tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33714012011-11-20T02:56:37.668-05:00sakebombnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1481100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152729766671993382006-07-12T14:42:00.000-04:002006-07-12T14:45:19.473-04:00

We Are Reaching a New LowOK, so we had ourselves one extremely mortifyingly/awkward moment yesterday at our company barbecue, an annual event marked by the consumption of way too much of a wide variety of liquids that have the capacity to make unborn children come out looking like this and sometimes impede our lame attempts at operating industrial equipment. And our gross motor functions, which

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com337tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152546702448777812006-07-10T11:51:00.000-04:002006-07-10T11:53:13.883-04:00

Forza AzzurriAh, sweet victory. While we’re not sure which, if any, memories of the 2006 World Cup will survive the atrocities we regularly serve up to our axodendritic synapses, right now we’re hoping that we never drink away the things that nice girl from Mott St did to our salsiccia del destino last night after a whirlwind courtship that involved us paying $9 for each Moretti she drank until

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152113420233331492006-07-05T11:29:00.000-04:002006-07-05T11:31:17.786-04:00

Wait Until DorkCouple things.First, our scary Drug Lord neighbor across the street––we call him American History X because he looks like Ed Norton’s buffy tuffy White Supremecist, down to the Hitleriffic neck tat––launched a fireworks attack at our building last night which left us feeling a little like Francis Scott Key, only instead of being inspired to compose “The Star-Spangled Whatever,” we

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1151092043308118042006-06-23T15:41:00.000-04:002006-06-23T15:52:45.750-04:00

Ob-La-Dee, Ob-La-DouchebagWe’re back, at least for the nonce, which is Parisan hip-hop slang for “the elapsed time between when someone tries to hype us on that Gnarls Barkley shit––White People sure do love them some Danger Mouse––and when we punch them in the face with an anvil." Which is to say, maybe not so long as all that, but we’ll see. At any rate, we thought we’d dip a toe back into the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1148064262939732392006-05-19T14:44:00.000-04:002006-05-19T14:44:22.953-04:00

Rendezvous With AnusYeah, yeah: We suck. We update the blog with the same frequency with which we bleach our pubes. Boo hoo. Listen, people––or person; we’re guessing the readership is probably down quite a bit, given the whole deadbeat dad routine we’ve been playing on all you fine folks, who, no shit, we totally think of as our children––we’re busy. It’s not you, it’s us. Your ass does not look

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143932700878008442006-04-01T17:04:00.000-05:002006-04-01T18:05:00.956-05:00

Baby There’s No Guidance When Random RulesMemes are the lazy, overworked blogger’s best friend. Here’s our annotated iPod shuffle questionnaire, which if nothing else suggests that we are living in the past, but not in a stinky-Boomer-hey-man-we-ended-the-war-in-‘Nam kind of way but in a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143766817995025992006-03-30T19:57:00.000-05:002006-03-30T20:00:18.010-05:00

The World Loves Us And Is Our BitchSee those ugly fuckers in that photo right up there? That’s Chris, Tommy and Paul, looking exactly how you think they might look after all these years/beers. No idea who the blonde dude is, but he clearly wants you to smell his finger.Anyhoo, as has been confirmed by Billboard, The ‘Mats are reuniting to record two new songs for a greatest hits collection that

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143075512723818812006-03-22T19:57:00.000-05:002006-03-22T19:58:32.736-05:00

Occam’s Razor BurnWhen the most entertaining thing on the InfoBahn™ all day is an article culled from The Economist, life truly has become a narcotized gambol through the rank and humid glades of Nothing’s Funny Anymore. Anyhoo, the pocket protector crowd over at the magazine’s graphics department threw together the chart below in a doomed and tragic attempt to predict the future proliferation

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1142871904846344092006-03-20T11:23:00.000-05:002006-03-20T11:25:06.243-05:00

In 27 Years, I’ve Drunk 50,000 BeersOne of the problems you run into when you really like something is that sooner or later, that thing that you’ve afforded a clean, well-lit space in your brain or your heart of hearts or wherever it is that your obsessions can be said to reside will disappoint you. Pony up $20 for a rock show, and you expect some kind of paradigm shift in your consciousness,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1141260507552941392006-03-01T19:48:00.000-05:002006-03-01T19:48:27.563-05:00

He Celebrates Black History Month in NovemberThis is fucking hilarious, provided a) you live in New York and b) you’ve been to Other Music. If not, then we’ve got nothing for you. Busy, etc.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1140481285933393232006-02-20T19:21:00.000-05:002006-02-20T19:37:19.403-05:00

