits. You fucking babies. Fuck. I'd quit and go back to being a silent record buyer, but I get the distinct feeling that anyone that gets that upset over something so minor as an entry on Letters Have No Arms, is probably upset pretty often and there is nothing I can do about that.

Has anyone seen 'The Aviator' yet? Scorsese has let me down too often for me to willingly drop a few dollars on one of his movies, and paying good money to see DeCaprio is something Phil Honolulu would like to avoid. But it's been getting decent reviews, so any of you readers wanna email me and let me know how it was?

Insulated Asshole's Christmas Comments

Two comments from a card carrying member of the Fuctional Blackouts, and fellow columinst for Terminal Boredom:

"Well...I certainly wasn't at the boardmeeting when they thought about hiring you for TB. Oh goody: Another insulated assclown sitting around criticizing for the sake of being the highnmighty critic. Just what the world needs.
These bands you criticize, like ours, aren't millionaires living off royalties. They do it in the face of massive indifference except for maybe a few of your friends who aren't as jaded as your sorry ass. They try, and just because five or six people cream all over it in their webzines or message boards don't make it "hype" by any stretch. Get outta your cocoon, and put your proverbial garridge rock 10-sided die away and start living instead of acting the asshole, Asshole.--B. Costello."

So, because your band isn't successful, it's not subject to criticism? I mentioned, if memory serves 'Grade C Hype', which I thought was a pretty fair representation of the type of 'hype' (a vague word) your band was receiving. Also, some of the people I criticize or offend seems to live under the impression that I am spending every waking hour working on this blog, instead of spending a spare fifteen minutes here or there. Hey, if you're coming across this blog, which is in the cyberspace equivlent of the sticks, you're probably spending a fair amount of time on the goddamn internet, too.

"Cozumel here...I forgave your sorry ass for thinking I actually gave 2 shits about your opinion on The Sermon...but here...you're just being a fucking shitstain. Start your own band or shut the fuck up, Mr. Honolulu, if that is your real name. Gee...hard to believe you're not beating the ladies off with sticks with such a wonderfully "iconoclastic" attitude, hating bands a handful of music fans out there like. Get some perspective, Mr. Oh-so-Jaded. Learn some chords and do your own thing, assuming you have any friends around willing to tolerate your snobbery. No? Gee, what a surprise."

Again, what kind of argument is that? If I disslike a band that not that many people like, is that wrong? What, and now I have to be in a fucking band just to state my opinion? Getting some perspective? You're the one that is out calling someone you've never met a 'fucking shitstain' on Christmas day over the internet. I guess punk rock fanship is okay, as long as you don't express negative criticism of bands that aren't really popular, and are in band.

The Birth Of Little Baby Jesus/My New Waffle Iron

Santa Claus can kiss my ass. I got a new waffle iron for Christmas, which I opened two days ago (I'm currently celebrating by myself, so opening presents on the actual day didn't seem necessary). I bought some waffle batter yesterday afternoon, wanting to make myself a nice big waffle/strawberry/whipped cream/syrup orgy of culinary delights for Christmas morning, in lieu of celebrating with family or friends. Anyway, I opened the batter and poured it into the measuring cup when I plugged in my new chrome waffle iron, and the fucking thing didn't even work. I tried it in multiple outlets... No dice. The quality control in the fucking waffle iron factory is slipshod at best. Don't those dirty sons of bitches bother to check the fucking things? It was shrinkwrapped, it should work like a fucking dream. Not wanting to dump the uncooked batter in the sink, I drank half a cup. It wasn't as bad as it sounds (I was hoping it would taste like raw cookie dough, but I was wrong to have wished so high) but it was still disgusting. I vomited about half an hour ago, and now I still feel sick. I had a beer to calm down the ominous rumblings in my gut, but it hasn't helped. I think I'm going to lay on the couch and stare up at the ceiling now.

I Joined MySpace

I have yet to fill out the profile or upload a photo. I had three bagles this morning (with cream cheese) but I am still hungry. Right now my only friend is some happy asshole I've never met named Tom, so if anyone else wants to become my friend, feel free to do so.

