That's Just The Booze Talking

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth

Sweet Shrieking Jesus, this is the single most unhinged print ad we’ve ever seen. Unless Beverly Hills Formula toothpaste is trafficking in some kind of objective correlative that only T.S. Eliot would recognize, we can’t quite see the connection between the towhead staring down his naked mother and dental hygiene. Plus, the idea that the kid has come bursting into the bathroom, spouting partially digested factoids from the likes of PREVENT while his stuttering mum makes the absolute minimum effort to cover up her yummy bits is a bit like Oedipus at Colonus as reinterpreted by the Cavity Creeps. Check out the line of sight and take note of the lad’s unforced smile. Pitched his Glasto tent early this year, innit?

Fear of Flying

Three thoughts that drilled their way through our dura matter upon being exposed to that Technicolor abortion that is the video for Morningwood’s “Nth Degree”:

1) Artie Bucco’s wife has a band?
2) This shit is going to age worse than Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.
3) I’m sort of ashamed to be alive right now.

Also, Chan Marshall has called off her U.S. tour for unspecified health reasons. It’s a shame: With The Greatest, she finally put together a coherent, cohesive album, featuring songs that are not only richly fleshed out, but free of the stylized ataxia that made a lot of her earlier work so exasperating. We were looking forward to seeing her play with a full band; then again, having endured one of her nakedly awful onstage freakouts––a series of false starts, botched verses and an eventual dissolution into tears that made everyone in the house feel complicit in her misery––we can’t imagine that Marshall has completely come to terms with the performance side of the business she’s in. (Some never do: XTC’s Andy Partridge comes to mind. And Lord knows what we’re in for when D. Berman rolls into town for the Silver Jews show at Webster Hall March 17.) You can’t wholly discount the grimy allure of voyeurism, either, and in a sense, it’s what gives her music a great deal of its power. And it isn’t just her sex that keeps the moths coming in for a kiss of the light; we took note of the same sort of morbid anticipation at a solo Elliott Smith show at Town Hall about two years before his murder/suicide/washing-up accident. Or, in microcosm, we’ll admit to having spent a number of minutes many years back watching in rapt suspense as E___ D____ tried to spread ketchup on a garden burger without getting it all over his pajamas. (Without getting into too much detail, we’ll say that most of the ketchup wound up safely on the underside of the bun, although the operation was suspended when our subject, um, “fell asleep,” butter knife still poised between jar and plate. Just say no, kids.)

Monday, February 06, 2006

Strap On A Pair, Irving

We’re woefully ignorant when it comes to the cultural mores of far-away lands, mostly because we’re American and don’t give a shit about anything that happens outside the contiguous 48 (USA! USA!), but also because we don’t keep up anymore. What’s the use? It’s all Death To America this and Anal Jihad that, and frankly, we’re tired of the whole thing. But this whole uproar about a bunch of shitty editorial cartoons** is completely mind-boggling, mostly because––and we’re only half joking here––it makes us wonder: Don’t these people have jobs? Seriously, it’s as if people in the Middle East set things on fire and call down fatwas on motherfuckers with the sort of breezy nonchalance of someone picking up a side salad at Pret a Manger.

“Say, boss, I’ve got to run for a bit and hang a cartoonist in effigy. Fire may be involved. That deadline’s gonna have to wait.”

“Death To America.”

“Uh, yeah, D.T.A. There may be some rock throwing too, ‘K? Maybe squeeze in a ritual decapitation as well. Be back ASAP. Toodles.”

Simmer the fuck down, Oh Arab Street. You’re like millions of mustachioed John Maddens, yelling and hollering gibberish while the Al Michaels of the world try to get down to the business at hand. We wouldn’t be surprised if next Thanksgiving finds you introducing a Turducken made out of Israelis (Jewducken?). Give it a rest.

Also: The head of Hezbollah says that if they’d had whacked Rushdie when they’d had a chance, none of this shit would have ever happened. Well, yeah, and we never would have had to read that stupid fucking book about U2 or whatever it was he was trying to do.

But then: After seeing this, we think we can emphasize with those dudes a little bit. Death To Guisewite! Death to the Universal Press Syndicate!

**And no, we’re not linking to them because a) learn how to use the Internet already and b) we like the way our head looks when it’s connected to our spine.

Art Rooney is Playing Parcheesi™ Up in Heaven with Rasputin and the Baby Jesus Right Now

Holy fuck. Bill Cowher is God. His great steam-shovel jaws are an admonishment to limp-wristed pantywaists and people who listen to fucking Interpol everywhere. If you cheered on the Seahawks last night, then you a) hate America, b) are busy scrubbing Carlos D’s herpes out of your rep tie and c) can bite us, hard, right on our money clip where we keep the ain’t nuthin’ but a G-R-A-N-D thang we won last night because we are the Physical Graffiti of Gambling. (No idea what that might mean, although we walk past the building on the album jacket every work day.)

Anyway, this beardy glasses dude tells us last night at this Super Bowl party that he “only watched the Super Bowl for the ads.” We told him that was like saying you only banged the wife for the extra laundry. Christ, we write about the advertising business for a living and we would never say anything that stupid. There were women at the party who looked at the guy after that like he was an ambulatory turd. Go write a poem, assy.

Also: Rooting for Paul Allen is like rooting for spina bifida.

Lastly; Goddamnit all to hell. We were in a great mood until we saw this.

Billy Corgan is the kind of dude that makes us wish we could give people polio just by wishing on a star. Fatuous gasbag. We would rather listen to our own death rattle than expose ourselves to any of his shitty “songs.” HATE.