Friday, April 28, 2006
The Mighty River Just Got Mightier
So my inbox this morning features an email from Barbara Boxer, my favorite senator-turned-novelist, to tell me about how she supports the plan for the revitalization of the Los Angeles River.
For those of you who don't know, let me tell you: the Los Angeles River uses the broadest definition of the term "river." If you drove past it, you would call it a coulee or uno arroyo. It doesn't even have a bank because it is "reinforced" by concrete, meaning that the concrete forces the river to be about two feet wide because otherwise it would spread out, stop flowing and evaporate. This is a river on life support, and Sen. Boxer wants to work with the Army Corps of Engineers to do some stuff to the river to
For those of you who don't know, let me tell you: the Los Angeles River uses the broadest definition of the term "river." If you drove past it, you would call it a coulee or uno arroyo. It doesn't even have a bank because it is "reinforced" by concrete, meaning that the concrete forces the river to be about two feet wide because otherwise it would spread out, stop flowing and evaporate. This is a river on life support, and Sen. Boxer wants to work with the Army Corps of Engineers to do some stuff to the river to
restore river water flows and recreate wetlands and other river habitat. It alsoMan, if there's one thing that really pollutes a river, it's graffiti ... and pork fat, which is all this can be. This is like doing tree surgery on a daisy. I have no idea what kind of ecosystem exists in the L.A. River, but I do know that no one should be putting anything else on the Army Corps on Engineers' plate.
authorizes millions of dollars for projects to get the LA River’s restoration moving immediately with projects to remove graffiti from walls, restore wetlands, and install new flood control system and many other initial needs.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
The Easter Bunny Hates You
Funny video, especially if you think people in bunny suits beating the crap out of people is funny. I certainly do. Thanks to JJ Shabadoo for the link.
Fiscal Irresponsibility
So Uncle Sam is going to give every taxpayer $100 to make up for the high price of gas. This is stupid. Hey, Asshole Senator, why don't you actually fix a problem instead of throwing money at it? Giving me more money is not going to make the cost of gasoline any more reasonable, nor is it going to make our energy problems go away. Besides, isn't this a fucking handout? Isn't this welfare? Doesn't this go against your entire financial philosophy? Don't you normally give money to the oil companies so they can pass the savings on to us?
Let's do the math: 200 million taxpayers or so x $100 a pop = 2 to the tenth power dollars. I think that's $20 billion, which is also enough money to rebuild strong levees in Louisiana, which is a much more permanent use of these funds. But drowned people don't vote and don't bitch about the price of gas, so they lose out. I guarantee 1/10 of this money is going straight to beer, strippers and casinos, and that's a small estimate.
Also, if I think the price of a CD or a cool t-shirt is too much, is the government going to give me money to offset those costs? Of course not, yet their actions could be taken as a precedent and be seen as a contradiction. I guess asking them to confront the problem oil presents us would be asking too much. I wish our government's idea of a NO CONFIDENCE vote wasn't to pick the douchebag chimp on the other side of the ballot.
Let's do the math: 200 million taxpayers or so x $100 a pop = 2 to the tenth power dollars. I think that's $20 billion, which is also enough money to rebuild strong levees in Louisiana, which is a much more permanent use of these funds. But drowned people don't vote and don't bitch about the price of gas, so they lose out. I guarantee 1/10 of this money is going straight to beer, strippers and casinos, and that's a small estimate.
Also, if I think the price of a CD or a cool t-shirt is too much, is the government going to give me money to offset those costs? Of course not, yet their actions could be taken as a precedent and be seen as a contradiction. I guess asking them to confront the problem oil presents us would be asking too much. I wish our government's idea of a NO CONFIDENCE vote wasn't to pick the douchebag chimp on the other side of the ballot.
Wonderfully Funny Piece
Rather than come up with something funny on my own, I thought I'd share this piece George Saunders had in The New Yorker a few weeks ago:
The other day I was watching TV and it occurred to me that I’ve become a prude. The show in question was innocuous enough, nothing shocking—just an episode of “Hottie Leaders,” featuring computer simulations of what various female world leaders would look like naked and in the throes of orgasm—but somehow, between that and the Pizza Hut commercial where Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson engage in some “girl-on-girl” action in a vast field of pizza sauce, something snapped. I know what the problem is: I’m old. I came of age in a simpler sexual time.
Back in those ancient, prelapsarian days, “girl-on-girl” hadn’t even been invented yet. At that time, “girl-on-guy” had only recently been discovered. I remember my parents and their neighbors standing in the yard with a pair of crude human figures made of wood, trying to work out the details. Sometimes a couple would get all worked up and forget where things were supposed to go, and the husband would have to call a friend—only phones were new, too, so sometimes you’d go over to visit a pal from school and there’d be his dad, just standing there naked, phone in hand, totally flummoxed. Women could get pregnant from merely watching a kiss in a movie! Girls, or at least the “good girls,” would go to movies blindfolded. I remember once, in fourth grade, I had to get engaged to a girl whose coat I’d brushed up against in the cloakroom. Those were simpler times, but, in some ways, I think, better times.
Same deal with violence. I remember how stunned we all were when the Cain-and-Abel thing happened. What, what? we kept saying. He bludgeoned his brother? With a rock? I remember the first time a severed limb was shown on TV. People were running out of their houses screaming. And it was just a fake leg, in a cartoon! Imagine how horrified those screaming people would be now, when, for example, you can log on to the “Evidence of Evil” Web site and they’ll send you a boxful of bloody prosthetics, which you can reassemble into a crack-addicted whore, who will then emit some clues through her computerized voice box—and when you think you know who murdered her you enter the name of the killer on the Web site and, if you’re right, you’ll get to see a short clip of her making love with her killer moments before he hacks her to bits while she has a flashback of her mother beating her with a chair leg.
I mean, O.K., there was violence when I was a kid, sure, but nobody really talked about it. If you got strangled and dismembered, you just got up the next day whistling a happy tune and went down and did some riveting for the war effort. As for computer simulations, sorry, all we had was sketchpads and pencils. If we wanted to see what various female world leaders looked like naked in the throes of orgasm, we had to use a little thing called the imagination. Plus, all the world leaders were men back then, and, believe me, once you’ve drawn Richard Nixon naked and in the throes of orgasm you never have quite the same interest in using your imagination again, and every time you even see a pencil you get a little puky and have to sit down.
