This sounds like a fat fuck version of Dubya.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Vodka Cougars, Hip Hop Hookers and the Written Word
I realize that, like music, most readers do not have well refined tastes. They seek out the latest get rich tome, the newest book that will GUARANTEE to change your life (The Secret or A New Earth, as of now) and pulp bullshit like David Baladaci or James Patterson and still, for some odd reason, Danielle Steele. The latest Oprah pimped masterpiece will surely sell out in days and the publisher will have to rush to print the next gazillion copies. You're dying? Fucking hell, then write a book telling people to appreciate the precious gift that will not be robbed from them prematurely and it will surely be gifted to every co-worker and recent graduate (seriously, fuck the phenomenon that is The Last Lecture. I was more moved by Al Pacino's speech at the end of Any Given Sunday).
We are a nation (and soon will become a world) filled with people who embrace trends and are constantly told they are miserable and should always seek perfection. The problem is that perfection is a myth. We all have our flaws but the way folks are steamrolled into treating those maladies is just plain wrong. This society is told that to truly improve yourself you need to have more money, conform to the standards set by everyone else or just shut the fuck up. The aforementioned books don't teach people to truly evaluate and revise their life but to improve their current situation. Make more money so you don't have to worry about being a narcissistic douche bag. Ignore your ego and let everyone around you piss down your back. Fuck that noise.
Now, we must contend with new, way more low brow, literary endeavors meant simply to be salacious. The tell-all memoir.
Sure, this is old hat in publishing but it has never been as so shallow as it is currently. The self-help and get-rich-quick bullshit is pathetic but the eagerness of people to read about how big Rapper X's dick is or who tried to the fuck the secretary at Label X is just disgusting. Not as bad as the customers who await to lap up names and details and never focus on a narrative (what the fuck did I just write? THERE IS NO NARRATIVE TO ANY OF THESE "memoirs") just to be the first to tell someone at a water cooler about the juicy gossip they just ingested that will surely thrust the emotional resonance of King Lear out of their peanut sized brains.
Chelsea Handler is the latest to benefit from this sleaze obsessed culture. She started out with My Horizontal Life, an epic work detailing the author going out and fucking random people and then writing about all the whimsical mishaps that occurred. Now, she has Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea and it's almost impossible to keep in stock.
The cunt is a comedian and her writing reflects that (hey, know your enemy) but what she has to write about is just boring. Just another Karyn Steffens (The Vixen Diaries) without the names to back it up. However, because she is a pseudo-celebrity, people just can't wait to see how the other half lives. Those who can drink $20 Cosmos at trendy spots while trolling for midgets, black men and other oh so colourful characters only entering her life to later be exploited for the sake of comedic writing. And man, look at that back picture on the book jacket. She looks like 30 miles of rough road after loaning her gash out to the quickest and quirkiest taker just for a story. It's lame, it's stupid and it SHOULD be beneath every one of us.
I've had my share of one night stands that have been intensely comedic but no one cares fuck all to read about them. And I wouldn't want to write about them in detail either out of respect to the willing participants who might have a different take on the events. Shouldn't all the guys Handler shunned for having little willies be able to retort in print and earn the same accolades as she has since they were mutual partners in a joined experience? Why can't I get published for detailing what are assumed to be private matters just to exploit the wackiness of it all? And why are we embracing a woman for, sorry to be so crude, intentionally acting like a slut and then rewarding her for it with 30 pieces of silver and a bestselling author label on top of it?
The sad truth is that it's all in the name. If Vonnegut or Salinger wrote a brilliant novel under the name of some random dude, no one would notice. No one would care. They would ignore the indelible awesomeness of the work simply because it wasn't from a brand. Shit, as negative and tepid as they are, James Frey still gets reviewed in all the biggies. Literature...fuck that...the act of typing or even orally dictating liaisons to a lackey has devolved to the point of branding. It only used to be extended to mass market standards, authors who churn out bullshit mystery thriller after bullshit romance novel that only sell in insane quantities because the books are easy to read and trash bin tripe that's perfect for the plane ride. It has extended it's wretched grasp to all aspects of the written word and while it's great to see human beings who only flip through People magazine for the headlines and pictures actually pick up something over 40 pages to read, if it's garbage, then what's the point?