The Grand Parade Of Lifeless PackagingWe are wounded, banged up, after having spent the better part of the weekend engaged in an activity that we aren’t any good at and then trying to make up for our maladroit flailings by way of speed and bourbon. And no, in this case “speed” does not refer to the less than judicious consumption of Amphetamines, but instead is meant to impart a sense of velocity

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1140020984267469922006-02-15T11:29:00.000-05:002006-02-15T11:29:44.286-05:00

She Don’t Want No Chicken, She Don’t Want No RoastShe just wants her double dose of my Beef, Beef, Beef Beef Baloney. Interesting business afoot last night, as we were asked to leave the backstage area at Madison Square Garden after spilling our pricey cocktail on the handler/owner/helpmeet of some kind of irritable schnauzer. How we even gained access to the area, which basically served as a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139936931985672072006-02-14T12:08:00.000-05:002006-02-14T12:08:51.996-05:00

You Worthless Bitch, You Fickle Shit Happy Valentine’s Day.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139331858534132672006-02-07T12:04:00.000-05:002006-02-21T16:00:16.580-05:00

The Skin of My Yellow Country TeethSweet 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139325562730404552006-02-07T10:19:00.000-05:002006-02-07T10:20:12.183-05:00

Fear of FlyingThree 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139259007319023572006-02-06T15:49:00.000-05:002006-02-06T15:53:45.376-05:00

Strap On A Pair, IrvingWe’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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139241415567375752006-02-06T10:56:00.000-05:002006-02-06T10:56:55.583-05:00

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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138808423689076502006-02-01T10:40:00.000-05:002006-02-01T10:51:52.330-05:00

32nd or 33rd Pizz and Joop Critics’ PollWell blows me down, Olive. Will wonders never cease? Christgau’s annual screed leading off the Village Voice’s Pazz/Jop thing is not only disconcertingly coherent, but he actually is right about most of the opinions he puts forth about the State of Music Today. He’s no radical demiurge, to be sure, but damn it if he isn’t spot on about how the MP3 blogs

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138730605566228692006-01-31T13:03:00.000-05:002006-01-31T13:05:26.846-05:00

Burn These Sheets We Just Fucked InSteal Listen to “Stink,” a track from Arab Strap’s new album, The Last Romance here. As it’s hosted by Salon, you’ll have to watch a commercial about some car you’ll never buy, but no one’s saying you can’t just get up and go stare blankly at your pallid reflection in the bathroom mirror while you’re waiting. You are looking a bit shit, love. Vitamins.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138141803943078212006-01-24T17:29:00.000-05:002006-01-24T19:16:56.010-05:00

Stories in an Almost Unreadable ModeBookforum prints a 5,300-word exegesis on why no one reads Harold Brodkey anymore. Our guess is that no one sees the value in his narcissistic and masturbatory self-regard, which informs every syllable of his prose and makes even a cursory reading of his fiction like taking a muddy trudge through the shallow wrack of Lake Bitchcakes. Indeed, it can be said with

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138041992914898812006-01-23T13:46:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:46:50.050-05:00

I Can’t Be Arsed To Carry On In This DebateArctic Monkeys. So very good. And if you’re quick, you can boost their debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not here. Large ups to TMFTML for posting “When the Sun Goes Down” a few months ago, a post that has lead to an absurd obsession with a bunch of spotty 19-year-olds from Sheffield. Fookin’ ‘ell.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138041958801871302006-01-23T13:45:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:45:58.816-05:00

Ray Ate The Reason That Pat Is A VeganOh, I see. Is this about that time the magician’s duck bit you at Raymond’s fifth birthday party?

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138040935284877552006-01-23T13:28:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:32:04.476-05:00

Our Brand Could Be Your LifeHaving done some sort of skeletal/muscular damage to our lower back after executing a sloppy, drunken pas de deux in the wake of the AFC Championship game**, this morning we repaired to the corner Duane Reade to set ourselves up with some Icy Hot or whatever the fuck. Interestingly, the sullen, slackjawed Cappadonnabes stock the balms/ointments cheek-by-jowl with the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1137617389301586682006-01-18T15:45:00.000-05:002006-01-18T15:56:09.950-05:00

It’s My Party and I’ll Die If I Want ToWell, we do find ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Having won three of our four NFL playoff bets this weekend, on Monday we found ourselves in the unique position where a) our pockets were (metaphorically) stuffed with little green pieces of paper with Ben Franklin’s yearbook picture on them and b) we had the kind of Nic-Cage-at-the-end-of-Leaving Las Vegas

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1135971560143818552005-12-30T14:39:00.000-05:002005-12-30T14:41:27.123-05:00