Whenever I talk to young people—like some of the teen-agers in my neighborhood, or this one toddler, Maxie, or even a couple of fetuses I run into occasionally—I say to them: Trust me, guys, enjoy your youth, because the level of sex and violence is going to continue to escalate, and, by the time you’re my age, the world of your youth will seem like a distant, innocent paradise. The teen-agers and the toddler, Maxie, sometimes they seem to get it, but the fetuses—well, you know fetuses, they’re arrogant. To them, it’s always going to be a soft gentle ride in a warm comfortable space. And I’m, like, O.K., smart guy, call me in nine months and we’ll talk. Or I will! You’ll just be lying there pink and newborn, with a terrified look on your face, apologizing to me with those little shocked eyes.
Things just keep getting worse. Why, I suspect that, in forty years, when I’m eighty-seven, I’ll look back at the present level of sex and violence and go: Ha! Ho-ho! You called that sex and violence? That was nothing. That was Puritanism and pacifism compared to now! But then I’ll have to go, because it will be Stripper Night at the old folks’ home, and I’ll have to find my costume and my back brace, but on the way there I’ll be killed by a mysterious old-folks’-home invader, who actually works for Fox and is committing and filming my murder for later broadcast on “When Codgers on Their Way to Strip Look Terrified.”
Same with music, though, right? I used to love music, back when it had melody and chords and lyrics. But now it has no melody and no chords, just thwack-thwacking, and they even seem to be cutting back on the thwack-thwacking, so now it’s sometimes just thwa, and, as far as lyrics, do you consider these lyrics?
Hump my hump,
My stumpy lumpy hump!
Hump my dump, you lumpy slumpy dump!
I’ll dump your hump, and then just hump your dump,
You lumpy frumply clump.
I’m sorry. To me? Those are not lyrics. In my day, lyrics were used to express real emotion, like the emotion of being totally stoned and trying to talk this totally stoned chick into sleeping with you in the name of love, which lasted forever, if only you held on to your dreams.
These kids today, I don’t know what they believe. I mean, I don’t even know what I believe anymore, but what I do not believe is that watching Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson roll around in pizza sauce is helping our youth as they go forth and try to figure out what they believe! Scientific evidence suggests that even the fetuses inside of mothers watching that commercial are getting (1) dumber and (2) little baby boners. I do not go for that. I think that when a fetus is in the womb it should just be floating around with its undersized arrogant head empty and its little nascent penis just, you know, inactive. We grow these kids up too fast, and, next thing you know, out come the Indian and the Chinese fetuses, and they start taking away the jobs of our homeland fetuses, and why? Because these foreign fetuses aren’t jaded. They’re innocent like I was, like my whole generation was, when we were fetuses, back in those long-forgotten idyllic days when American fetuses walked the earth like happy unsoiled giants, doing algebra and reading the classics.
And yet I don’t like the fact that I’ve become a prude. Life expectancies being what they are, I may be only halfway through my life, and who wants to live out half one’s life as a prude? Not me. I want to live out about one-tenth of my life as a prude, that last tenth, when I’m inert and confused and immobile anyway. So I’ve decided to start prude-proofing myself via a series of daily micro-immersions in sex and violence. Last week, for example, I sat on my couch looking at a bra for over an hour. Then I forced myself to watch a video of a duck being hit by a car. Then I tried listening to the sound of the duck on the video being hit by the car, while looking at the bra. Next, I turned up the sound, while looking at a slightly sexier bra. Then I watched the duck being hit while I ran my hand over the bra. Then I had my wife put on the bra, which was a very effective technique, because as I tried to run my hand over the bra my wife nailed me with an ashtray just as the duck was hit by the car—one of the best micro-immersions in sex and violence a guy could ask for.
And tonight is my biggest depruding test yet: I am going to, while hitting myself with a brick and begging my wife to walk by in her bra, watch an episode of “Dream Yer Final Dream!,” on which a contestant selected from a field of more than five thousand applicants will be granted his Final Dream, which, in this case, is to be beaten nearly to death with a tire iron so that Carmen Electra can come in naked and give him a lap dance in the last moments of his life.
I have high hopes. I know I can do this. If I succeed, our whole culture will once again be open to me. And who knows? I may even go see a movie.
The other day I was watching TV and it occurred to me that I’ve become a prude. The show in question was innocuous enough, nothing shocking—just an episode of “Hottie Leaders,” featuring computer simulations of what various female world leaders would look like naked and in the throes of orgasm—but somehow, between that and the Pizza Hut commercial where Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson engage in some “girl-on-girl” action in a vast field of pizza sauce, something snapped. I know what the problem is: I’m old. I came of age in a simpler sexual time.
Back in those ancient, prelapsarian days, “girl-on-girl” hadn’t even been invented yet. At that time, “girl-on-guy” had only recently been discovered. I remember my parents and their neighbors standing in the yard with a pair of crude human figures made of wood, trying to work out the details. Sometimes a couple would get all worked up and forget where things were supposed to go, and the husband would have to call a friend—only phones were new, too, so sometimes you’d go over to visit a pal from school and there’d be his dad, just standing there naked, phone in hand, totally flummoxed. Women could get pregnant from merely watching a kiss in a movie! Girls, or at least the “good girls,” would go to movies blindfolded. I remember once, in fourth grade, I had to get engaged to a girl whose coat I’d brushed up against in the cloakroom. Those were simpler times, but, in some ways, I think, better times.
Same deal with violence. I remember how stunned we all were when the Cain-and-Abel thing happened. What, what? we kept saying. He bludgeoned his brother? With a rock? I remember the first time a severed limb was shown on TV. People were running out of their houses screaming. And it was just a fake leg, in a cartoon! Imagine how horrified those screaming people would be now, when, for example, you can log on to the “Evidence of Evil” Web site and they’ll send you a boxful of bloody prosthetics, which you can reassemble into a crack-addicted whore, who will then emit some clues through her computerized voice box—and when you think you know who murdered her you enter the name of the killer on the Web site and, if you’re right, you’ll get to see a short clip of her making love with her killer moments before he hacks her to bits while she has a flashback of her mother beating her with a chair leg.