Think of it as the audio equivalent of listening to a Fall Out Boy record and going, "Meh, it wasn't too bad." And then weep for the future of literature and our society. This world has turned into Alicia Silverstones clique in Clueless. I'm paraphrasing here, "We read one book a week. Nothing heavy. And the discuss for an hour!" And painting Barack Obama an elitist was so juicy for Americans to agree with and embrace? Wonder why.
We are a nation (and soon will become a world) filled with people who embrace trends and are constantly told they are miserable and should always seek perfection. The problem is that perfection is a myth. We all have our flaws but the way folks are steamrolled into treating those maladies is just plain wrong. This society is told that to truly improve yourself you need to have more money, conform to the standards set by everyone else or just shut the fuck up. The aforementioned books don't teach people to truly evaluate and revise their life but to improve their current situation. Make more money so you don't have to worry about being a narcissistic douche bag. Ignore your ego and let everyone around you piss down your back. Fuck that noise.
Now, we must contend with new, way more low brow, literary endeavors meant simply to be salacious. The tell-all memoir.
Sure, this is old hat in publishing but it has never been as so shallow as it is currently. The self-help and get-rich-quick bullshit is pathetic but the eagerness of people to read about how big Rapper X's dick is or who tried to the fuck the secretary at Label X is just disgusting. Not as bad as the customers who await to lap up names and details and never focus on a narrative (what the fuck did I just write? THERE IS NO NARRATIVE TO ANY OF THESE "memoirs") just to be the first to tell someone at a water cooler about the juicy gossip they just ingested that will surely thrust the emotional resonance of King Lear out of their peanut sized brains.
Chelsea Handler is the latest to benefit from this sleaze obsessed culture. She started out with My Horizontal Life, an epic work detailing the author going out and fucking random people and then writing about all the whimsical mishaps that occurred. Now, she has Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea and it's almost impossible to keep in stock.
The cunt is a comedian and her writing reflects that (hey, know your enemy) but what she has to write about is just boring. Just another Karyn Steffens (The Vixen Diaries) without the names to back it up. However, because she is a pseudo-celebrity, people just can't wait to see how the other half lives. Those who can drink $20 Cosmos at trendy spots while trolling for midgets, black men and other oh so colourful characters only entering her life to later be exploited for the sake of comedic writing. And man, look at that back picture on the book jacket. She looks like 30 miles of rough road after loaning her gash out to the quickest and quirkiest taker just for a story. It's lame, it's stupid and it SHOULD be beneath every one of us.
I've had my share of one night stands that have been intensely comedic but no one cares fuck all to read about them. And I wouldn't want to write about them in detail either out of respect to the willing participants who might have a different take on the events. Shouldn't all the guys Handler shunned for having little willies be able to retort in print and earn the same accolades as she has since they were mutual partners in a joined experience? Why can't I get published for detailing what are assumed to be private matters just to exploit the wackiness of it all? And why are we embracing a woman for, sorry to be so crude, intentionally acting like a slut and then rewarding her for it with 30 pieces of silver and a bestselling author label on top of it?
The sad truth is that it's all in the name. If Vonnegut or Salinger wrote a brilliant novel under the name of some random dude, no one would notice. No one would care. They would ignore the indelible awesomeness of the work simply because it wasn't from a brand. Shit, as negative and tepid as they are, James Frey still gets reviewed in all the biggies. Literature...fuck that...the act of typing or even orally dictating liaisons to a lackey has devolved to the point of branding. It only used to be extended to mass market standards, authors who churn out bullshit mystery thriller after bullshit romance novel that only sell in insane quantities because the books are easy to read and trash bin tripe that's perfect for the plane ride. It has extended it's wretched grasp to all aspects of the written word and while it's great to see human beings who only flip through People magazine for the headlines and pictures actually pick up something over 40 pages to read, if it's garbage, then what's the point?
Think of it as the audio equivalent of listening to a Fall Out Boy record and going, "Meh, it wasn't too bad." And then weep for the future of literature and our society. This world has turned into Alicia Silverstones clique in Clueless. I'm paraphrasing here, "We read one book a week. Nothing heavy. And the discuss for an hour!" And painting Barack Obama an elitist was so juicy for Americans to agree with and embrace? Wonder why.
