That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, November 04, 2005

It’s All Bourbon Under the Bridge

A study that’s set to appear in the January issue of Psychological Science––a medical journal that functions as the headshrinkers’ Chocolate Sailor Boyz to The Journal of American Psychology’s D Cup Superstars, if you know what we are saying … and you do not––suggests that a mere photograph of booze and/or booze-related iconography encourages violence, aggression and inchoate rage even if the observer of the image isn’t actually imbibing at the time.

The study, based on the results of experiments involving 246 University of Missouri-Columbia undergrads, found that even a crude rendering of a shot of Midori and a Tequiza chaser was enough to make the subjects bash luckless passersby on the head with pool cues and openly defecate in public stairwells. One student, when exposed to a drawing of a Dixie Cup filled with root beer schnapps, sexually assaulted some old lunchmeat he’d discovered in the faculty lounge, while five other played out the really uncomfortable parts of The Accused after being shown Shane McGowan’s autograph. Lastly, a sophomore journalism major was said to have stumbled out of the laboratory after having inadvertently been exposed to a lithograph depicting Dean Martin’s golf clubs. Although the student hadn’t had a drop of liquor, the researcher conducting the study noted that the young man departed the room “absolutely legless,” adding that the undergrad had “Zima on his breath and sodomy on his mind.”

We could go on, but really now: This is fatuous nonsense. Maybe it’s something in the water out there in the Show Me State, but when we see pictures of booze, we pop a boner.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Nothing Bears Out in Practice What it Promises Incipiently

Oh wait: This does. It’s The Hold Steady covering Led Zeppelin’s Oh-no-I-love-a-drunken-whore-what-should-I-do-about-this-turn-of-events B-side “Hey, Hey What Can I Do.” Two words: Awe. Some.

On a more or less unrelated note: Hey blogosphere, you can knock off the whole waxing-Devendra Banhart’s-car shit right now, because we don’t care. It’s Edie Brickell with a bindi and a little less ass hair. Just quit it.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Dept. of Enough Already

When did spammers stop trying to get you to buy dick medicine or click on misdirection links? We just got one a while ago that reads, in part:

some ask, good it Broccoli see Crusty on this.
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hold ! sit but off but pull on
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much the fast on can be.
see it this the know may
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It’s like getting email from the first R.E.M. record.

Modern Men Dream of What They Can’t Say

The columns are good for a giggle, but for the love of Christ, won’t everybody please stop spending all of their time trying to convince us that Maureen Dowd is hot ? Come on already: She’s Bonnie Raitt minus the drinking problem. And as for this Are Men Necessary? business, does anyone else ever get the feeling that the reason Dowd’s sexual CV has so many entries is because she’s the kind of woman who sends men hooting and braying in the opposite direction after the first sleepover night?

Monday, October 31, 2005

The Worms Crawl In, The Worms Crawl Out

This is pretty great, although whoever threw this together didn’t pose the question that always had us scratching our pointy little head when we were trolling the drugstore for a Ben Cooper™ or Collegeville™ mask-and-tunic set that wouldn’t get our ass handed to us, which was, why would the person you were dressed up as have his or her own likeness on their clothing? For example, the Fonz mask always came with a flame-retardant vinyl one-piece that featured a silkscreened representation of the Fonz on his bike out in front of Al’s. He’s standing there with Richie and Potsy and Ralph Malph, doing that good-natured, I’m-a-40-year-old-tiny-Jewish-man-with-magical-jukebox-powers-and-I-live-in-the-attic-of-a-middle-class-family-in-the-suburbs-of-Milwaukee thing, which is just odd if the idea of a costume is to get people to believe that you’re actually portraying the guy on the mask.

Anyone looking to go out tonight dressed as out Buffy the Doomed Smackhead from Family Affair or Q-Bert or whatever could do worse than to check out this place. We’ve already seen the greatest costume ever on this guy who was traipsing down St. Mark’s Place this afternoon. He was dressed in your standard issue pirate gear, only where his face should have been, there was a full, and somewhat pimply, human ass. (Or, for the sake of accuracy, an ass mask.) The concept? Butt Pirate, of course. Not at all sure how that’s going to go down at the Parade tonight, but then again, we’ll just be doing what we always do on Halloween, which is to say handing out lunchmeat to the three or four kids who actually show up at our doorstep because we always to forget to pick up candy. Oh, and drink ourselves incontinent. Because it’s Monday.