Somewhere Under the RainbowWe almost missed this, but an eagle-eyed co-worker who’s aware that we like to keep current with this sort of thing brought the article in yesterday’s Post to our attention. Nothing pisses us off more than a mendacious midget. If nothing else, it’s worth the click for the photograph, which captures Concelean “Corie” Pegues in mid hand-holding stroll with her S.O./

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1135877238228755912005-12-29T12:27:00.000-05:002005-12-29T12:31:01.510-05:00

Houston, We Have a Drinking ProblemSo Christmas devolved into this weird Norman Mailer kind of enterprise, which found us engaging in an impromptu boxing match with a 15-year-old who had made the near-fatal mistake of making disparaging comments about our stylish coiffure, an infraction that normally wouldn’t rouse us to stylized violence but for some reason the carbuncular little turd wouldn’t

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1135009990618865642005-12-19T11:32:00.000-05:002005-12-19T11:33:51.636-05:00

Chief Inspector BlancheflowerOne of the perqs of working for Shaved Nun Quarterly is that we get every magazine published in these United States sent to our office, which means that we’ve read approximately 180 articles about Naomi Watts in just the last week alone. It also means that things like this land in our mailbox from time to time. As you may well imagine, all the articles in ADDitude

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1134681009477372322005-12-15T16:09:00.000-05:002005-12-15T16:10:09.490-05:00

There is a Place Past the Blues I Never Wanna See AgainYou’ve seen us waxing David Berman’s car in a very unselfconscious and public way on more than one occasion, and his contribution to Black Book magazine’s “guilty pleasures” feature has us breaking out the Turtle Wax™ all over again. We’re just going to go ahead and cut-and-paste the whole thing, because a) you don’t really want to click over

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1134587016763243592005-12-14T14:03:00.000-05:002005-12-14T14:07:23.376-05:00

Get Off the Bandwagon, Put Down the HandbookNot only did we have our holiday work party this week, but we were also asked to do a guest spot on a little-watched cable network and bloviate about the future of some fucking thing or other, even though a) yesterday found us resembling nothing so much as John Entwistle like maybe four minutes before he pulled out of the hooker, clutched his chest,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1134155450259129312005-12-09T14:10:00.000-05:002005-12-09T14:10:50.276-05:00

There’s Only Music So That There’s New Ring TonesThis refreshing display of unfettered ethnocentrism has moved us to get off of our metaphorical duff and actually, you know, update this cocksucking blog of ours, which lately we’ve been neglecting like we imagine John Popper neglects his asshole, vis a vis Wiping Properly. And no, we have no empirical knowledge of the state of the Blues Traveler

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1133473107298233702005-12-01T16:36:00.000-05:002005-12-01T16:38:27.313-05:00

This is unbelievably cool. Type in the name of a band you like and they'll program an entire "radio station" for you with songs from similar artists. And it's free.Link via Dana

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1133466141357275282005-12-01T14:42:00.000-05:002005-12-09T14:52:09.426-05:00

Ne Travaillez Pas JamaisWe’re not even going to say anything about how busy we’ve been and oh goodness the holidays and blah blah yackity yack jibber jabber blah blah, because a) nobody cares and b) that would take time and time is one thing we don’t have right about now. Plus, we got jack shit. It happens. Frequently.Also, we are not well. Our hands are shaking like Katherine Hepburn trying to

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1132099201893671202005-11-15T18:59:00.000-05:002005-11-15T19:06:37.513-05:00

Redneck 7-ElevenA big part of our job involves deleting spam from the widows of Nigerian military commandos who just so happen to have a couple million dollars lying around that they don’t want and are willing to give us a taste in exchange for some general information, like, say, our primary bank account number and the secret nickname we have bestowed on our genitalia. (The penis goes by the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131994118739932682005-11-14T13:48:00.000-05:002005-11-14T13:48:38.753-05:00

Annie Hall Leaves New York in the End/If I Press Rewind, Woody Gets Her Back AgainWe just tried to call our SNF at her office, but accidentally rang her fax machine. It was like a ghost robot picked up the phone and chirped out the secret ending of The Crying Game. Anybody else wish they were dead?This weekend we sawed through Geoff Dyer’s unconventional survey of photography, The Ongoing Moment,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131557617366597562005-11-09T12:33:00.000-05:002005-11-09T12:54:29.143-05:00

You Wanna Go For a Ride, Neighbor?Holy shit, this is awesome. This company called Wanderlust Media has rolled out NavTones, a service that programs celebrity voices directly into your car’s GPS navigator. One of the options is the disembodied and predictably manic voice of Dennis Hopper . (Seriously, click that goddamned link. It’s better than Christmas, your birthday and that episode of M*A*S*H

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131403247399423302005-11-07T17:39:00.000-05:002005-11-07T17:40:47.413-05:00