Happy Memorial Day
And fuck you George W. Bush. Thanks to all the veterans of our military past, present and future. This day is for you.
Friday, May 23, 2008
GOD Finally Gets a Documentary
I will have to say that everything said about Mr. Kilmister in this trailer is fucking a true. Even if it comes from C.C. Deville. Lemmy rules and now we can spread his gospel via the magic of cinema to future generations next year. "Rock 'N' Roll is Lemmy. Lemmy is Rock 'N' Roll." And how about how he tells the most middle school cliched joke ever at the end but it still sounds fucking amazing. That's the power GOD has. Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Good Luck, R. Kelly
I spaced that this scumbag's trial was starting for the now legendary piss fueled video. I doubt he'll skate by this time unless he decides to sing "I Believe I Can Fly" during the closing arguments. It's not hard to understand how something so batshit crazy that a variation of it came from a motherfucking Boondocks episode could happen. So, we celebrate this occasion with the most ludicrous part of Kelly's epic masterpiece, Trapped in the Closet. Oh yeah, it's also got Omar from the Wire, so, you know it rules.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Jay Debauchery Just Came in His Pants
No, really, it happened. Here is why. From LAtimes.com:Brian Wilson extends his personal and creative renaissance of the last decade with an ambitious new themed album, "That Lucky Old Sun," a work to be released in September exploring the Southern California culture that he helped define musically in the 1960s as the guiding creative force of the Beach Boys.
I don't care if it sounds like Hannah Montana, WE ARE GETTING ANOTHER RECORD FROM BRIAN WILSON. Watch out, Jameson, here I come!
J
The Yankees and the...Ewww, Magic Thong
Given the whole Derek Jeter has herpes fiasco and A-Rod's love of tranny looking chicks, one wonders just how sanitary the Bronx Bombers clubhouse is. And it even gets filthier. Apparently, they like to share a thong betrothed to Jason Giambi (aka Fat Fuck Clemens). Don't believe me?
"I only put it on when I'm desperate to get out of a big slump," he tells Portfolio.com. Over the years, the 37-year-old All-Star has left the "golden thong" in the lockers of slumping teammates Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Johnny Damon, Robin Ventura, and Robinson Cano.
That doesn't seem to be working out to well, now does it? They're in the fucking cellar and the mighty Red Sox are at the top of the AL East. The universe has finally righted itself.
All bias asdie, I totally understand baseball superstitions and whatnot but sharing a fucking thong? It makes sense for someone who, you know, actually plays a position to sport something so outrageous to keep them calm at all times but for an overglorified DH who is in rapid decline to strap the thong on leaves many questions unanswered. Big Papi doesn't resort to that shit. I think Giambi truly believes it makes him look less slobbish. It ain't working, bro.
And for no reason other than to really hammer my point home, here are my true feelings about the New York Yankees.
"I only put it on when I'm desperate to get out of a big slump," he tells Portfolio.com. Over the years, the 37-year-old All-Star has left the "golden thong" in the lockers of slumping teammates Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, Johnny Damon, Robin Ventura, and Robinson Cano.
That doesn't seem to be working out to well, now does it? They're in the fucking cellar and the mighty Red Sox are at the top of the AL East. The universe has finally righted itself.
All bias asdie, I totally understand baseball superstitions and whatnot but sharing a fucking thong? It makes sense for someone who, you know, actually plays a position to sport something so outrageous to keep them calm at all times but for an overglorified DH who is in rapid decline to strap the thong on leaves many questions unanswered. Big Papi doesn't resort to that shit. I think Giambi truly believes it makes him look less slobbish. It ain't working, bro.
And for no reason other than to really hammer my point home, here are my true feelings about the New York Yankees.
This is No Way to Show Fat Elvis Love for His Greatness
Fucking Richard Justice, man. This guy finally stops being smug, blowing the Longhorns and actually writes about the pleasantries of the Astros this month to go on and fuck it up like this. Ugh. Yes, I know this is not credited to Justice at all but he posted it on his blog and it's linked to the 1560 site. See, watching the Adventures of Ford Fairline via OnDemand has sharpened my sleuthing skills! Anyhoo, check out this wretched abortion of a tribute and let's cross our fingers that someone, like, Pride Kills will record a track to give Lance Berkman the aural love he so deserves.