Handjobs For The Holidays

OK. So we go to a friend’s party in Tribeca this weekend, and wind up staying the night because all of the sudden 2 a.m. becomes 5 a.m. and we don’t exactly want to deal with the subway in our state. Plus, it’s rude to have half-hearted, sloppy intercourse with someone and then just skedaddle once you’ve deposited your genetic blueprint all over some disappointingly low-thread-count bed linens. (Sorry, but aren’t women supposed to be at the bleeding edge of sheet technology? Along with the jones for chocolate and the endless rounds of shoe shopping and all the crying for no good goddamn reason, isn’t a skirt’s whole how you say raison d’être wrapped up in pampering herself with nice sheets and eleven different kinds of soap and a dildo shaped like John Forsyth?) Anyway, we wake up at around 10:30, and discover that our friend’s weird, Fraggle-looking roommate is up and pulling tubes in the kitchen. Now, normally we don’t smoke much, because it makes us crazy and paranoid, and it seems to wreak eleven kinds of havoc with the potions we take to bevel off the psychic peaks and valleys, so to speak, but our head needed to be dealt with gently, and there’s really no better way to deal with morning toxicity than getting ripped to the tits on the Green Fairy.

So we do.

Time dilates, much attention is paid to a cat, we try our hand at drawing a picture of Pittsburgh Steelers head coach Bill Cowher, who, for the purposes of this particular work of art, has taken over Slim Dunlap’s role in the sucky latter-day incarnation of The Replacements. We get Cowher down pretty well, what with the faithful reproduction of his steam-shovel mandibles and the moustache that looks like it’s always making preparations to crawl off his face, but frankly, our Westerberg looks like something that Eddie Murphy would fuck if Prince had ever taken him to 7th Street Entry. All of which is to say that we are having a grand old time. Eventually, we feel the need to leave the apartment, and by extension, Manhattan. But for any number of reasons, we take the world’s most useless detour and wind up at the Virgin Megastore on 14th. This is probably a mistake.

We spend upwards of $300 on records, most of them by bands we’ve never actually heard before. One of these bands was Broken Social Scene.

A team of neurologists working around the clock for the remainder of the decade wouldn’t be able to explain to you why we bought the self-titled Broken Social Scene album, because we don’t even know and it’s our brain that made the decision. And while we’re not going to go into a painstaking exegesis of the album and why it doesn’t really do much for us, we will say this: Canadians really buy into the old strength-in-numbers dictum. By our count there are 17 people in this band, an utterly ridiculous number, unless you’re in the cantina band on Mos Eisley. What is with these people, exactly? It’s perfectly OK to leave some people out of your band, you know? Not everyone gets to participate in a meritocracy. It’s rock n roll, not the Special Olympics. The fucking Wu Tang Clan doesn’t have as many people in it, and that’s including various ancillary members (read: 24-hour posse people). Plus, there are enough chicks in the mix to field a volleyball team. The fuck?

That said, there are two or three standout tracks here, including “Superconnected,” “Major Label Debut” and the crescendoing closer, “It’s All Gonna Break,” which sounds like a 10-minute nervous breakdown and poses the trenchant question, “Why are you always fucking ghosts?” (The liner notes remind whoever’s twiddling the knobs on this record to “make sure ghosts doesn’t sound like goats.” The other suggestion: “Make it sound like Bob Seger on acid.”)

Overall, we can’t say that we’re too pissed with our purchase; after all, the CD represented a mere one-seventeenth of our overall expenditure, which included a Richard Hell thing that we’ll probably only listen to once and the expanded edition of Sonic Youth’s Goo, which but for “Disappearer,” “Mary Christ” and “Dirty Boots,” we don’t even like. Now we have more of it.