I'm going to do some more music posts this week I think, on Tyrannosaurus Rex, Messthetics, and some other stuff that I've been listening to lately. There are some movies I want to see, which I will dutifully review as well.

I have to do my Xmas shopping soon, and then mail that shit away on the wings of Fed Ex to Hawaii (the only people I am getting gifts for are my parents). I'm going to do it online, but I have no idea what to get them.

Last night I went home and laid in bed for from about seven, until I fell asleep past midnight. It was great.

Something That Bothers Me

Irrational hatred of cell phones. Christ almighty, get over your Luddite high horse, would ya? Saturday I was in a record store and my cell phone rang at the smug scumhole behind the counter said really loud: 'we don't allow cell phones in here', to general chuckles all around. Yeah, I'm a big square because I own a mobile phone. Some whopping comedic insight and rapier sharp wit you displayed, jerk. What the hell am I supposed to do, act embarrassed, ashamed? Who gives a shit if my fucking phone rings? I'm in a goddamned record store here, not at a fucking funeral. You shitheads are the ones blasting lousy music and if my boss calls me to tell me I have to be in a few hours early on Monday, what the fuck is it you?

Toxins Deep In Your Tissues, Freed By The Loving Hand Of A Exotic Women From The Far East

I fucked up my ankle. I don't know how, and I don't think it was my nasty bike spill a few weeks back. I think it was a gradual process. The symptoms: feels a-okay right now, while I'm sitting in my chair. If I try to twist it more then, let's say, 3 o'clock, a shooting pain goes up my entire leg. Likewise with 9. If I bend it too much, the same thing. Too much weight on it, while it's positioned the wrong way? Torture. I've tried stretching it, wearing an ankle brace, elevation, but nothing took. I now have no medical insurance, and my experience with Doctors regarding this sort of thing is that they can usually do jack shit to help you, but they bill with ruthless efficiency. To prevent excess ankle discomfort, I've compensated by walking differently, which has made my entire body sore. Swinging my left leg around in in a subtle but different fashion that I am not at all used to has caused a dull encompassing pain in my back. Coupled with my sedentary lifestyle, having to park my constantly sweaty carcass in a cheap chair, getting up and having to bend over all day to retrieve documents or enter data in the copier... My back feels like shit. So on Sunday afternoon, after getting wistful while coincidentally listening to the Kink's song of the same name, I decided to splurge on myself and went to a massage parlor. I had heard scuttlebutt from the Office about deep tissue this, Japanese that, dozens of lungloads spent talking about different massages that the higher ups often purchase and fancy spas around town. One that supposedly releases toxins lodged in your tissue sounded appealing. I've been drinking too much lately. Nothing really dramatic has happened at a result, no horror stories of waking up next to a dead person, or getting shitcanned after guzzling a fifth before work. But waking up hungover every morning hasn't done anything for my mood, which is really delicate to begin with. Fresh start, get my shit back together, I get some massage that releases a decades' worth of drug and alcohol abuse detritus trapped in my fat, lay off the john barleycorn, start exercising; an entire massive Phil overhaul, from toenail to cortex. Problem is I don't belong to a country club, or a gym, or a health spa or any of those places and couldn't afford to spend too much for someone to rub my back with their fingers. So I figured I'd go to a Massage Parlor. I didn't know if the often heard guff regarding Massage Parlors was in fact, true, or an urban legend. I've seen a few on the outskirts of town, and they look legitimate enough, incongruously wedged in business parks, surrounded by donut joints and mechanics. I've heard unsavory types tell hyperbolic tales of giving the bone-job to well scrubbed bright eyed Thai teenagers fresh from toiling for rice in some far away field, but the far more likely scenario is some old gruff ugly hag with fake breasts angrily yanks on your scrotum a few times in a well practiced motion, while trying to pick your pocket, then accuses of you of orgasm and demands money, followed by her threatening to have a bouncer type with no neck and beady eyes beat the piss out of you in the alley behind the place while you tearfully plead for her to finish and reach for your wallet. So, while humming the bassline to 'In The Park', I drove to the closest parlor. Parking was ample. I was afraid that someone from work might be driving by the remote industrial park on a Sunday afternoon and would spot me walking in, aching from head to toe and ready for some hands on my body. I opened the