Oh Shit, There’s a Horse in the HospitalYeah, we know you don’t necessarily come sniffing around here for this sort of thing––frankly we don’t know why you’re here or what you’re after––but we’d be remiss if we didn’t note that Clinton Portis is turning into Dr. Octagon . Also, and we can’t stress this enough: For the love of all that is sweet and holy in this world, would you please watch 12 Oz

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131387650381104512005-11-07T13:20:00.000-05:002005-11-07T13:31:05.216-05:00

Autumn Has Caught Us in Our Summer Wear One of the more interesting features of our organic affliction is that we tend to get almost unbearably manic whenever things are even just slightly OK. It’s as if the serotonin levels in our brain are so pleased by whatever tiny bit of good fortune passes our way that the stuff just floods the zone, making us all blissed out, like a hippie without the bad

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131122637873674972005-11-04T11:43:00.000-05:002005-11-04T11:46:26.263-05:00

It’s All Bourbon Under the BridgeA 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1131048504080313322005-11-03T15:08:00.000-05:002005-11-03T15:08:24.090-05:00

Nothing Bears Out in Practice What it Promises IncipientlyOh 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130892485534126082005-11-01T19:47:00.000-05:002005-11-01T19:48:05.546-05:00

Dept. of Enough AlreadyWhen 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. not be Eskimo it's did ! around and.shall not Eskimo but sing on yellow awould ! up but been or white aany but thank the over the.before on hurt not does in but inwho it old on

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130867690925635052005-11-01T12:54:00.000-05:002005-11-01T12:54:50.926-05:00

Modern Men Dream of What They Can’t SayThe 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130799432071794722005-10-31T17:57:00.000-05:002005-10-31T17:58:47.990-05:00

The Worms Crawl In, The Worms Crawl OutThis 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130792865160578682005-10-31T16:07:00.000-05:002005-10-31T16:14:10.993-05:00

Handjobs For The HolidaysOK. 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130526356670388792005-10-28T15:05:00.000-04:002005-10-28T15:12:17.543-04:00

And Somehow the Sea Was Always There to Make You Feel StupidDavid Berman is everywhere. This interview with MSNBC really drives home the inarguable point that this guy knows his way around a sentence. Check it, homepiss:“Rock applause feels pre-arranged, a time for drunk people to holler, as the space between songs is one of the last socially sanctioned hollering opportunities outside of sports.”

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130515541732381312005-10-28T12:05:00.000-04:002005-10-28T12:07:04.763-04:00

To Boldly Go Where No Man … Ah, Fuck ItSay what you will, people, but that Karl Rove is a stone genius. Indictments are coming down, they’re constructing a Panic Room off of the West Wing, and all America is abuzz about Sulu’s predilection for man gravy. No wonder Shatner got all the alien pussy.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1130447671434311582005-10-27T17:14:00.000-04:002005-10-27T17:14:31.446-04:00

This is Not a Love SongBusy with the thing that keeps us watered and fed.Still, there’s this: P.I.L.’s deconstruction of the American Bandstand experience. Dick Clark plays it pretty cool as John Lydon & Co. kick the pylons out from under the venerable teen dance party, botching the lip synch and exhorting the audience to join the band onstage as Jah Wobble and Keith Levene fake their way

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129848499382815992005-10-20T18:48:00.000-04:002005-10-21T14:45:18.596-04:00

Stiff Upper Lip Drunk And Relaxed“I am safe and well and I have all my limbs on.” Brits. Irish People. Unbelievable.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129568879033716812005-10-17T13:07:00.000-04:002005-10-17T13:08:49.613-04:00

Nice RackAs part of a new feature we’re going to discontinue immediately, we at Sakebomb would like to introduce a little something where we pore through the day’s magazines and point out interesting articles. It’ll be like Gothamist, but not nearly as retarded. Plus, we sound like we actually, um, live here. Think NY1’s droll and Canadian Pat Kiernan reading the morning paper to you as you

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129560740277963132005-10-17T10:52:00.000-04:002005-10-17T10:56:59.646-04:00

Art To Choke HeartsSo we spent part of our weekend in the old neighborhood, a place where people solve life’s niggling little problems by shouting gibberish out of their fifth-story windows and riddling each other with high-caliber bullets. Or used to, anyway, before the White Man came with his Death Cab CDs and his Ironiclaly Sloganed T-Shirts and his Interesting Choices in Facial Hair and rents

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129557191871533722005-10-17T09:53:00.000-04:002005-10-17T09:53:11.873-04:00

Like a Black Fly in Your ChardonnayNo, Alanis, this still isn’t ironic. It is however, darkly hilarious.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129556841072018442005-10-17T09:47:00.000-04:002005-10-17T09:47:21.080-04:00

Shut Your Fucking Face, Uncle FuckerYou’re not getting off that easy, chumpy. What, you couldn’t hit one lousy RBI for the poor sainted man who raised you?