The Big Puma Song
You know what, how about we start writing into 1560 and the Justice's blog to let him know our displeasure with the song? Join in with me folks, my first spam will be on his site in a mere moments.
The Big Puma Song
You know what, how about we start writing into 1560 and the Justice's blog to let him know our displeasure with the song? Join in with me folks, my first spam will be on his site in a mere moments.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Scarlett Johanson, Once Again, Un-Fuckable
Look, she banged Derek Jeter. 'Nuff said. Now she has unleashed an unholy album of Tom Waits covers. YES, THAT TOM WAITS. It's just unforgivable. I guess this is what current MILF's who were into music felt when they heard "She's Like the Wind" or Don Johnson's record. Goddamn, this bitch really must not understand that Waits' voice is more essential to the songs than the music itself. This should be understood from his minimalism in the studio. Scarlett thought it would be cool to get a bunch of hipster looking studio rats to over-produce the fuck out of the tune. Hon, Zoey Deschanel has got a pretty decent voice and it's miles beyond yours. This should've been your first hint that this little vanity project was a wretched, ill thought, idea.
Let's have a comparison and, dear, few, readers, I appologize for subjecting you to this.
Now for the mouthwash.
Let's have a comparison and, dear, few, readers, I appologize for subjecting you to this.
Now for the mouthwash.
BeTWEEN No Rock and a Shitty Musical World Run by Disney
In case you haven't realized it yet, we are amidst another wave of teeny-bopper (now dubbed so cutely as tweens) music mutilation. Hannah Montana is the anti-christ at the epicenter of this epidemic and the Jonas Brothers are currently whipping the four horsemen of the apocalypse as this tsunami of shit barrels its way across the world. We were lucky enough to have controversial figures like Eminem (I refuse to call that motherfucker an artists. Yeah, he's got skill with words but his music is just phlacid. You wanna know how to combine a biting tongue with sick beats then check out Saul Williams' Amethyist Rock)skate us into the new millenium while Spears, Aguilera, and Moore were drowned out by kids who wanted something dangerous.
And this is the appeal of vacant pop music marketed towards the Disney set for parents. It's safe. It takes no risks and offers nothing but filler until the kid gets into high school and their musical tastes are permanently fucked. They will go on to consume whatever the turd du jour is happily while ignoring classic, innovative artists who dared to push the boundaries into the level of brilliance. To put it simply, those cats will never understand "Sister Ray" or think of checking out the Stooges or become awash in the feedback glory that is the Jesus and Mary Chain. What the tween scene does is set up an entire generation of fans for ruined ears.
And now it seems like it is an unstoppable cycle. The New Kids on the Block are getting back together because a generation of mother's JUST HAS to share the clit throbbing anthemn "Please Don't Go Girl" with their daughters and, fuck I can't believe I read this, let alone will be re-typing it, the Funky Bunch (of Marky Mark fame) are re-uniting sans Mr. Walhberg, of course.
This threat has progressed to an inter-generational level disaster. What started with Raffi and the Wiggles has crept its way further up the chain and you can see the end results of this sort of bile with uninspired and utterly generic bands like Fall Out Boy. Or, even worse, it leads to the kids seeking out faux-serious "emotionally tumulutuous" crap like 30 Seconds to Mars or whoever the fuck Victory Records is pushing these days.
But, there is a benefit. There are small portion of kids who see through the bullshit and try something daring and are brave enough to fail. They discover new things on their own and keep the underground going. They become inextricably attatched to genres like punk and hardcore, drown themselves in the ideologies and practices and learn to truly deconstruct music and find out just what makes a song a great one no matter the genre or classification. Some stay in their respective scenes and keep 'em going strong and others absorb the knowledge and ethics until they decide to move on to pastures that look more green from their viewpoint.
No matter how many Elvis Costello's or Joe Strummer's or Brian Wilson's or Lou Reed's or Joey Ramone's (all whom transformed the universal axiom of adolescent rage into beauty and transcended norms to become rock 'n' roll icons), we are given nothing will stop the surge of safety coveted by soccer moms.