I mean, O.K., there was violence when I was a kid, sure, but nobody really talked about it. If you got strangled and dismembered, you just got up the next day whistling a happy tune and went down and did some riveting for the war effort. As for computer simulations, sorry, all we had was sketchpads and pencils. If we wanted to see what various female world leaders looked like naked in the throes of orgasm, we had to use a little thing called the imagination. Plus, all the world leaders were men back then, and, believe me, once you’ve drawn Richard Nixon naked and in the throes of orgasm you never have quite the same interest in using your imagination again, and every time you even see a pencil you get a little puky and have to sit down.
Whenever I talk to young people—like some of the teen-agers in my neighborhood, or this one toddler, Maxie, or even a couple of fetuses I run into occasionally—I say to them: Trust me, guys, enjoy your youth, because the level of sex and violence is going to continue to escalate, and, by the time you’re my age, the world of your youth will seem like a distant, innocent paradise. The teen-agers and the toddler, Maxie, sometimes they seem to get it, but the fetuses—well, you know fetuses, they’re arrogant. To them, it’s always going to be a soft gentle ride in a warm comfortable space. And I’m, like, O.K., smart guy, call me in nine months and we’ll talk. Or I will! You’ll just be lying there pink and newborn, with a terrified look on your face, apologizing to me with those little shocked eyes.
Things just keep getting worse. Why, I suspect that, in forty years, when I’m eighty-seven, I’ll look back at the present level of sex and violence and go: Ha! Ho-ho! You called that sex and violence? That was nothing. That was Puritanism and pacifism compared to now! But then I’ll have to go, because it will be Stripper Night at the old folks’ home, and I’ll have to find my costume and my back brace, but on the way there I’ll be killed by a mysterious old-folks’-home invader, who actually works for Fox and is committing and filming my murder for later broadcast on “When Codgers on Their Way to Strip Look Terrified.”
Same with music, though, right? I used to love music, back when it had melody and chords and lyrics. But now it has no melody and no chords, just thwack-thwacking, and they even seem to be cutting back on the thwack-thwacking, so now it’s sometimes just thwa, and, as far as lyrics, do you consider these lyrics?
Hump my hump,
My stumpy lumpy hump!
Hump my dump, you lumpy slumpy dump!
I’ll dump your hump, and then just hump your dump,
You lumpy frumply clump.
I’m sorry. To me? Those are not lyrics. In my day, lyrics were used to express real emotion, like the emotion of being totally stoned and trying to talk this totally stoned chick into sleeping with you in the name of love, which lasted forever, if only you held on to your dreams.
These kids today, I don’t know what they believe. I mean, I don’t even know what I believe anymore, but what I do not believe is that watching Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson roll around in pizza sauce is helping our youth as they go forth and try to figure out what they believe! Scientific evidence suggests that even the fetuses inside of mothers watching that commercial are getting (1) dumber and (2) little baby boners. I do not go for that. I think that when a fetus is in the womb it should just be floating around with its undersized arrogant head empty and its little nascent penis just, you know, inactive. We grow these kids up too fast, and, next thing you know, out come the Indian and the Chinese fetuses, and they start taking away the jobs of our homeland fetuses, and why? Because these foreign fetuses aren’t jaded. They’re innocent like I was, like my whole generation was, when we were fetuses, back in those long-forgotten idyllic days when American fetuses walked the earth like happy unsoiled giants, doing algebra and reading the classics.
And yet I don’t like the fact that I’ve become a prude. Life expectancies being what they are, I may be only halfway through my life, and who wants to live out half one’s life as a prude? Not me. I want to live out about one-tenth of my life as a prude, that last tenth, when I’m inert and confused and immobile anyway. So I’ve decided to start prude-proofing myself via a series of daily micro-immersions in sex and violence. Last week, for example, I sat on my couch looking at a bra for over an hour. Then I forced myself to watch a video of a duck being hit by a car. Then I tried listening to the sound of the duck on the video being hit by the car, while looking at the bra. Next, I turned up the sound, while looking at a slightly sexier bra. Then I watched the duck being hit while I ran my hand over the bra. Then I had my wife put on the bra, which was a very effective technique, because as I tried to run my hand over the bra my wife nailed me with an ashtray just as the duck was hit by the car—one of the best micro-immersions in sex and violence a guy could ask for.
And tonight is my biggest depruding test yet: I am going to, while hitting myself with a brick and begging my wife to walk by in her bra, watch an episode of “Dream Yer Final Dream!,” on which a contestant selected from a field of more than five thousand applicants will be granted his Final Dream, which, in this case, is to be beaten nearly to death with a tire iron so that Carmen Electra can come in naked and give him a lap dance in the last moments of his life.
I have high hopes. I know I can do this. If I succeed, our whole culture will once again be open to me. And who knows? I may even go see a movie.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
The Importance of a Good Crowd
Not familiar with much of their music, I went to see the Eagles of Death Metal perform at Irving Plaza this past Sunday night. For the uninitiated, the Eagles of Death Metal sound like neither the Eagles nor the genre known as death metal. They are a raucous garage rock band who does it all for the ladies. I knew maybe one or two songs from their first album, Peace Love Death Metal, and one or two songs from their most recent release, Death by Sexy whose first single "I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News)" has one of the funnier music videos I've seen in a long time and features cameos from Jack Black, Dave Grohl, and Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age. Josh plays drums with Eagles of Death Metal on their albums, but rarely appears with them when they perform live. EODM is the brainchild of Jesse "The Devil" Hughes aka Boots Electric. He has a sexy moustache and he sings all of his songs for the ladies. That's pretty much all you need to know.
I firmly believe that a big part of why I had such a good time was that it was one of the most energetic, lively, fun crowds I've been a part of in a long time. Even if the band you're seeing is your favorite band in the whole wide world, a shitty crowd can kill your buzz and ruin the evening for you. Sometimes the entire crowd sucks; sometimes it's just one asshole who thinks everyone paid lots of money to hear him yell inane bullshit during the entire show. It's happened more than once for me, as I'm sure it has for all you dear readers out there. During the EODM set, I think I had a grin on my face from beginning to end to the point that my jaw hurt by the end of the show. Jesse "The Devil" Hughes seemed genuinely taken aback and humbled by the crowd's enthusiasm and he fed off our energy while the rest of his bandmembers followed suit. On drums was Samantha Maloney who has previously sat behind the kit for Hole and Motley Crue as well as Josh Homme's ongoing Desert Sessions project, and she brought a lot of sexiness to the show with a fan situated below her that blew air upwards, causing her hair to billow out in a 80's hair band kind of way while she banged away on the drums.
