That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, July 08, 2005

I ♥ the Internet



So we decide to change the radio station that wakes us up every morning from 1010-WINS to some classic rock thing because even though the former's offer to give us the world in 22 minutes is nice and all, quite frankly we're tired of waking up to shit news. When the alarm goes off this morning, we are greeted with the strains of Bad Company's “Rock n' Roll Fantasy,” and while we nearly fractured an ulna in our haste to silence the cacophony, something about the song haunted us while we scrubbed away our mean gin hangover in the shower.

See, the thing is, singer Paul Rodgers uses the song as a platform to delineate his ultimate rock n' roll fantasy--hence the clever title. But a close listen to the lyrics reveals that a key component of said fantasy is the presence of men dressed in circus motley:

“Here come the jesters, one, two, three.
It's all part of my fantasy.”


What, may we ask, the fuck? Are we to seriously believe that Paul Rodgers thinks that clowns = balls-to-the-wall rock n' roll, a brand of rocking so intense and concentrated that the “a” and the “d” in the word “and” come flying off and skittering away, like the propeller of the plane that killed Randy Rhodes?

Maybe it's just us, but your old pal Sakebomb has a radically different idea of what a rock n' roll fantasy is all about, involving a suitcase full of Peruvian cocaine, a mandrill that's been dosed to the gills with LSD-25 and an icy cold case of Zima. While the resurrected Joe Strummer reforms the Clash in our sensibly decorated living room, we backdoor last year's red-haired, pneumatic version of Lindsay Lohan, while Fez looks on, helpless. As the mandrill challenges Topper Headon to a spirited game of Challenge Yahtzee, Beck slinks into the room, head bowed, apologizing for not being good any more and vowing to quit playing music forever. Just when our seed begins to take purchase deep within the unquiet confines of Lohan's carnal crevasse, a caffeinated Henry Rollins bursts through the door with a slab of semtex stuffed down the front of his gym shorts, screaming about the death of Joe Cole. The ensuing explosion kills Beck, Fez, Rollins and the mandrill, as well as anyone else who thinks we'd actually drink Zima.

On a (mostly) unrelated note, we were farting around with the Internet, looking for pictures of Eastern European women dressed in beekeeper outfits, when we stumbled across this sonic nugget from Silver Jews warbler David Berman and his old pal Steven Malkmus. First released in 1993 as a 45, “Old New York” captures Berman and the Prince of Pavement at what appears to be the tail end of an Alize bender, riffing back and forth about the joys of doing time in glorious Gotham. These include: the possibility of running into Joe Namath or Larry Brown--who Berman misidentifies as “a football player who sometimes comes out and he'll drink with you”--in a bar, “coming home at 3:00 a.m. when the snow is blowing down,” the Times Square Howard Johnson's, chestnuts, midtown lairs, reading Edith Wharton in Central Park, fashion models and the imperishability of the Chrysler Building.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

London Calling



Fair warning: Nothing funny to be seen here. More ha ha when we feel up for it.

Don DeLillo tells us that today, the world narrative belongs to the terrorists. But as a writer, he too traffics in plots, and as we well know, all plots move deathward. DeLillo first made the connection in this excerpt from a 1991 New York Times Magazine profile written by Vince Passaro:

“But I do think we can connect novelists and terrorists here. In a repressive society, a writer can be deeply influential, but in a society that's filled with glut and repetition and endless consumption, the act of terror may be the only meaningful act. People who are in power make their arrangements in secret, largely as a way of maintaining and furthering that power. People who are powerless make an open theater of violence. True terror is a language and a vision. There is a deep narrative structure to terrorist acts, and they infiltrate and alter consciousness in ways that writers used to aspire to.”

Naming the future, guided by dread. This has all happened before, this eternal return of ideological murder. And it is never, ever going to end. Even when Osama bin Laden is no longer able to muster up the energy to so much as wipe goat shit off his dick, these motherless fucks are never going to let up.

But we've all been living with this kind of death since the middle of the previous century. While E.B. White's Here is New York (1949) closed with a meditation on the destruction of America's greatest city, his evocation of mass murder can be manipulated to serve the shaky imaginings of the inhabitants of any civilized nation:

“The subtlest change in New York is something people don't speak much about but that is in everyone's mind. The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now: in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest edition.

“All dwellers in cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm.

“It used to be that the Statue of Liberty was the sign-post that proclaimed New York and translated it for all the world. Today Liberty shares the role with Death. Along the East River, from the razed slaughterhouses of Turtle Bay, as though in a race with the spectral flight of planes, men are carving out the permanent headquarters of the United Nations--the greatest housing project of them all. In its stride, New York takes on one more interior city, to shelter, this time, all governments, and to clear the slum called war.”

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“This race--this race between the destroying planes and the struggling Parliament of Man--it sticks in all our heads. The city at last illustrates both the universal dilemma and the general solution, this riddle in steel and stone is at once the perfect target and the perfect demonstration of nonviolence, racial brotherhood, this lofty target scraping the skies and meeting the destroying planes halfway, home of all people and all nations, capital of everything, housing the deliberations by which the planes are to be stayed and their errands forestalled.

“A block or two west of the new City of Man in Turtle Bay there is an old willow tree that presides over an interior garden. It is a battered tree, long suffering and much climbed, held together by strands of wire but beloved of those who know it. In a way it symbolizes the city: life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete, and the steady reaching for the sun. Whenever I look at it nowadays, and feel the cold shadow of the planes, I think: 'This must be saved, this particular thing, this very tree.' If it were to go, all would go--this city, this mischievous and marvelous monument which not to look upon would be like death.”

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

You Stole Fizzy Lifting Drinks



While we're not at all sure why anyone would see the need to remake Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, we are pleased to note that Roald Dahl's story remains a crowd pleaser, given the fact that it's about a group of children who get killed in a series of horrific industrial accidents.



Speaking of dead things, our first reaction upon learning that New York won't be hosting the 2012 Olympics was something along the lines of “Fuck yeah.” Our second thought was “Hope you like terrorism, England.” Our third thought was, “Holy shit, would you look at that Masshole in that New York Times picture. Is he crying?” We think he's crying. Next time, Jake Duhaime of Mansfield, MA, why not stay home in your winter hat and leave the weeping to the Parisians: “In the place of champagne, tears are flowing,” said Alain Sanchez, a maitre d'hotel. “Our hearts are aching a bit.”

Jake, meet Alain. He's a retard too.