Once again, we must weather the storm and wait for the geniuses to emerge. Sadly, it doesn't seem like we'll be getting to many from this lot. Time will tell.
And this is the appeal of vacant pop music marketed towards the Disney set for parents. It's safe. It takes no risks and offers nothing but filler until the kid gets into high school and their musical tastes are permanently fucked. They will go on to consume whatever the turd du jour is happily while ignoring classic, innovative artists who dared to push the boundaries into the level of brilliance. To put it simply, those cats will never understand "Sister Ray" or think of checking out the Stooges or become awash in the feedback glory that is the Jesus and Mary Chain. What the tween scene does is set up an entire generation of fans for ruined ears.
And now it seems like it is an unstoppable cycle. The New Kids on the Block are getting back together because a generation of mother's JUST HAS to share the clit throbbing anthemn "Please Don't Go Girl" with their daughters and, fuck I can't believe I read this, let alone will be re-typing it, the Funky Bunch (of Marky Mark fame) are re-uniting sans Mr. Walhberg, of course.
This threat has progressed to an inter-generational level disaster. What started with Raffi and the Wiggles has crept its way further up the chain and you can see the end results of this sort of bile with uninspired and utterly generic bands like Fall Out Boy. Or, even worse, it leads to the kids seeking out faux-serious "emotionally tumulutuous" crap like 30 Seconds to Mars or whoever the fuck Victory Records is pushing these days.
But, there is a benefit. There are small portion of kids who see through the bullshit and try something daring and are brave enough to fail. They discover new things on their own and keep the underground going. They become inextricably attatched to genres like punk and hardcore, drown themselves in the ideologies and practices and learn to truly deconstruct music and find out just what makes a song a great one no matter the genre or classification. Some stay in their respective scenes and keep 'em going strong and others absorb the knowledge and ethics until they decide to move on to pastures that look more green from their viewpoint.
No matter how many Elvis Costello's or Joe Strummer's or Brian Wilson's or Lou Reed's or Joey Ramone's (all whom transformed the universal axiom of adolescent rage into beauty and transcended norms to become rock 'n' roll icons), we are given nothing will stop the surge of safety coveted by soccer moms.
Once again, we must weather the storm and wait for the geniuses to emerge. Sadly, it doesn't seem like we'll be getting to many from this lot. Time will tell.
June 22nd Will Be a Glorious Evening
So, in case you hadn't heard, Tom Waits is touring. In America. This never fucking happens and it's at Jones Hall, which is a really rad venue (me and the Dead Kennedy saw Patti Smith there some years back and she slayed). It's comfy, intimate for larger acts and my only gripe is that it's a seated joint (of course, this didn't stop aged hippies from dancing in the aisles during "Rock 'N' Roll Nigger" at the aforementioned Smith show). Black Nathan and myself will be in attendance. Envy us, bitches. Thursday, May 15, 2008
Mr. Berkman, Please Kill Yourself Has a Proposition for You
You know we all love you and you might even remember that whole "Big Puma thing ain't gonna happen" post I made a few months back. Well, we've got an offer for you. Initially, after seeing you rip to shreds just about anything in the strike zone (regardless of what side of the plate you were hitting from) I started to feel that you had the right to call yourself whatever the fuck you want. If you suddenly felt that "Long Dong Slugger" should be your knew nickname then, that was aces with me. But then, after having a conversation with Black Nathan and few others last night we had a realization. We're still not ready to go with the Big Puma handle yet.
Black Nathan has thrown down the gauntlet and we all agree: if you steal 30 bases this season, we will all preach the gospel that Fat Elvis is dead and buried. Pretty sweet, right? I mean, you've already got 7 and can make that number if they give you the green light and we really do feel that this will prove your game is truly...what did you say? "Sleek and atheltic."
So get to it and keep knocking balls into the stratosphere especially like you did today when we raged back from a 6 run defecit and you carried us over the edge in the ninth. We wish you the best.
Sincerely, The Entire Please Kill Yourself Staff
Manny Spreads His Awesomeness to the Fans
Holy fucking shit. Let's make no bones about it, Manny Ramirez isn't really an athlete. He's a hitter and a Fenway left fielder but this play...sweet titty fucking christ!