I highly recommend catching these guys if they come through your town, and hopefully, your crowd will be as amped as mine. They will appear on Late Night with Conan O'Brien this Thursday (4/27) and the Late Show with David Letterman on May 18th. Download their video for "I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News)" here.
I firmly believe that a big part of why I had such a good time was that it was one of the most energetic, lively, fun crowds I've been a part of in a long time. Even if the band you're seeing is your favorite band in the whole wide world, a shitty crowd can kill your buzz and ruin the evening for you. Sometimes the entire crowd sucks; sometimes it's just one asshole who thinks everyone paid lots of money to hear him yell inane bullshit during the entire show. It's happened more than once for me, as I'm sure it has for all you dear readers out there. During the EODM set, I think I had a grin on my face from beginning to end to the point that my jaw hurt by the end of the show. Jesse "The Devil" Hughes seemed genuinely taken aback and humbled by the crowd's enthusiasm and he fed off our energy while the rest of his bandmembers followed suit. On drums was Samantha Maloney who has previously sat behind the kit for Hole and Motley Crue as well as Josh Homme's ongoing Desert Sessions project, and she brought a lot of sexiness to the show with a fan situated below her that blew air upwards, causing her hair to billow out in a 80's hair band kind of way while she banged away on the drums.
I highly recommend catching these guys if they come through your town, and hopefully, your crowd will be as amped as mine. They will appear on Late Night with Conan O'Brien this Thursday (4/27) and the Late Show with David Letterman on May 18th. Download their video for "I Want You So Hard (Boy's Bad News)" here.
Not Much to Report
But that never stopped me before. Feeling a fair bit better, though it wasn't food poisoning but a stomach virus because Murphette caught it from me Sunday, though she doesn't have it nearly as bad. I'm working at a different school now through Memorial Day, doing some really easy teaching and getting paid a little more for it. Talk more soon.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
The Color of My Soul
Is a citrusy yellow, I think, because that's what I puked up last on Thursday morning. I've got some awful stomach bug that had me puking all Wednesday night, sleeping all Thursday and having what my Korean friend would call the "water shit" ever since. I have to shape up for my Murph Got a Job Party tomorrow and for The Black Rider tonight, which is a stage play written by William S. Burroughs and featuring music by Tom Waits. The only cure seems to be saltines and season 3 of 24.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The Reading List
Well, I think I've finally got it settled. This is the reading list for my class in Contemporary Fiction on the Art of Adaptation.
Summer Reading: The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides/directed by Sofia Coppola
Semester Reading:
The Sweet Hereafter by Russell Banks/directed by Atom Egoyan
The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West/directed by John Schlesinger
The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry/directed by Peter Bogdanovich
Short Cuts by Raymond Carver/directed by Robert Altman
The Hours by Michael Cunningham/directed by Stephen Daldry
The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis/directed by Roger Avary
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje/directed by Anthony Minghella
The Ice Storm by Rick Moody/directed by Ang Lee
Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson/directed by Alison Maclean
"Blow-Up" by Julio Cortazar/directed by Michaelangelo Antonioni
"Secretary" by Mary Gaitskill/directed by Steven Shainberg
Of course, some of these adaptations are good, some are bad. The list may change in case I decide to add Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin and take out something else so that I had another bad adaptation in there, but I have to reread the book first. The students will also be responsible for a comparison paper on another adaptation and a creative project in which they'll write a treatment for a short film based on a short story and then compare their interpretations in class.
Oh, and if you're wondering about the R-ratings, this school is, thankfully, very progressive. To give you an example of what I mean, I can't teach A Clockwork Orange because they've already read it.
Summer Reading: The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides/directed by Sofia Coppola
Semester Reading:
The Sweet Hereafter by Russell Banks/directed by Atom Egoyan
The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West/directed by John Schlesinger
The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry/directed by Peter Bogdanovich
Short Cuts by Raymond Carver/directed by Robert Altman
The Hours by Michael Cunningham/directed by Stephen Daldry
The Rules of Attraction by Bret Easton Ellis/directed by Roger Avary
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje/directed by Anthony Minghella
The Ice Storm by Rick Moody/directed by Ang Lee
Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson/directed by Alison Maclean
"Blow-Up" by Julio Cortazar/directed by Michaelangelo Antonioni
"Secretary" by Mary Gaitskill/directed by Steven Shainberg
Of course, some of these adaptations are good, some are bad. The list may change in case I decide to add Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin and take out something else so that I had another bad adaptation in there, but I have to reread the book first. The students will also be responsible for a comparison paper on another adaptation and a creative project in which they'll write a treatment for a short film based on a short story and then compare their interpretations in class.
Oh, and if you're wondering about the R-ratings, this school is, thankfully, very progressive. To give you an example of what I mean, I can't teach A Clockwork Orange because they've already read it.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Mother Hubbard
It's a girl for Katie Holmes-Hubbard. Congratulations and let us know if she's the reincarnation of L. Ron so that we can clean up the office we keep for him in our apartment. You are welcome to drop in anytime at all.
Friday, April 14, 2006
God Bless 'South Park'
After one pretty blah season, South Park has come back big time with these last few episodes, particularly the "Cartoon Wars" two-parter. I loved how they started their second part off with a joke Terrance and Philip episode like they did back in season one when we were trying to find out who Cartman's father was. I was actually kind of disappointed when they didn't make the entire T&P episode because it looked like they were going to do a Brokeback Mountain satire, which is totally old, but Trey & Matt are about the only people who could breathe new life into that dead horse.
But most importantly, I'm glad somebody came out and said that Family Guy is not as funny as it's cracked up to be. And I loved that they had it come from the lips of Osama Bin Laden. That was so goddamn funny. Not as funny as the high-speed big wheel chase, but close. But seriously, Family Guy is not that funny. Its whole raison d'etre is to combine pop culture references that don't make any sense at all and try to dress it up as funny. It really could be written by manatees.
But most importantly, I'm glad somebody came out and said that Family Guy is not as funny as it's cracked up to be. And I loved that they had it come from the lips of Osama Bin Laden. That was so goddamn funny. Not as funny as the high-speed big wheel chase, but close. But seriously, Family Guy is not that funny. Its whole raison d'etre is to combine pop culture references that don't make any sense at all and try to dress it up as funny. It really could be written by manatees.