door, which was attached to a bell gizmo, and the receptionist directed me to take a seat. She was softly playing the horrible local commercial rock station on her ancient stereo, but the reception was lousy and the signal would periodically lapse into bursts of ugly static. I was on edge. I tried not to make eye contact with the others in the room, mostly sad looking, trapped eyes laborer types, in army jackets and dirty tan boots. I tried to flip through the cheesecake modern bachelor mag, some knockoff of the already horrible Maxim, but it made me sick. So I twiddled my thumbs and listened to the commercials and horrible songs, wondering if I made a bad decision. Eventually a girl would come out, and whisper to the receptionist, and then she would point to someone waiting around, and they would eagerly get up and follow. I also saw people leaving, most of whom looked frightened, disgusted, or distant. I had to use the restroom. I asked the receptionist. She said I had to wait until I was getting my massage (they had toilets, showers, and hot tubs in the rooms), and I couldn't use the locked one in the hallway because 'too many people were jerking off in there'. That forced all manner of mental imagery I didn't want to deal with into my frontal lobe. Eventually I got called by the receptionist. 'You, the big guy'. I got buzzed through the door and shook the soft little hand of a slightly pudgy, disturbingly pale girl in black hotpants and some kind of tube top. She said her name was 'Destiny', which I thought was highly suspect. She had on oodles of makeup and was wearing ridiculously impractical high heeled footwear. 'Sixty for half an hour' she explained. I reached into my wallet and handed it over. She scuttled off to give it to the receptionist, leaving me in the hallway with no choice but to listen to far away moans, screams and creaking walls. She sauntered back and let me into her 'massage studio', which was a ugly room with a table (that looked too rickety to support my bulk), a shower fixture surrounded by a tiny lip on the bottom and flimsy looking curtain, a hottub that appeared to be unsanitary, a bare toilet, and a little cabinet. When I told her where I was from, she said 'Hawaii? I love Hawaii, I'm going there in a few months with my boyfriend", then she asked me to recommend somme sights. I patiently explained to her that I was the last person in the world she should ask about Hawaii, but neglected to explain why because, I only had so much time. She asked me to take off my clothes and take a shower. She dimmed the lights and turned around, I took of my clothes, and walked into the shower, terrified of athlete's foot. I rinsed myself off and she handed me a foul smelling towel, and directed me to lay down on the table. She started massaging my back and my legs, which actually felt great. She also saw fit to rub her naked torso on my ample backflesh, which was pleasant as well. She got really close to brushing her fingertips on my wiener. Then she whispered into my ear: 'do you want anything else?', 'how much?', 'what do you want?', 'I want to know how much'. She made a jerk off motion. 'Forty dollars'. I thought of all the money I could have accumulated had I gotten forty dollars every time I jerked off. I would have a big house, a luxury car, and investments desirable properties around the globe. But spending that much to have someone pull on my wiener is just ridiculous. I shook my head and asked her to just stick with the massage. She looked insulted, then proceeded to give me a half assed, lousy massage by just periodically picking a point in my back and squeezing the fat, like she was testing out the resiliency of an orange at the market. After about three or for minutes she kind of slapped my back and said 'time's up, fattass, get your clothes on and get out.' So I did. I left feeling worse then before and wishing I hadn't spent the money. I bought athlete's foot spray on the way home at the drug store, took a shower and applied it liberally. Now I'm at work at I feel like shit.

Phil Honolulu, Columnist

Yep, some of the folks at online music mag Terminal Boredom asked me to contribute, and not in the good way that would get my a lot of free records, either. Nope, they asked me to be a columnist. So, last night I sat down and wrote the fucker out, without a clear plan of what I was going to do. Going over what I wrote this morning, trying in vain to eliminate all the typos before I emailed it off to the Editor, I got a chance to self evaluate it. The verdict? I think it lacks focus and rambles around with no clear purpose (and I'm not trying to fish for reassurance). But fuck it, I'm doing it for free. I think the staff may have wanted me so I could be offensive, contradictory, and cruel to everyone, but that will have to wait until next time. The deadline is not for a day or two, but I wanted to get it over with. I don't have the slightest when it'll be up.