Okay, so he makes a wicked catch, high fives the only Red Sox fan to be seen and STILL throws out the runner at first trying to tag. Wow.
Okay, so he makes a wicked catch, high fives the only Red Sox fan to be seen and STILL throws out the runner at first trying to tag. Wow.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Human Feces: Cool, Cigarette Butts: Not
We have some pretty odd regulars at work and there is a pair that is almost certifuckingfiably crazy. This is a story about them.
The woman we call Danielle Steele cause every time she comes into the store (which is multiple times a week) she asks if the shitball author has any new books out. She's an older lady with a fondness for bright, pastel-colored stretch pants and funky floral pattern shirts. Ms. Steele is a little overweight and dumpy as well and if you're the unlucky employee whom she selects to badger for half hour blocks, your day quickly turns to shit.
Danielle Steele is married to a short, scrawny rat looking motherfucker who we have no clever name for yet. He's just referred to as Danielle Steele's husband. And he has the same habit of annoying the shit out of you as his wife. One time I was telling some of my friends on the job about how I just helped some reformed hippie rocking Brooks Brothers gear and finished the thought with, "Those assholes are probably gonna vote for Clinton. The irony is that when they were younger and hadn't sold out their beliefs Barak would've been their boy." Mr. Steele overheard this and, I shit you not, for 20 minutes gushed over Obama. No matter what I tried, I couldn't get away and eventually a manager saw the spectacle and paged me over the PA just to get me the fuck outta there.
They never buy anything but, like so many others, treat the store as their own personal fucking library slowly creeping through whatever the latest dumbass mass market trash novel by the latest dumbass mass market trash author has shat out and published. Oh, and they frequently like to bitch about stupid shit like magazine subscription cards littering the cafe or even the fact that there is nowhere for them to sit. Which brings us to our story.
One night, around the holidays, my buddy Anthony and I were just trying to kill time before we close, jawing about music when the manager on duty, Jabbar, let's out the most pathetic fucking sigh imaginable before saying, "All right, guys. I'm going up on the list for a while with this one." We have a list in the back office that you get to sign when you have executed a rather disgusting task. 9 times out of 10 it involves something in the bathroom.
Anthony and I looked at each other puzzled. We've both have had to clean up some nasty business in the store but never thought that any of the chores would bring the epic ammount of immunity Jabbar had just claimed. So, I asked.
"Jabbar, what could be so revolting that you get to pull yourself off bathroom duty?"
"Jay, just trust me on this one. I'm really taking one for the team here." Now, I had moved from a state of slight curiosity an almost obsessive need to know just what the hell was going on. So, I prodded him for more information and he dropped the bomb.
"I'm about to clean up a huge pile of mushy shit that someone left next to the toilet, okay? So, I hope nobody needs me for the next 20 minutes."
20 minutes! Whoah, this had to be an epic deuce. Anthony and I decided that we had to check this out (hey, I used to clean the bathrooms at Fitz so nothing shocks me) and felt we should help Jabbar out.
Upon entering the bathroom, we find Jabbar with the look of a man who is teetering on the brink of giving up all hope in humanity. Imagine William S. Burroughs with a frown and you've got a good idea. Then we see the...well...shit.
It was in the handicapped stall (why does everyone feel the need to do the most horrendous stuff in the handy-stall? I guess I can understand because, you know, you've got plenty of room but think about the intended users of the facility and ask yourself if you could defile it as well) and there was a pretty sizable mound. And Jabbar was right about the mushy part. You could just tell. The deuce looked like a pile of baby food that had solidified in the fridge and was in between a discarded containter of Chinese food and a stomped out Newport.
After gloving up and taking a couple of the to be discarded display posters from the back we get to work on shoveling the pile onto the posters and into the toilet. As we're standing above the john, ready to deposit what should have been left in there in the first place, Danielle Steele's husband comes in.
His eyes laser in on an object on the floor. His iron steel gaze soon gives way to shock, then horror and then outrage. He is shaking he is so furious. We got the dookie hovering above the bowl, a second shy of dumping it in, when he explodes.