Another Reason to Move to Chicago for the Summer
Constantines, Annie, and Robert Pollard were added to the lineup for the second day of the Intonation Festival on June 25th. So, now for 20 bucks, you can see Bloc Party, Annie, Jon Brion, Constantines, and Uncle Bob on one stage. I know I live in New York and shouldn't complain, but sheesh!
Attention Manhattan Readers
Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven is playing at the Film Forum. If you want to see a movie this weekend, this is the only one to see.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Another Reason I Hate Coachella
Sleater-Kinney will not be coming to L.A. on their tour because they are playing at the nearby Coachella Music Festival in Indio, CA. I can't think of anything worse than standing out in the fucking desert at the end of April in the hot ass hot with a bunch of stargazing hipsters who are only there to spot cast members of the O.C. and to meet up with someone who has a special pass so they can get into a VIP tent to avoid passing out. Oh, and for the right to say "Yeah, I saw them at Coachella [they'll said it like c'ch-hella cuz they think they're hella cool] and they were a-MAY-zing". Whoopity fucking do. Glad your sunburn matches your scorched bank account. Did all the hip points you scored out there make it all worthwhile?
Smell You Later
So here's this item from imdb:
a Japanese company is adding seven different smells to parts of The New World when it opens in Tokyo next month.Ooookaaay. Why The New World? I mean, any way to get more people to see this movie is fine by me, but do we really have to get into the Japanese's desire to experience Colin Farrell's man-musk?
NTT Communications Corp. will not try to match the fragrances being emitted under theater seats to the objects on the screen. Instead, the scents are intended to enhance the senses, a floral perfume to accompany a love scene, a mixture of peppermint and rosemary for a sad one, etc.Oh ... so no man-musk, huh? A snarky bastard had to add
Fuck you, you philistine. You wouldn't know a good movie even if it did emit an odor. We all know that quality and box office gross always go hand-in-hand, don't we, you mouth-breathing jackass? Whoever you are. Obviously you were too much of a pussy to use your real name.the entire movie ought to be accompanied by the smell of roast turkey.
Klosterman on Bonds
Probably one of the 10 best things Chuck has ever written. Thanks to nick for sending this to me.
Why Is This So Damn Funny?
Guitar Hero FYI
When you beat all 30 songs on Guitar Hero, your character ascends into Heaven.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Amazing Fortune
You know me. I would never send you to something like this if it wasn't mind-blowing. Just check it out.
Doorstops that Double as Books
A recent defense of Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons in The Atlantic encouraged me to pick up one of his massive doorstop-like novels and give it a read. I had read Bonfire of the Vanities in college and thought it was fantastic. His descriptions of a hangover, a Southern accent and a street thug's walk were so perfect they made you smile with recognition and green with envy at the same time. "How does he manage to put it that way, so perfectly?" While I have a copy of I Am Charlotte Simmons, I decided to read his follow-up to Bonfire of the Vanities, A Man in Full, first, perhaps saving Simmons for the fall when school's back in full swing and it will be more seasonal.
A Man in Full doesn't contain all the delightful descriptive passages that were overflowing in Vanities, but it's still a really enjoyable read. Here Wolfe seems more interested in showing off his strength for plotting on an epic scale. The titular character, Charlie Croker, is sort of like the Donald Trump of Atlanta, a developer who has overextended himself and is on the verge and bankruptcy. When Georgia Tech's star athlete is accused of raping the daughter of another prominent (read: white) Atlanta businessman, every disparate interest in the city comes together to prevent Atlanta from erupting into a race riot: the bankers, an African-American corporate lawyer, the African-American mayor, a lowly warehouse worker for Croker Global Foods, a loan officer and a few others to boot. It's a delight to read and, like any good epic, you see what's coming a long way off, but the fun is knowing that everything is going to fit together a certain way and waiting to see how. And Wolfe certainly delivers in that regard.
It would be a crime to go into all the details, but to give you an idea of the masterful plotting Wolfe puts into the book, here's a quick example: Croker has to quickly sell something to calm the bankers and keep them from taking everything, and the easiest asset to unload is the one that doesn't work for anything, his quail plantation. Ever the southern gentleman of bygone days, Croker refuses to give up his extravagant plantation because he thinks he's doing a great service for all the African-Americans he employs as his servants. Anyway, he convinces his CFO to reduce the workforce at his food company by 15%.
Cut to a freezer warehouse outside San Francisco, where Conrad and Kenny are talking about how Kenny doesn't prepare financially for anything in his life whereas Conrad is saving up for a place of his own. Anyway, they talk and you know Conrad is responsible and Kenny isn't. An accident happens and there's a collision of forklifts and Conrad narrowly saves Kenny from getting killed. Kenny is shocked into reality and can't speak. At the end of the night, they get their paychecks, only Conrad's has a little something extra in it: a pink slip. Suddenly, Kenny is irate, caring about something for the first time in his life, while Conrad, the only responsible one of the bunch, is out on his ass, all because some fat white guy wants to keep his plantation. At this moment, you know Conrad's going to go through a lot of changes that will take him somewhere closer to Charlie Croker and that somehow their destinies are intertwined. It's a great human moment packed with all the weight of what's to come.
At 742 pages, this puppy's a monster, but it's a good spring break read or something to save for the beach this summer, unless, of course, you haven't read Bonfire of the Vanities, in which case you should stop reading this and go buy it now. Seriously, now. Okay, I guess you can order it on Amazon in a new window.
A Man in Full doesn't contain all the delightful descriptive passages that were overflowing in Vanities, but it's still a really enjoyable read. Here Wolfe seems more interested in showing off his strength for plotting on an epic scale. The titular character, Charlie Croker, is sort of like the Donald Trump of Atlanta, a developer who has overextended himself and is on the verge and bankruptcy. When Georgia Tech's star athlete is accused of raping the daughter of another prominent (read: white) Atlanta businessman, every disparate interest in the city comes together to prevent Atlanta from erupting into a race riot: the bankers, an African-American corporate lawyer, the African-American mayor, a lowly warehouse worker for Croker Global Foods, a loan officer and a few others to boot. It's a delight to read and, like any good epic, you see what's coming a long way off, but the fun is knowing that everything is going to fit together a certain way and waiting to see how. And Wolfe certainly delivers in that regard.