But, watch for it. Or don't, I don't give a shit.

Also, I think I'm going to eliminate comment boxes, because it's getting real tiring. I guess I could go with the whole 'if you give in, they win' type train of thought, but a glimpse into the type of correspondence I get as a penalty for taking the time out of my day to write this bullshit is probably enough for most people. Maybe I won't delete them. I don't know. I'm indecisive today.

Alex Chilton 'Bach's Bottom'

I like Alex Chilton, and he recorded two of my all time favorite records. Big Star's timeless 3rd record, and the majestic 'Like Flies On Sherbert'. Besides those LP's, his output gets kind of spotty. Box Tops are a rather impersonal, inconsistent effort, Big Star's '#1 Record' isn't as effective as the grand pop of 'Radio City', and for every solo triumph, there are dozens of second rate tracks. So, I was pretty wary about picking up 'Bach's Bottom', despite is being recorded in roughly the same period as 'Like Flies On Sherbert'. I was right, the record is slapdash affair, and despite being even more sloppy, it still feels more regimented then the far more enjoyable, (but still casual), 'Like Flies On Sherbert'. While Chilton deserves some of the blame, as his skull was pickled in a thick fog of drug and alcohol abuse, I would like to point an accusing finger at Jon Tiven. Tiven, in addition to being a lackluster writer, unimaginative musician, and likely a shitty human being; is truly a lousy fucking producer. The record is engineered like a radio jingle, along with some totally unnecessary overdubs. While the extemporaneous collaboration worked well on the later 'Sherbert' record, on 'Bach's Bottom' it's sounds like a half assed collection of outtakes. Maybe this record will grow on me, but right now I feel like burying it on the shelf.

The Fall 'I Am Kurious, Oranj'

I would like to write more about music, but currently I do not have the money to purchase any. I don't think any labels are falling all over themselves to get me on the promotional gravy train. For something to warrant a purchase, I have to be fairly sure I am going to like it, so the days of taking chances on things are over. Anyway, in a morose mood and constantly keeping an eye out for the M.I.A. rat, I went back into my collection today and dusted off a Fall record I haven't listened to in ages.