"THAT'S A CIGARETTE BUTT! YOU CAN'T SMOKE IN A BOOKSTORE. THAT CAN'T BE THERE. THAT IS A CIGARETTE BUTT!" The three of us give each other a "what the fuck" look and Jabbar nods down to the floor. We ease the posters filled with fecal matter down to the floor and he delicately grabs the Newport butt, gently tosses it in the toilet, flushes and flashes one of the most brilliant "fuck you" smiles I have ever seen. Mr. Steele unleashes a heavy sigh of relief, wipes his brow and says thanks while throwing his hands up in the air before storming out. We complete our task silently before heading to wash our hands and then back onto the sales floor.
We felt beaten, robbed of any sort of sunny outlook on the world for a few minutes. It's not like anyone ever cleaned up a pile of shit and felt good about themselves or their station in life afterward. It's an an occurance that makes you really say, "Is this really the best that I can do or the best that's out there for me?" Then, of course, Jabbar saw the silver lining in the whole ordeal for the rest of us and brought our spirits back to life.
"'That's a cigarette butt?' What the fuck is wrong with that man. Yeah, a Newport is the problem. Not the steaming pile of shit sitting next to it."
Smiles quickly crept across our faces and suddenly things didn't seem so bad.
Danielle Steele is married to a short, scrawny rat looking motherfucker who we have no clever name for yet. He's just referred to as Danielle Steele's husband. And he has the same habit of annoying the shit out of you as his wife. One time I was telling some of my friends on the job about how I just helped some reformed hippie rocking Brooks Brothers gear and finished the thought with, "Those assholes are probably gonna vote for Clinton. The irony is that when they were younger and hadn't sold out their beliefs Barak would've been their boy." Mr. Steele overheard this and, I shit you not, for 20 minutes gushed over Obama. No matter what I tried, I couldn't get away and eventually a manager saw the spectacle and paged me over the PA just to get me the fuck outta there.
They never buy anything but, like so many others, treat the store as their own personal fucking library slowly creeping through whatever the latest dumbass mass market trash novel by the latest dumbass mass market trash author has shat out and published. Oh, and they frequently like to bitch about stupid shit like magazine subscription cards littering the cafe or even the fact that there is nowhere for them to sit. Which brings us to our story.
One night, around the holidays, my buddy Anthony and I were just trying to kill time before we close, jawing about music when the manager on duty, Jabbar, let's out the most pathetic fucking sigh imaginable before saying, "All right, guys. I'm going up on the list for a while with this one." We have a list in the back office that you get to sign when you have executed a rather disgusting task. 9 times out of 10 it involves something in the bathroom.
Anthony and I looked at each other puzzled. We've both have had to clean up some nasty business in the store but never thought that any of the chores would bring the epic ammount of immunity Jabbar had just claimed. So, I asked.
"Jabbar, what could be so revolting that you get to pull yourself off bathroom duty?"
"Jay, just trust me on this one. I'm really taking one for the team here." Now, I had moved from a state of slight curiosity an almost obsessive need to know just what the hell was going on. So, I prodded him for more information and he dropped the bomb.
"I'm about to clean up a huge pile of mushy shit that someone left next to the toilet, okay? So, I hope nobody needs me for the next 20 minutes."
20 minutes! Whoah, this had to be an epic deuce. Anthony and I decided that we had to check this out (hey, I used to clean the bathrooms at Fitz so nothing shocks me) and felt we should help Jabbar out.
Upon entering the bathroom, we find Jabbar with the look of a man who is teetering on the brink of giving up all hope in humanity. Imagine William S. Burroughs with a frown and you've got a good idea. Then we see the...well...shit.
It was in the handicapped stall (why does everyone feel the need to do the most horrendous stuff in the handy-stall? I guess I can understand because, you know, you've got plenty of room but think about the intended users of the facility and ask yourself if you could defile it as well) and there was a pretty sizable mound. And Jabbar was right about the mushy part. You could just tell. The deuce looked like a pile of baby food that had solidified in the fridge and was in between a discarded containter of Chinese food and a stomped out Newport.
After gloving up and taking a couple of the to be discarded display posters from the back we get to work on shoveling the pile onto the posters and into the toilet. As we're standing above the john, ready to deposit what should have been left in there in the first place, Danielle Steele's husband comes in.