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129134698895680142005-10-12T12:31:00.000-04:002005-10-12T12:31:38.903-04:00

Picture Acid That Has Itself Dropped Acid and You’re Halfway ThereThat’s our only reaction to this, which is further proof that no one at the Observer can be bothered to edit Rosenbaum’s copy, largely because no one at the Observer actually wants to put themselves in a position where they have to read a word of his inane bloviating. Twelve hundred words to come to the conclusion that Curb Your

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129133164386961422005-10-12T12:05:00.000-04:002005-10-12T12:10:45.456-04:00

Dreams Are Free Motherfucker! (Mach II)You didn’t hear this from us, and if you tell anyone we told you we’ll be forced to come over to your house and high tank* you in front of your children and loved ones, but they are giving out free TiVos tomorrow at the Javits Center starting at noon. You’ll still have to pay the $12.95 monthly subscription price, but goddamnit all, the unit itself is

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1129047779908523642005-10-11T12:22:00.000-04:002005-10-11T12:22:59.916-04:00

Son of Bitch. This is Suck.So Mike Mussina turned the Yankee’s postseason carriage into a rotting heap of coyote vaginas, as is his wont, while A-Rod’s bat up and died like Spock at the end of Wrath of Khan. Matters were made worse when a sprinting Gary Sheffield, apparently on his way to the Cotton Club to go see Duke Ellington––seriously; dude looks like he should be wearing a zoot suit and a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1128957756250032172005-10-10T11:17:00.000-04:002005-10-10T11:22:36.256-04:00

Glengarry Glen FenwayThanks to a number of external factors that are utterly outside of our sphere of influence, we are feeling poorly today. In fact, if we had to draw a rough sketch of our malaise, we’d say that we feel like we’re having someone else’s period right now. The chunky kind. Either we’re going to run out and spend $3,000 on shoes [Oh, like that would happen.--ed.] or we’re going to

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1128451731180958162005-10-04T14:48:00.000-04:002005-10-04T14:58:47.046-04:00

You Fuck Like My DadCouple things. One, we’re so bad off today that we spent most of the morning curled up under our desk in the fetal position, mewing like a cat. So go look for fun and frivolity elsewhere, perhaps forever.We would like to mention, however, that this weekend marked a Significant Occasion for your old pal Sakebomb, as Sunday was the anniversary of our being shat out into

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1127924398882586952005-09-28T12:19:00.000-04:002005-09-28T12:29:19.600-04:00

Shiftless When IdleOh so very busy. And sick. And just not all that into you right now. Sorry.But brevity being the filet of sole of wit, we do have this list, which is proof positive that other than our sad and retarded haikus, there is no cheaper comedy outlet available anywhere. These fuckers have built a cottage industry on this kind of thing.Ten Wildly Unpopular Cartoon Characters1.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1127746303357874772005-09-26T10:51:00.000-04:002005-09-26T14:44:04.846-04:00

We’ve Got a City to LoveAll this avian flu/hurricane/our country is being run by Chris Burke business has got us in a grim mood and no fooling. Plus our birthday is coming up, which means we’re just another bunny hop closer to the grave. Lately, we can feel the tomb’s loamy embrace, taste the kiss of the worm, that kind of thing, and you know what? We like it that way.Wolf balls, wolf dick,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1127339674246996872005-09-21T17:54:00.000-04:002005-09-21T17:54:34.253-04:00

Here We Go Round the Prickly PearYou know what’s the most troubling thing about this avian flu epidemic , the thing that’s going to kill us all deader than Millie Carballo* playing Gnip-Gnop at an unchaperoned slumber party at Shannon Hoon’s house? It’s that all the shit is coming down at a time when we’re missing the two men who could solve the problem with no trouble at all. We are speaking,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1127158978445675142005-09-19T15:41:00.000-04:002005-09-19T15:42:58.456-04:00

The Nervous Light of SundayBecause we’re under the gun and because our synapses are merrily misfiring, it’s going to be all about brevity hereabouts for the foreseeable future. We won’t send you away empty handed, however. Here, in time-honored haiku form, is the distillation of our weekend:You know that movie Scarface? Well, it was like thatonly with more Jews.Things began more or less as they

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126897945776318152005-09-16T15:12:00.000-04:002005-09-16T15:12:25.783-04:00