Even though The Fall's most recent record (I ponied up the money for an import before the inconsistent folks at Narnack reissued it) was overhyped and overrated, I still enjoyed it. The Fall seems to be going through their periodic, cyclical artistic rebirths, issuing great records before they 'fall' into another artistic decline. Mark E. Smith actually seems to give a shit lately, rather then just going through the motions. If you've turned a blind eye to Smith's output over the past couple years, I don't blame you, but I would steer you towards 'The Unutterable', a wonderful electronic hodgepodge cum clusterfuck. I make half hearted attempts to buy any Fall records I don't own if I see them used somewhere, no matter how awful they may appear. I don't remember when exactly I bought 'I Am Kurious' and don't remember listening to it much. It was released during a fertile streak, before what must have been a terrifying domestic situation that caused Brix to skedaddle, and Smith to ease his pain by releasing half assed, shitty records. 'I Am Kurious' was the second full length The Fall released that year, amidst the chart success of their 'There's A Ghost In My House' and 'Victoria' cover singles. Smith & co. provided live music to accompany acclaimed ballet dancer Michael Clark's 'I Am Curious, Orange' bigshit ballet production, the fruit of the collaboration documented on the record. The great 'New Big Prinz' opens in high style, and The Fall squeeze menace out of a pair of repetitive guitar lines. It's incredible how they can come up with one or two riffs, and stretch them into a monster. The follow up track is a pleasant (though bland) ditty with I don't know who the fuck singing in a fashion that sounds almost disturbingly like a particularly introspective King Brothers lyrical moment. Then Smith starts spitting out Blake poetry in his semi comprehensible fashion, via a shitty microphone, with a wash of synth noise providing a segue-way into 'Jerusalem'. It's an interesting track, with a cold, airy approach, but it's not something I am going to listen to often. In fact, I'm going to get up and skip that fucker right now. I'm not much or a reggae fan, I'm sure there is some stuff out there I'd enjoy, but it rarely catches my interest. As for white English people attempting reggae, I have no sympathy. Mick, and Keith just sound like millionaire idiots trying to ape a musical genre that have no business meddling with. While the Clash's attempts makes me want to cry at the unjust Lovecraftian incomprehensible horror that Satan himself has wrought. But having said that, I don't mind the jaunty 'Kurious Orange', with it's semi-reggae drone and disorienting overlapping vocals. 'Wrong Place, Right Time' guitar/bass riff is amazing, the big ugly shared riff blends perfectly with the drummer, making for a big lumbering effect, with a lovely bridge. It's a perfect illustration of how The Fall are able to craft something so memorable out of something so simple. After greatness, The Fall try to stuff in some filler that probably worked just fine with the ballet, but on record eats shit, 'Guide Me Soft'. As for 'C.D. Win Fall 2088 AD', it's what I imagined a lot of the Fall I tried to avoid sounds like. Typical dance plod, until it gradually builds up into some tortured synth noise, before settling back into being unremarkable. 'Yes, O Yes' doesn't go anywhere. 'Van Plague?' meanders but never picks up, I'd much rather take 'Paint Work'. The poorly titled 'Bad News Girl' tests my patience, and I don't think I'll ever listen to it again. 'Cab It Up!' is a surprise, an up-tempo number with a ridiculously catchy synth figure. 'Last Nacht' is a strange, cathartic track the picks itself up, before falling apart again (repeat), with some great synth noises. Close on a slightly inferior redux of 'Big New Priest', and the record and the ballet are over... It's an inconsistent record, and a keepsake for an interesting experiment that I didn't witness, but if you're like me and avoided picking it up - figuring you had the best tracks on the singles compilations anyway - it's still worth a look.

Rat In My Apartment

Not a little one either, this thing is a monster. Despite my dark apartment being filthy and unsanitary entirely due to personal neglect and laziness, I've never had any problems with pests. My reasoning is this, I don't have any visitors, so who gives a good goddamn what the inside looks like? This morning I stepped out of the shower and saw a rat in the middle of my living room floor, it had gnawed a big hole in a paperback book (some self help bullshit my Mother had purchased for me) and was chewing on the corner. When I interrupted it, it looked at me, emitting malevolence. The rat was big, I'd estimate it at being a foot long (not including the tail), with matted, spotty gray fur. Before I could feel disgust, the fucking thing started running at me like a cheetah. I dropped my towel, ran back into the bathroom and shut the door. It scratched at my bathroom door trying to get in. Unfortunately, my bathroom door swings inwards, so I wasn't able to kick it open and fling the rodent across the room. So I wrapped my feet and ankles in my spare bath towels, grabbed my bathroom scale and got ready to bash the fucking rat good. When I opened the door a crack, it scrambled in, immediately started scrambling up the towel wrapped around my left foot and lower leg, with frightening speed it was headed towards my soft, pale upper leg and crotch. At this point I started screaming like a women, dropped the scale, brushed off the slimy rat with the back of my right hand, and when it fell to the floor I kicked it, left the bathroom and slammed the door. I had the goddamned thing trapped. I didn't want to call an exterminator or have my landlord come up here. I didn't want to kill the animal, even though it's tried to bite me and for some unknown reason is extremely aggressive. So I put on my boots, tucked my pants into the top, donned a heavy jacket, and grabbed an oven mitt and a big pot. I figured I'd kick open the door, slam the pot on top of the foul creature, and then release it into the greener pastures of the hallway to go bother someone else. I opened the bathroom door, pulse pounding, fully expecting the rat to come charging out and attacking. But it wasn't in there. It wasn't in any of the cabinets or drawers, either. I have no idea where it went. I'm horrified to go to sleep tonight, the thought of waking up and having a rat chewing on my lower lip is almost too much to bear.