It would be a crime to go into all the details, but to give you an idea of the masterful plotting Wolfe puts into the book, here's a quick example: Croker has to quickly sell something to calm the bankers and keep them from taking everything, and the easiest asset to unload is the one that doesn't work for anything, his quail plantation. Ever the southern gentleman of bygone days, Croker refuses to give up his extravagant plantation because he thinks he's doing a great service for all the African-Americans he employs as his servants. Anyway, he convinces his CFO to reduce the workforce at his food company by 15%.
Cut to a freezer warehouse outside San Francisco, where Conrad and Kenny are talking about how Kenny doesn't prepare financially for anything in his life whereas Conrad is saving up for a place of his own. Anyway, they talk and you know Conrad is responsible and Kenny isn't. An accident happens and there's a collision of forklifts and Conrad narrowly saves Kenny from getting killed. Kenny is shocked into reality and can't speak. At the end of the night, they get their paychecks, only Conrad's has a little something extra in it: a pink slip. Suddenly, Kenny is irate, caring about something for the first time in his life, while Conrad, the only responsible one of the bunch, is out on his ass, all because some fat white guy wants to keep his plantation. At this moment, you know Conrad's going to go through a lot of changes that will take him somewhere closer to Charlie Croker and that somehow their destinies are intertwined. It's a great human moment packed with all the weight of what's to come.
At 742 pages, this puppy's a monster, but it's a good spring break read or something to save for the beach this summer, unless, of course, you haven't read Bonfire of the Vanities, in which case you should stop reading this and go buy it now. Seriously, now. Okay, I guess you can order it on Amazon in a new window.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Peabodys=Cracker Jacks
So CNN was awarded a Peabody for their coverage of Hurricane Katrina. According to the Peabodys, "No other network provided more information." Yeah, did you happen to mention that so much of it was wrong? You can report on people eating people and win an award? If that's the case, then why did they shut out The Colbert Report?
Blame Game Won, Nobody Cares
That's right, the Katrina Blame Game kind of has a winner ... the Army Corps of Engineers! Hooray! Congratulations! {{Confetti and balloons fall from sky to blazing trumpets}} Did I learn this from Fox News? MSNBC? CNN? No, I had to go to Oyster's page and read the fucking Huffington Post by ... Harry Shearer.
Yes, Kent Brockman broke the fucking story. I guess that shouldn't seem surprising since all the other news anchors are more or less cartoon characters:
Brit Hume is Deputy Dog's ass-sniffing cousin
Anderson Cooper is Linus without the blanket
Greta van Susteren may have been the inspiration for Peppermint Patty, though Rita Cosby may take exception to that
Katie Couric is definitely the skank from Scooby Doo
Miles O'Brien is Elmer Fudd
I could go on, but I should probably let you in on the fun.
So, anyway, the Corps of Engineers admitted to Congress that they fucked up, only forgot to do it when people might still be around to care. They should have timed it out better with the release of Anderson Cooper's book so he could talk about it some more. I'm sure he's all down over how there seem to be fewer people suffering in major catastrophes who he can hug and exploit to boost his worthless career post-Channel One.
Yes, Kent Brockman broke the fucking story. I guess that shouldn't seem surprising since all the other news anchors are more or less cartoon characters:
Brit Hume is Deputy Dog's ass-sniffing cousin
Anderson Cooper is Linus without the blanket
Greta van Susteren may have been the inspiration for Peppermint Patty, though Rita Cosby may take exception to that
Katie Couric is definitely the skank from Scooby Doo
Miles O'Brien is Elmer Fudd
I could go on, but I should probably let you in on the fun.
So, anyway, the Corps of Engineers admitted to Congress that they fucked up, only forgot to do it when people might still be around to care. They should have timed it out better with the release of Anderson Cooper's book so he could talk about it some more. I'm sure he's all down over how there seem to be fewer people suffering in major catastrophes who he can hug and exploit to boost his worthless career post-Channel One.
Praise Jesus (& Jack)
Spoiler Alert: Kiefer Sutherland has signed on for 3 more years of 24, so that means Jack Bauer will live through the season. Thankfully, there's no word on Kim Bauer, so maybe they'll finally put her out of her misery, because she probably hasn't been in a bigger dilemma than sleeping with C. Thomas Howell.
Moving Indoors
I have been rocking a lot of Superchunk lately, probably because I've been downloading one of their albums off of eMusic every month, but the one I've been rocking the most is one I've owned for a couple of years and is considered a "minor work," Indoor Living. I never gave it the attention I should have because I got Foolish around the same time and Foolish is much more readily rockable. But a little time with Indoor Living while I was writing really made my love for it grow and grow. All Superchunk is good, and Indoor Living is no exception. It's light and breezy at times - one of the song titles is "Martinis on the Roof" - but it also knows when to kick out the jams. It's a fabulous laid-back rock CD that keeps it simple yet never ceases to impress.
You can download Superchunk's entire catalog on eMusic, and I highly recommend doing just that.
Download: Superchunk - Indoor Living
"Nu Bruises"
"Song for Marion Brown"
"Marquee"
You can download Superchunk's entire catalog on eMusic, and I highly recommend doing just that.
Download: Superchunk - Indoor Living
"Nu Bruises"
"Song for Marion Brown"
"Marquee"
5% New & Improved
The sidebar has been updated with a second disc of greatest hits, lists for 2006 a fond farewell to Ken Wheaton's Blog, as well as the addition of his Nondating Life, not to mention a new blogger on the blogroll, JD's Blogger Ale. So, if the lit posts are bothersome, go read these folks.
A Fine Young 'Gentleman'
Walker Percy's sophomore novel The Last Gentleman is both a perplexing and exhilarating experience. It's the story of a 25 year-old man who teeters on the edge of a nervous breakdown stemming from his inability to fit in with "the group." When he sees a gorgeous woman, he embarks on a journey that takes him from New York back to his native south and forces him to confront his identity head-on.