Now We Are SixIt’s Friday and we’re busy, but we’d be remiss if we didn’t point you in this direction. In a sad and peculiar attempt at viral marketing, Nabisco is offering fans of its snack line a chance to toss some beanbags through what appears to be a toppled box of Ritz Chips that just so happens to have sprouted a darkly puckered anus. The name of the game: Cornhole.Bwah.It gets better.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126634890168986242005-09-13T14:07:00.000-04:002005-09-13T14:14:22.053-04:00

Even This Trusty Accomplice Gets RustyWe’ve been unwell. A week-long bout of insomnia has broken us down to the point where we are not exaggerating in the slightest when we say that at present we resemble nothing so much as an anorexic panda. Earlier today a woman in the office offered us the use of her concealer to try and do something about the bags under our eyes and we very recently enjoyed a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126279127159227622005-09-09T11:18:00.000-04:002005-09-09T11:32:02.910-04:00

Told You SoNever question our gambling prowess, people. When we say take the Pats giving up 7.5, we are speaking WORDS OF WISDOM, fuckers. (What, you were going to take advice from Mr. Fame: Ain’t It a Bitch? Please.)And on a related note: We’d be more than happy to write in this guy on our donkey ballot next Tuesday, provided he brings back the NFL Picks, which besides burn victim porn and

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com50tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126209090555971382005-09-08T15:51:00.000-04:002005-09-08T15:51:30.556-04:00

Mackenzie Phillips Doesn’t Live Here AnymoreTuesday night, The Daily Show’s Ed Helm had a funny little segment about President Corky, in which he listed all of the administration’s various crises in alphabetical order. And it goes a little something like this (hit it):

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126208516565280162005-09-08T15:41:00.000-04:002005-09-08T15:49:44.940-04:00

Appointment in Samarra“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun––for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax––This won't hurt.”CNN has what appears to be Hunter S. Thompson’s suicide note.In a bleakly ironic sort of way, the note was titled “

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126104567904401262005-09-07T10:49:00.000-04:002005-09-07T10:53:13.573-04:00

Shut Down the Internet You look like Three Musketeers gave you cauliflower ass.On a somewhat related note, in a moment of postgraduate whimsy, back in the early ‘90s we decided to cultivate a tiny Baby Mustache. We thought it was funny being all unemployed and unemployable and living at home with the ‘rents and eating all the maple walnut ice cream, so why not facial hair? Father’s reaction:

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1126022944183355612005-09-06T12:08:00.000-04:002005-09-06T12:12:50.876-04:00

We Drink Ourselves FamiliarWhile we’re happy to leave the literary hoo-ah to these people, there is something we’d like to get off our obscenely muscular and hairless chest. See, the thing is, when we get on the subway in the morning, we like to scope out what the other passengers are reading, especially the distaff set. (There is no greater joy to be found in this miserable, filthy burg than to

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125595388280329362005-09-01T13:22:00.000-04:002005-09-01T13:24:01.376-04:00

You Better Memorize This FaceWhat in sweet fuck is this?This makes those Orbitz games look like Grand Theft Auto: Sakebomb Gets a Hummer From Sienna Miller™. America, what the hey is going on? Does Derek Jeter seriously need the money so badly that he’d agree to participate in what amounts to a game that asks baseball fans to intercept and destroy his seed? This is the same man who slept with

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125582519267293812005-09-01T09:48:00.000-04:002005-09-01T09:48:39.266-04:00

VeinspottingLooks like they busted the R Train Flasher. Way to go citizens, etc, etc, but we found the article’s coda to be a bit naff: But former customers were repulsed. “That’s disgusting,” said Melissa Kolbert, 24. “I’ve only eaten there once before ... but I’ll never go back.”Oh settle down, Melissa. It’s not like he was showing his dick to the food.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125582095339909572005-09-01T09:39:00.000-04:002005-09-01T09:41:35.346-04:00

The House at Puke CornerSometimes the only way to properly power through a hangover is through the agency of Great Art. Since we have none on us, and because our brain is withered on its stalk like a geriatric’s testicles, we present you with the following haikus, which we wrote in our own rheumy tears. More later if we don’t, uh, die:Alcoholism:Funny and sad, like a clownhaving an abortion.We

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125515197160996782005-08-31T15:06:00.000-04:002005-08-31T18:02:01.806-04:00

Rome Burns, Nero FiddlesYep, this was taken yesterday. Update: Nice G chord, bitch.Then there’s this, which suggests that rather than compromised levees and, you know, tons of gale-force wind and rain, it was those nasty GAYS that caused the destruction of the Big Easy: “The past three mayors of New Orleans, including Sidney Barthelomew, Marc H. Morial, and C. Ray Nagin, issued official