I Am Sick As A Dog

Really. I can barely type. It's food poisoning. I'll spare you the precise gastrointestinal details, but suffice to say they are quite horrific. I don't know what it was that I ate, but I'm thinking it was a three dollar 'Teriyaki Chicken Bowl' that I purchased at a small Chinese place that didn't look sanitary in the least. I was hungry, I had a ten dollar bill burning a hole in my pocket, and hadn't had Teriyaki Chicken in ages. Saw the poorly made sign beckoning on my commute home, it seemed like just what the Doctor ordered. I pulled in, managed to find a parking space, and was not thrown off by the lack of customers at the dinner rush, nor the total disregard for basic hygiene. I ordered the chicken from a lacquered photo on the wall with a number pasted to the lower left corner (I remember thinking at the time it looked like a crime scene photo), waited for it patiently, and when the counterperson handed it to me, I sat down and ate it. It was fine, they drowned it in sauce, so I wasn't really able to taste anything else. That is until one particular dark piece of chicken tasted like it came from the devil, and it slid slowly down my throat like a big chunk of ice, making me shudder. I forgot about it. I was fine most of yesterday, then at work it hit me like a tongue of bricks and I don't even want to relate what happened. I will likely be the subject of even more workplace jokes if it wasn't so thoroughly disturbing. I was barely able to drive home, having to stop every couple of miles on a frantic search for a public restroom to demolish, each time the impending abdominal apocalypse increasing in panic, urgency, and ferocity. I also threw up out of my window while driving, something I haven't done in months since I tried to cut down on both driving while really drunk and driving while really hungover. I don't know how I got home and managed to crawl in my door, alternating trips to the restroom with dragging my carcass back to bed to lay there, sweaty, shivering and wishing I was dead. A few years ago I read some graphic (and I thought vaguely humorous) accounts of people having to withstand tortures, I tried to employ biofeedback to stop my heart, but I wasn't able to concentrate on it long enough with the frequent trips to the restroom. Last night wasn't as bad, I got temporary breaks and was able to answer some emails, but I didn't get much in the way of sleep. This morning my weakened, shell shocked stomach actually felt like it needed food (the only thing in my refrigerator is hot mustard, a few beers, and a expired container of baking soda) but I didn't have the energy to go anywhere. It's probably better that I don't eat anyway. I'm going to go lay back in bed.

Robert Cage 'Can See What You're Doing"

Before, predictably enough, the well of North Mississippi adjacent blues geniuses dried up, Fat Possum was on quite a run. They had Junior Kimbrough, T-Model Ford, R.L. Burnside, and the underrated combo, Elmo Williams & Hezekiah Early. For awhile there, every couple of months, another amazing, raw, amped up electric blues record would come out of nowhere and knock collective aficionados' proverbial dicks in the dirt. Then the bottom dropped, and Fat Possum started making tentative stabs at their still to be determined next bread and butter. The previous attempts at thematic consistency were disregarded forever. If you want cold hard evidence of how drastically fortune's eye can shift it's unforgiving focus, witness the tragic case of the artistic decline of Fat Possum; the backbone of their label went (in the mere space of a few years) from being Junior Kimbrough to being the Black Keys. The only thing that I can compare it to is being a wealthy man, the very portrait of health, with a wonderful family, to in the space of a few years, dying a disease ridden wreck in the gutter, with your family all long dead after unspeakable suffering.