The opening chapters are some of the best opening chapters of any book I've read, but I got lost along the way trying to figure out what was going on. Not what was happening in terms of plot, but what Percy was getting at. I couldn't tell if he was being kind of racist and misogynistic because there is definitely some of both going on in The Moviegoer, which I still really like but have to grapple with a bit. In this book, however, a little patience paid off as I started to realize that Percy was confronting the entire southern problem for a man of his main character's generation. The main character felt homeless in Manhattan because it wasn't the south, but when he gets to the south and spends time with some well-off southerners, he finds that he no longer shares the beliefs and ideals that they hold dear. He rejects racism and yet he finds himself in situations in the south (in 1965) and around people who do not want to let it go. So he feels homeless in his own home, which means that he can't use his home to establish his identity. It will all have to come from within, and that is his major dilemma in the book.
All in all, it requires some patience and isn't exactly a page-turner, but by the end, you've had yourself a pretty good read.
The opening chapters are some of the best opening chapters of any book I've read, but I got lost along the way trying to figure out what was going on. Not what was happening in terms of plot, but what Percy was getting at. I couldn't tell if he was being kind of racist and misogynistic because there is definitely some of both going on in The Moviegoer, which I still really like but have to grapple with a bit. In this book, however, a little patience paid off as I started to realize that Percy was confronting the entire southern problem for a man of his main character's generation. The main character felt homeless in Manhattan because it wasn't the south, but when he gets to the south and spends time with some well-off southerners, he finds that he no longer shares the beliefs and ideals that they hold dear. He rejects racism and yet he finds himself in situations in the south (in 1965) and around people who do not want to let it go. So he feels homeless in his own home, which means that he can't use his home to establish his identity. It will all have to come from within, and that is his major dilemma in the book.
All in all, it requires some patience and isn't exactly a page-turner, but by the end, you've had yourself a pretty good read.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Do I Look Like A Muthaf*ckin' Role Model to You?
I am officially a teacher. Next year, at least. Now I have to come up with my course plan for The Art of Adaptation and my booklist and all that. Lots of reading to do, and movie watching, natch.
24 Hour Reads, pt. 2
Since it's part two of 24 Hour reads (the first was The Virgin Suicides), I thought I'd make the sequel bigger and better by covering two books in this post.
First up is Child of God by Cormac McCarthy. Regular readers know that I'm a huge fan of C-Daddy Mac, and he does not disappoint in this one. It's a dark, slightly comedic portrayal of a man named Lester Ballard, who lives in defiance of the law and hides in the mountains and ... did I mention he's a necrophiliac? McCarthy gives him a sympathetic but still harrowing treatment as a "Child of God like you and me." It's best taken in during a long sitting - and completely doable. It's extremely visual and powerful and in league with all of McCarthy's great work.
Then there's Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut. I think every book of his I've read has taken me less than 24 hours. You just can't stop reading them. They swallow you whole. This one, however, is a bit of a disappointment. It starts out pretty good: Walter Starbuck is the least-known Watergate conspirator, the Milton-esque schmuck whose basement office was used to store the slush fund. Starbuck narrates his life to us and it's the story of a man who reaches continually for prestige, recognition and power and only gets pathetic morsels of it. But it just doesn't hit home the way you know Vonnegut can. But so what? It only took a day to read it.
First up is Child of God by Cormac McCarthy. Regular readers know that I'm a huge fan of C-Daddy Mac, and he does not disappoint in this one. It's a dark, slightly comedic portrayal of a man named Lester Ballard, who lives in defiance of the law and hides in the mountains and ... did I mention he's a necrophiliac? McCarthy gives him a sympathetic but still harrowing treatment as a "Child of God like you and me." It's best taken in during a long sitting - and completely doable. It's extremely visual and powerful and in league with all of McCarthy's great work.
Then there's Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut. I think every book of his I've read has taken me less than 24 hours. You just can't stop reading them. They swallow you whole. This one, however, is a bit of a disappointment. It starts out pretty good: Walter Starbuck is the least-known Watergate conspirator, the Milton-esque schmuck whose basement office was used to store the slush fund. Starbuck narrates his life to us and it's the story of a man who reaches continually for prestige, recognition and power and only gets pathetic morsels of it. But it just doesn't hit home the way you know Vonnegut can. But so what? It only took a day to read it.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
A Not-So "Changed Man"
I read this book a long time ago and am just getting around to posting about it, so it seems less and less important the longer I wait, but what the hey, let's talk anyway.
I am a huge Francine Prose fan, so I was really excited when I learned that her new novel, A Changed Man, was going to be about a reformed skinhead who becomes a pawn among the special interest groups as they scrap for the coveted millions of rich white people. And I was still excited when I started the book. "This is going to be great. It's really going somewhere," I thought. But somewhere around the middle, a sinking feeling started to set in ... "This is all it's going to be about? Nothing else is going to happen?" Bummer.
That's kind of giving the book a bit of a harsh treatment. It's a good book, perfectly enjoyable, but it really swung for the fence and could only scrap a solid single out of it. Perhaps it's because Prose is treading the same ground as Alexander Payne did in Citizen Ruth and Payne does it much better that's bothering me, but it seems to me that Prose could do so much better than this. Her last book, Blue Angel, did great things with a well-worn subject, but it doesn't work this time out. No big worry, though. They can't all be winners. At least it didn't suck.
I am a huge Francine Prose fan, so I was really excited when I learned that her new novel, A Changed Man, was going to be about a reformed skinhead who becomes a pawn among the special interest groups as they scrap for the coveted millions of rich white people. And I was still excited when I started the book. "This is going to be great. It's really going somewhere," I thought. But somewhere around the middle, a sinking feeling started to set in ... "This is all it's going to be about? Nothing else is going to happen?" Bummer.