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125447747027235332005-08-30T20:07:00.000-04:002005-08-30T20:22:27.046-04:00

Last Days of PompeiiThat’s what some people are comparing New Orleans to, right about now. The city is already 80% flooded, and news from the CBS affiliate down there says that efforts to dam up the levee break at the 17th Street Canal have failed. As such, the pumps in that area are expected to fail as well. Lake Pontchartrain is now expected to add another 15-20 feet of water to an already

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125429173265840892005-08-30T15:12:00.000-04:002005-08-30T15:13:27.420-04:00

Train Truck TractorWe just got invited to some lady’s birthday party out in Queens. Because whenever we’re there we may as well be in fucking Nebraska, we told the intern to Google a proper map of the Borough of Airports. Turns out the only way to get there is by taking that weird G train thing. Now we have our reservations about going. We got on that once and it was like a scene from The

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125422981434718132005-08-30T13:29:00.000-04:002005-08-30T16:50:03.296-04:00

Jockey Full of BourbonWhile it looks like our second-favorite city dodged a meteorological bullet yesterday––no floating coffins were reported, and God basically seems to have decided not to ask Bonham over to the house for an all-star jam rendition of “When the Levee Breaks”––we’re sorry to see the Crescent City get banged up the way it did. The folks we know who live down in N’awlins are

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1125417386446657432005-08-30T11:56:00.000-04:002005-08-30T11:59:28.723-04:00

You Know You’re RightHoly cats, were we wrong about this. While we won’t back down on the essential hilarity the book afforded us in the early going, the fact that Ellis expected us to be afraid of what was essentially a homicidal Furby was the straw that sent the dromedary to the chiropractor. Also, we failed to see the horror in furniture that rearranges itself, which rather parenthetically

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124992630703265402005-08-25T13:56:00.000-04:002005-08-25T13:57:10.710-04:00

Nice Pete I wish more than anything I didn’t have to do this … You are so pretty.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124991558798338472005-08-25T13:39:00.000-04:002005-08-25T13:44:30.826-04:00

Come to Sunny PrestatynSo we work with this guy who’s got this arid, almost English sense of humor, and because we are both wastrels and layabouts, we spend much of our time developing and executing fun office activities that would get us both shit-canned faster than you can say “collection of excised vulvas,” should the HR guy ever catch wind of them. This week has largely been given over to

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124990426063699922005-08-25T13:18:00.000-04:002005-08-25T13:20:26.070-04:00

Hangover HaikuStrange sounds are comingfrom our butt. Death added usto his Friendster list.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124984352669285862005-08-25T11:37:00.000-04:002005-08-25T11:39:12.680-04:00

Swallowing is About Communication, BabyAnd with that line, an off-the-cuff declaration of love culled from a non-existent novel called Teenage Pussy, we fell absolutely in love with the new Bret Easton Ellis curiosity, Lunar Park. While we’re only 100 pages into it, and therefore can’t give a thorough assessment just yet, we think this is just about the funniest thing we’ve read since we gasped

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124816745717377082005-08-23T13:01:00.000-04:002005-08-23T13:11:30.680-04:00

In the Kingdom of Boredom, I Wear the Royal SweatpantsIt’s absurd that we only just now discovered that recherché postmodernist Mark Leyner has a new book out, because we just so happened to flip through the latest issue of New York, but dude’s been under the radar since he published his last novel, The Tetherballs of Bougainville, back in 1998. Apparently he’s been dicking around in television,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124728197968984592005-08-22T12:29:00.000-04:002005-08-22T12:31:12.626-04:00

In the Mouth a DesertEvery August we get these same confounding emails. While they differ in tone and style and are often dashed off with an appalling indifference to grammar and punctuation––hit the shift key every once in a while, e.e. cummings––they all ask the same off-putting question: Dude, are you going to Burning Man?Now, we know a few people who have gone to this thing and claim to have

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124472784844921962005-08-19T13:32:00.000-04:002005-08-19T13:33:04.856-04:00

You’ve Got to Be Shitting MeIn this post , our not-all-that-secret blog crush points us to this , which makes us feel not so alone anymore.Seriously, we have asked everyone we’ve ever met if bookstores make them poop, and people always looks at us like we’re crazy. Used bookstores, like The Strand, are the worst offenders. It’s as though Samuel Clemens is piloting a riverboat of cocky down our

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124306324060887332005-08-17T15:18:00.000-04:002005-08-17T15:19:43.720-04:00

The Drugs Don’t WorkThis morning finds us out of the little blue pills that silence The Voices, the ones that tell us to get up at three in the morning and count our postage stamps (nine) and suggest that it might be a good idea to set fires to things that don’t exactly belong to us. While we’re waiting at the pharmacy counter in Duane Reade, we strike up a conversation with a pretty and