In between the releases of their stable of heavy hitters, a number of perfectly serviceable - but basically second tier compared to the fine company they were keeping - bluesmen got releases, such as Paul 'Wine' Jones, and Asie Payton. Robert Cage got got lost in the shuffle. Although inconsistent, I like Robert Cage's 'Can See What You're Doing' record quite a bit. Cage was taught his craft by the late Scott Dunbar (whose fine album 'From The Shores Of Lake Mary' was reissued by Fat Possum), and he shares the otherwise individualistic style. The record starts with the electric 'Get Outta Here', and it's a something else - hypnotic blues riff, percussive singing, thump/crack drums, everything lands just right. The off center Scott Dunbar teaching make it sound different from the more usual blues arrangements, always welcome around Phil Honolulu's household. Cage's finest moment on the record is his version of 'Easy Rider'. Dunbar's version is no slouch, but Cage has him beat - Dunbar's version sounds more pedestrian when compared back to back, honest. Cage's guitar charges instead of floats, and the changes echo with wistful crispness, blending perfectly with his rough hewn voice. 'Instrumental #5' is as savage and fuzzed laden as a T-Model number. 'Bundle Up And Go' alternates between a near atonal introduction and sentimental passages, with different vocal lines and patterns over a shifting, ringing guitar line. The record is not all perfect, much of it sounds so similar that a little goes a long way - Cage is the type of guy that would be perhaps best serve with a few incredible cuts on a stellar compilation - but I rarely seem his name mentioned, which is a shame. Cage deserves more recognition.

I Won $87.00

After lunch I bet a coworker that I could eat a three pound salami. He didn't think I could. He didn't think it was possible. I assured him I could do it. He bet thirty three dollars. Word spread amongst the office. The pool got up to eighty seven. Even though there were more people watching than I felt comfortable with, the terms of the bet specified all parties involved in the momentary transaction were required to view me eating. Not only did I easily consume the entire processed meat tube with plenty of time to spare, unlike the widespread assumption, I did not vomit afterwards. Despite being after my (by my standards) frugal lunch (ham sandwich, BBQ chips, Pepsi, slice of prepackaged carrot cake I purchased at the liquor store last night) I think I could have eaten another half pound or so. If someone asked me what my current mood was, I would truthfully answer, "utter elation at my victory".