His eyes laser in on an object on the floor. His iron steel gaze soon gives way to shock, then horror and then outrage. He is shaking he is so furious. We got the dookie hovering above the bowl, a second shy of dumping it in, when he explodes.
"THAT'S A CIGARETTE BUTT! YOU CAN'T SMOKE IN A BOOKSTORE. THAT CAN'T BE THERE. THAT IS A CIGARETTE BUTT!" The three of us give each other a "what the fuck" look and Jabbar nods down to the floor. We ease the posters filled with fecal matter down to the floor and he delicately grabs the Newport butt, gently tosses it in the toilet, flushes and flashes one of the most brilliant "fuck you" smiles I have ever seen. Mr. Steele unleashes a heavy sigh of relief, wipes his brow and says thanks while throwing his hands up in the air before storming out. We complete our task silently before heading to wash our hands and then back onto the sales floor.
We felt beaten, robbed of any sort of sunny outlook on the world for a few minutes. It's not like anyone ever cleaned up a pile of shit and felt good about themselves or their station in life afterward. It's an an occurance that makes you really say, "Is this really the best that I can do or the best that's out there for me?" Then, of course, Jabbar saw the silver lining in the whole ordeal for the rest of us and brought our spirits back to life.
"'That's a cigarette butt?' What the fuck is wrong with that man. Yeah, a Newport is the problem. Not the steaming pile of shit sitting next to it."
Smiles quickly crept across our faces and suddenly things didn't seem so bad.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
This is NOT a Fucking Tour
I'm super stoked that shoe-gazer gods My Bloody Valentine are back together and will be touring, but they're pulling a slightly better Social D move here. Check out the dates.
September 19, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 20, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 21, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 22, 2008 New York City, NY Roseland Ballroom September 23, 2008 New York City, NY Roseland Ballroom September 25, 2008 Toronto, ON Ricoh Coliseum September 27, 2008 Chicago, IL Aragon Ballroom September 30, 2008 San Francisco, CA Concourse Exhibition Center October 1, 2008 Santa Monica, CA Santa Monica Civic Auditorium October 2, 2008 Santa Monica, CA Santa Monica Civic Auditorium
Hmmm, New York, ONE Chi-town date and then Cali. Bullshit, says Debauchery. That is not a fucking tour. That's nothing more than hipster appeasal appearances. Why not do the whole country? The Stooges got it together and they had almost as much time to get over their bullshit as My Bloody Valentine. From now on, bands who decide to play exclusively on either the East or West coast must admit that they're afraid of overall reception and only cater to markets where they are sure to get their ego's stroked. There is no glory in this kind of routing, only the obvious hesitation that you're nothing more than a fading nostalgia act. This is exactly what My Bloody Valentine will never be considered and which is why it's so perplexing they'd cop to a feeler tour to boost their egos. Fuck it guys, just hop in the Econo and rock this rapidly fading republic.
September 19, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 20, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 21, 2008 Monticello, NY. All Tomorrow's Parties festival September 22, 2008 New York City, NY Roseland Ballroom September 23, 2008 New York City, NY Roseland Ballroom September 25, 2008 Toronto, ON Ricoh Coliseum September 27, 2008 Chicago, IL Aragon Ballroom September 30, 2008 San Francisco, CA Concourse Exhibition Center October 1, 2008 Santa Monica, CA Santa Monica Civic Auditorium October 2, 2008 Santa Monica, CA Santa Monica Civic Auditorium
Hmmm, New York, ONE Chi-town date and then Cali. Bullshit, says Debauchery. That is not a fucking tour. That's nothing more than hipster appeasal appearances. Why not do the whole country? The Stooges got it together and they had almost as much time to get over their bullshit as My Bloody Valentine. From now on, bands who decide to play exclusively on either the East or West coast must admit that they're afraid of overall reception and only cater to markets where they are sure to get their ego's stroked. There is no glory in this kind of routing, only the obvious hesitation that you're nothing more than a fading nostalgia act. This is exactly what My Bloody Valentine will never be considered and which is why it's so perplexing they'd cop to a feeler tour to boost their egos. Fuck it guys, just hop in the Econo and rock this rapidly fading republic.
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