Do’n dizrospect flattops or c-r-e-a-v-i-t-y

Early 90’s educational video showing how uncool floppy disc copying can be.
Following the a stabbing after the final shoot for the video, the rapper is still, after over a decade, an unsolved homicide. Leads point not to gangs, but to a jealous male lover.

Mahayana Mural

The Belief-O-Matic, my most recent halfass spiritual sojourn, apparently advises me to spin some max chillin and eat whole grains. Top three matches for the twenty question introspection:
1. Theravada Buddhist
2. Mahayana Buddhist
3. Liberal Quaker

Oh, Christian Laettner. A John Stockton/Corey Feldman pituitary case and professional disappointment that achieved antiquityesque immortality through a McDonald’s pop-mural filled now with Haller’s Reserve and diet cola.
Found art!

3rd (out of 8)

More debate strategy: If you are losing the argument and have a crowd sympathetic to you onlooking, simply cast knowing semi-embarrassed grins at your supporters while shrugging your shoulders with exaggeration, as if to say, “I’m sorry you had to see this (him).”

Placed a respectable 3rd (out of in this year’s Frank family grandchild backyard Easter egg hunt. Last year I was deadass last behind a number of participants I had a decade or more on. Good thing I modified my chariot.

…leading to the disillusionment and eventual universal atheism of the male sex.

shiv me indieself, indieothers. however, lend me your ears.

Freshman year in (evangelical, private) high school I went with an older redhaired friend to see the tour-bus-shit-dumping anathema and acronym DMB. (Refer to blog heading, now). The considerate son of a hippie-when-it-wasn’t-ridiculous-as-fuck lent me his poncho in the pneumonia rain.
SUSCEPTIBLE-TO-PEER-PRESSURE ME: Thanks so much, dude.
SILLY YET ALTRUISTIC JAM BANDIER: No problem, man. It’s likeyouknow…what would Dave do?

Coolest instrument as yet introduced to Western culture? The Strokes’ Nick Valensi’s new signiture Epiphone.

Symbiosis

Bono, Sting, the whole of Talk Radio, MoveOn, Conor Oberst (though his songwriting on “I’m Wide Awake…” is perceptive), Oprah, Rosie, The View gals, MADD, televised award shows, Mel Gibson, PETA, Shawn Hannity, the UN, ethnic or peace studies majors, Kevin Smith, Eminem, Gavin Newsom, John McCain, ex-Presidents, Rudolph Giuliani, The Moral Majority, NPR, Jello Biafra, Randians, every band on the Rock for Change tour especially Michael Stipe, the Hip-Hop Summit, ALA, the Claremont Institute, and the Museum of Tolerance should group pretentious-fuck each other to death.

Pitchfork

I’m elitist and wear tight enough pants to groove on Pitchforkmedia, sure. But site veterans and site lackeys (who site veterans explain the semantics of album reviews to like it was fucking literary bullfighting, and then piss on) have allowed the Comic Book Guy-style boys’ club to engage in a grandly pretentious self-deceiving tightassitry never before seen in the history of online publications.

Who are they really? A dozen Midwest near-thirtysomethings with damn good musical fascination who in between part-time retail and jerking to Empire Records (while blowing Stephen Malkmus or/and Stuart Murdoch) make mixed tapes limited to songs from 1989 Norwegian drum-and-bass EP b-sides and derive sustenance from name-dropping like middle age women photosynthesize theirs through fishing for compliments.

And despite their austerity, they’re no good at being snobs. Out of their last thirty album reviews, only four have earned less than a 6.7. It’s like Rolling Stone’s three-out-of-five stars-for-trying standard.

But the big secret is the guys can’t write worth two shits—their self-narratives unnecessary, their phrasing awkward, their metaphors desperately exclusive, and their rule verbosity (over clarity).

Still, the site is excellent for what it does but don’t get into it unless you want R. Kelly-ed.

Agro Gary

There’s a zit representin’ on the lower east side of my bottom lip and I’m not sure if it’s advantageous to claim it’s a cold sore. Which reminds me of health class. Which reminds me of holistic medicine. Which reminds me of Christian Scientists and how, despite allegations of child abuse, they put out a decent publication. Zit it is. Which reminds me of an unsuccessful jr. high venture with foundation.

When a real journalist writes outside the field, A Sun Also Rises happens. When a sports journalist writes outside the field, Tuesdays with Morrie happens.

Sports pages are like tabloids but more homoerotic.

Visiting my girlfriend at her pleasant and beige BSU apartment. The city of Muncie, in its desolation, is an agro Gary.

A study confirming the common sense problem with abstinence education.

Only fight people more wealthy than you.

Best homepage ever.

17 1/2 inches

When arguing a point, never make up a word with the suffix “-ocracy”.

Uncle Kelly? You always were the quiet one. Plus the muffstache should have raised a more scrupulous concern.

Besides the mascot and the House of Pain sponsorship, not to impressed with Mickey’s fine malt liquor.

Have have a initially regrettable Spring Break.

“In these swamps and running streams, they have frogs of an incredible bigness, which are called bull frogs, from the roaring they make. Last year I found one of these near a stream of fresh water, of so prodigious a magnitude, that when I extended its legs, I found the distance betwixt them to be seventeen inches and a half. If any are good to eat, these must be the kind.”
-Robert Beverly, The History and Present State of Virginia (1705)

Real Pack

I love the pop-personality implicated in the juxtaposition of my name in the title.

Mixed feelings and social sensibilities about B-to-the-E. The $6 four-pack is a drinking working man faux pas, and they come in 10 oz. cans.
“Dude, you so said you’d buy me a pack of this new Bud shit.”
“But, dude. It’s not even like a real pack.”
Though, it is beer and caffeine and for better or worse has an unplaceable citrus carnival taste.

A careful article by Slavoj Zizek on the Anglo-American soft pardon of Stalinism.

“So perhaps, now that God is an old man, He is not interested in the way we serve what you call lust either.”
-William Faulkner,
Absalom, Absalom!

Ghost Metropolis

Public whistling is unacceptable unless you’re a children’s show host. It’s like not flushing the toilet – do you hate me that much? How do you justify forcing me to look at your shit/hear you whistle?

I associate the combination of orange shag, heavy blinds, and linoleum tile with child abuse.

Spike Jonze’s new rabbit hole commercial for the Adidas Tron shoe is enchanting.

Why are organized stretching classes effeminate?

In an augural technological turn, Rosie O’Donnell has blog.

Watch M83’s video for “Don’t Save Us From the Flames” and ghost over a metropolis.

I’m only revolting to Bright Eyes’ “Old Soul Song (For The New World Order)”.

“Nothing is more revolting than the majority; for it consists of few vigorous predecessors, of knaves who accommodate themselves, of weak people who assimilate themselves, and the mass that toddles after them without knowing in the least what it wants”
-Goethe