I Had A Date Last Night

Yeah, it's true. I didn't really want to mention anything on here, because, I got a private life too. I met her via Yahoo! Personals, she responded to my email with a well-written reply and we've been corresponding for the past couple of weeks. She seemed nice, but we share very little in the way of interests. She is an aspiring musician, she plays classical guitar, practices music all the time, and works as a receptionist at some kind of internet company. She has next to no free time, as where I have plenty. So, last night I drove down to pick her up, for dinner and possible drinks somewhere. It was the first time I've had to calculate what kind of clothes to wear in a while, normally I just throw on the first things I see, but now I had to actually make an effort to be visually compelling. So I wore a nice collared shirt, a clean sweater, jeans and my loafers. I combed my hair and tried my best to look presentable. She didn't live that far and I drove down there and managed to find parking pretty easily. I huffed across the street feeling really self conscious. She lived in a building that had barely any indication of the address but I managed to find it. I buzzed her and she didn't pick up. By this time I was so nervous that I was contemplating taking off. I tried it one more time and she picked up and I stepped all her hellos, and are you outsides? With my own hi's, yeahs, and I'm outsides. She said she was coming down. I waited outside feeling shaky. What possible reason did I have to feel so jittery? She came down and she was all gussied up, I could smell her shampoo wafting outside from the minute she opened the door. She looked okay, she had obviously taken sometime to preen and I felt really horrible for her, this person that spent all the time to look good for someone she doesn't even know. We walked to the restaurant and I couldn't think of anything to talk about, we'd been emailing each other and had covered most aspects of casual conversation pretty thoroughly. She got animated talking about the restaurant. She eats there often. She is friends with the bartender. All the staff knows her. She loves the food. They've got the best Chinese at a reasonable price. At this point my modus operandi because occasionally nodding and offering agreement. It was like I was controlling myself with a joystick from fifty feet away. Everything felt detached and unwieldy. We sat down after the headwaiter, who had a handlebar mustache, said hello to her and she hugged him. As soon as we got to our tables (the place was packed, she had managed to make a reservation in advance) she had to get up to go to the bathroom. She was just in her fucking apartment five minutes ago, what's her problem? So I sat there in my seat looking at the menu and feeling self conscious like everyone was staring at me, people can tell I haven't been out on a date in years and can smell my fear and disgust at my own incompetence with the opposite sex. While I was sitting there some waiter, who had a ponytail and and a goatee came up along side me and said, "So, you're Julie's date?" clearly disapproving of me, in the same kind of tone where'd you'd say "You're the one that ruined the bathroom?". So I meekly nodded while he stared at me in his best Steven Segal impersonation and said "You'd better be nice to that girl, or you'll have to answer to me." I looked somewhere else, and he said "Look at me when I'm talking to you Motherfucker. You fuck with that girl and I'll kill you". Then he squeezed my arm really hard, digging his fingertips in my flesh and then he went off to help a table. By the time she got back I needed alcohol really badly. The wine dipshit arrived and gave his spiel about shellfish this, poultry that, dry this, and goes well with noodles that and I said, "We'll just have the [second cheapest bottle of red wine]", and he looked at me like I was a homeless person and left. Then she started talking about her favorite composers and how talented she was when she was a kid and how all her teachers recognized how intelligent she was when she was in school and how much time she spent practicing and all her hard work and her genuine passion for the music. I couldn't sit still and get comfortable and when I got the wine I had to do the sniff thing and was really self conscious about it (this wine dipshit is going to be able to tell the only way I drink wine is anything under $4.00 at home straight from the bottle, like a giant bottle of beer). I started drinking and she talked about this diet she was on that involved taking bizarre proportions of everything, so dining became a mathematical experience more then anything else. All I could do was try to be comfortable and try not to look stupid, despite feeling like it and nod politely and answer something if questioned directly. There was nothing wrong with her, she was reasonably intelligent, she wasn't bad looking, had a "vagina", and she was nice, but I felt no connection, no curiosity about her, and started wishing I was at home by myself on familiar territory without all the people around. So we ordered, I got some kind of beef and she got some kind of chicken. She started subtly lecturing me on my choice of entree, she had just read 'some article' about how Beef consumption is pretty much the worst thing to even befall the world, and rather then eating beef I should just stuff a stick of butter down my gullet, beat up someone in the third world, and burn down an acre of rainforest. Then she told an antidote revolving around people I've never met and do not care about, involving traits that you need to know the people intimately to recognize, with a punchline centered on a locations I've never been to. She laughed. I tried to laugh along but it doesn't look real when I do it. Eventually the food came with the ponytailed waiter (he didn't take our order) and he smiled at her and when her eyes went down to look at her steaming food he gave me a glare and gritted teeth. We dug in, I ate my beef and finished the wine, she pecked at some painstaking percentage of her chicken before eating the other proportions of all the other jazz on her plate. Conversation had petered out and we weren't really talking beyond noncommittal acknowledgments that the food was good. Then she started asking me if I had manage to read 'The DaVinci Code' and I told her that I hadn't. Then she started describing it and it sounded awful. The check finally came and I gave the waiter my credit card and she described various arcane aspects related to portions of the book that she had read about. I signed the check and gave a five percent tip, smiling when I handed the form to the protective ponytailed waiter. She had to finish her single glass of wine so I kept listening, feeling worse and worse until I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I walked up, past the men's room, and went though the kitchen. There were all sorts of guys in there chopping away and screaming at each other in the heat and fumes, I squeezed past a few guys who were too busy to really notice me and went out the back into the fresh air and parking lot. I gathered my breath, and then walked along the alley in the back, and out to the street to my car. Then I drove home, stopping for a case of beer on the way. She hasn't called or emailed since, so I don't think I have to worry about it anymore.

Another Really Good Cover

You have to really know what you're doing to cover The Cramps. You fuck it up, and you look like a real idiot. The underground's John Mellencamp, Jack O' Fire, presumably took time off from their day jobs of lecturing anyone within earshot about the true nature of the blues, recorded their own misguided attempt at 'Under The Wire'. How is it? It's fucking horrible. If you are going to try to take a shot at possibly the best known Cramps' song, 'Human Fly', you've got some guts. Halo of Flies pulled it off, with the ugliest fuzz this side of The Scientists, a drummer that had the good sense not to try and top Nick Knox's economy, and nicely distorted vocals. Good job.