That's kind of giving the book a bit of a harsh treatment. It's a good book, perfectly enjoyable, but it really swung for the fence and could only scrap a solid single out of it. Perhaps it's because Prose is treading the same ground as Alexander Payne did in Citizen Ruth and Payne does it much better that's bothering me, but it seems to me that Prose could do so much better than this. Her last book, Blue Angel, did great things with a well-worn subject, but it doesn't work this time out. No big worry, though. They can't all be winners. At least it didn't suck.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Lovely & Amazing Again
Just when I come out and proclaim that Thank You for Smoking is the first great film of 2006, the second great film comes out. What luck for all of us! This second film is even better and has more heart and sincerity than anything else we're likely to see this year. The film is Nicole Holofcener's third feature Friends With Money. It stars Jennifer Aniston, Catherine Keener, Joan Cusack and Frances McDormand. Holofcener's last film was Lovely & Amazing, a film Murphette and I loved but some people hated. If you didn't like L&A or her first film Walking & Talking, then you should steer clear of this one, but if you liked them, then believe me when I say that it's just as good as anything she's done and, in some ways, better. Anyway, the film is basically about a group of friends, three married, one not, and their daily lives and struggles. It's absolutely hilarious, touching and delightful. I'd go into more detail, but I just wanted to churn something out quickly about it and see if people agree or disagree.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thank You for Filming
Thank You for Smoking is the first great film of 2006, a delicious blend of the corporate intrigue of The Insider, the scathing satire of Network and the irreverent glee of Election. I saw it last weekend and am still laughing about it. Clever, nuanced, energetic and never sanctimonious, Jason Reitman gives one hope that perhaps nepotism is not such a bad thing all the time. Aaron Eckhart delivers his best performance that isn't in a Neil Labute film, and damn the award nazis if they overlook him and Rob Lowe, who always manages to turn a cameo into a tour de force. Even Adam Brody gives you hope for the future in this movie. But, of course, there is one major problem: Katie Holmes-Hubbard. I don't know what has happened to her. In The Gift and Wonder Boys, she was a good actress, but in Batman Begins and in this, she's god-awful. I think it has to do with the fact that she is not believable as a responsible adult. I can't picture her getting through law school or being intelligent enough to be a backstabbing journalist. She's terrible, but thankfully she's not in the film enough to tank it.
Anyway, close your eyes when she's onscreen and you'll enjoy this truly great film.
Anyway, close your eyes when she's onscreen and you'll enjoy this truly great film.
New Built to Spill Album Online
Listen to their latest, You in Reverse, due out next week, on VH1.com.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Validation, Baby
Just as I'm getting knee-deep into work on a book proposal for a book of essays based on some of my blog writing, a small publishing group contacts me to tell me they want to include one of my posts in an anthology of blog writing. I'll deliver more details after things get more concrete, but it's just the kind of nitro boost one needs when trying something new.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Donald, You're Fired!
The Apprentice has been removed from my TiVo Season Pass schedule. I can't get over how unbearably bad this season is. Last night's episode made me chuckle a few times, but only because of some things The Donald said in the middle. These boardrooms aren't even entertaining. They're just frustrating. No one brings in the right people. Ever. And watching someone inadvertently fall on their sword is not good TV.
Although I will say that the musical episodes are generally fun because you get to see these completely uncreative people write really stupid songs that they procede to dance to and sing along with like it was "Whole Lotta Love". I know you're excited, but I think even children have the common sense to know that they don't rock that hard, especially when they're writing a freaking jingle for Arby's. Though the whole thing did get me jonesing for some Arby's, but I didn't want to drive into the seediest part of Hollywood to get some. And their fries are kind of crappy. And it's raining.
Although I will say that the musical episodes are generally fun because you get to see these completely uncreative people write really stupid songs that they procede to dance to and sing along with like it was "Whole Lotta Love". I know you're excited, but I think even children have the common sense to know that they don't rock that hard, especially when they're writing a freaking jingle for Arby's. Though the whole thing did get me jonesing for some Arby's, but I didn't want to drive into the seediest part of Hollywood to get some. And their fries are kind of crappy. And it's raining.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Cool Book Signings Coming Up
A. M. Homes reads and signs This Book Will Save Your Life
May 5, 2006 - 7:30 PM
George Saunders reads and signs In Persuasion Nation
May 11, 2006 - 7:30 PM
Both events are at Skylight Books in Los Feliz. No reservation or jacket required. Just show up.
May 5, 2006 - 7:30 PM
George Saunders reads and signs In Persuasion Nation
May 11, 2006 - 7:30 PM
Both events are at Skylight Books in Los Feliz. No reservation or jacket required. Just show up.
Opening Day
Well, I just watch the Dodgers come close to making a huge comeback as they lost to the Braves 11-10. I hadn't watched a baseball game in a long time, and I regretted not watching more games in the past few years ... except for one thing: why does every asshole who sits behind home plate have to get on his cell phone and wave to someone during the game? And not just once, but like five times? You've already spent at least $100 to get seats like that, and you're going to spend your time at the game calling people to tell them to look at your dumb ass distracting thousands of baseball fans? You would think that being able to afford such seats would make you so uppity that being on TV wouldn't mean anything to you. Think again. Maybe someday I'll get the seat behind that guy and I can spend the baseball game making fun of him for the television audience.
My New Addiction
You know what they say: when you give something up, replace it with something else. Well, since I can't drink for six months, and since I got me a nice new job, I treated myself to a new video game. This isn't just any video game - it's $70 price tag assures you of that - this is educational. This game teaches you how to rock. Of course I'm talking about Guitar Hero.
Guitar Hero is a game in which you play some of your favorite classic rock songs and earn points for doing it. The game comes with a guitar that serves as your controller. It has five colored buttons, a strumming button and a freakin' whammy bar. Here's what the screen looks like during a game:
So when the colored dots get to the bottom, you have to press that color button on your "fretboard" and hit your strum bar at the same time, otherwise the song sounds like shit and the crowd will start to boo you (that's where the meter on the right comes in). The box on the left is for your points, which get multiplied (X3) the longer you play every note (a streak). At the end of the song, assuming you get through it, you are awarded the points, receive a review in a rock mag and get cash for the gig, which you can use to buy a new guitar, new songs, etc. The background is your show as you're playing it. If you're really rocking, your character will do all kinds of crazy moves like throwing the guitar in the air, setting it on fire and, of course, smashing it at the end of the song. It's awesome and incredibly addictive. And, if your friend has the game too, you can play 2 player and go head-to-head in a rock challenge. One of my friends has this, but we have yet to get together to rock.
The songs include "Smoke on the Water", "Ironman", "I Wanna Be Sedated", "Ziggy Stardust" (with an additional guitar solo), Megadeth's "Symphony of Destruction" (Awesome) and many more! I find myself getting excited by a Sum 41 song on the game, or bobbing my head as I play "More Than A Feeling". It's just the best video game there is until they create a drum set and do Drum God or something like that. Anyway, if you have a PS2, I highly recommend getting this.
For those about to rock, I salute you.
Spring Break '06
Woooo! My school is on spring break, so they can't call me in to sub, which means I can write some posts every now and again.
Don't call it a comeback. I've been here for years.
Don't call it a comeback. I've been here for years.