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124230130631790802005-08-16T18:08:00.000-04:002005-08-16T18:09:43.776-04:00

Elvis Was a Hero to Most (But He Never Meant Shit to Me)On this day in 1977, Elvis Aaron Presley took the Dump That Never Ended, going peace out on the shitter inside the trashy citadel that was Graceland. We recall not being old enough to care either way, and we still don’t really give a toss, although knowledge of the event, and a fair amount of moxie on our part, once helped us net a cool $100

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1124121963764946252005-08-15T12:05:00.000-04:002005-08-15T12:06:03.773-04:00

Deeper Into MoviesOur weekend plans were scuttled, thanks to a sudden and debilitating financial crisis at Team Sakebomb World Headquarters, so like most of New York’s hoi polloi we were beached in the city, stranded like an unlucky boatsman on the wrack and wreck of the hottest fucking 48-hour stretch in recent memory. We were like this close to pulling a Mookie, except the pizza place around

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123876342019847772005-08-12T15:52:00.000-04:002005-08-12T15:56:39.263-04:00

But Duvall’s Going to Make For a Kickass HeathcliffOK, it’s official: We take back every nice thing we’ve ever said about Bill Murray. What the shit , people?When Bill Murray dies, God will be all, “Well, I liked Stripes, I mean, that was awesome, and Tenenbaums was pretty great even though it had that fucking Stiller kid in it, and dang, even that movie where you go to Japan and don't nail the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123610248641891922005-08-09T13:44:00.000-04:002005-08-09T13:57:28.670-04:00

How Late it Was, How LateWhile we’re loath to admit to caring about anything so base as a television program, we’re coming to grips with the fact that we’re really, really going to miss Six Feet Under, if only because we’ve become huge fans of Peter Krause. One of the things we liked most about his character, Nate Fischer, is that he never seemed to know what the hell was going on. Not ever. Nate

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123604388515319632005-08-09T12:19:00.000-04:002005-08-09T12:54:20.186-04:00

Out of the Frying Pan and Into the CrematoriumWe wanted to be good, wanted nothing more than to put our feet up and perhaps take in a little baseball. We wanted just one night where we didn’t feel we had to careen from bar to bar in an almost desperate bid to forget what’s already long forgotten. Or something. But no, our Palo Alto operative returned to New York yesterday on a hopeful errand and

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123536064270613662005-08-08T17:19:00.000-04:002005-08-08T17:21:04.273-04:00

If the River Was WhiskeyWe were all set to tone it down just a little this weekend, seeing as how the summer has just about wrung us out, physically and emotionally speaking, to the point that our body is starting to do things that suggest something may be seriously amiss with one of the organs that regulate our not being dead. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the other day found us

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123271336588204172005-08-05T15:48:00.000-04:002005-08-05T16:03:23.686-04:00

Like Hypnotizing ChickensWe can’t draw, but if we did, we would submit the most awesome cartoon ever to The New Yorker. Here’s the set-up: There’s a closet, and in it there are a few pairs of ratty jeans and a pair of lamé trousers. (Not at all sure how one might go about sketching lamé, although we bet that Remnick can fix it in post.) Next to the various pants are a whole bunch of empty clothes

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1123085202838944122005-08-03T12:06:00.000-04:002005-08-03T17:46:36.790-04:00

Parallel Lines (On a Slow Decline)Emerging from the fragrant Union Square subway station this morning, we took note of a phone kiosk ad for Deuce Bigelow: European Gigolo, which frankly brought us up short. Who exactly goes to see this kind of shit? We realize that there are approximately 7 million mentally retarded people living in the United States, so that could account for a fair amount of

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1122668102292003702005-07-29T16:05:00.000-04:002005-07-29T16:15:02.296-04:00

Va Fa NapoliWe’re done for the day, but before we tumble back into our sick and unhealthy weekend habits, we’d like to leave you with this gem from Dana, who has a femur-sized bone to pick with people who assume that she’s mobbed up just because her people hail from The Boot:"Fuck you. Do I ask you if everyone in your family is a drunk with a tiny dick? Do I ask you if you fuck through a sheet?

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1122666212760037622005-07-29T15:43:00.000-04:002005-07-29T15:43:32.770-04:00

Note to Self: Don’t DieEvery once in a while, one of our friends surprises us by asking for our advice. Anyone who’s even taken a cursory glance at this bloggy thing of ours will realize that asking us to weigh in on anything of great personal significance makes about as much sense as trying to organize an Agoraphobic’s Day parade. And yet, our pals persist.One boon companion, a lovely young

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1122056804905417272005-07-22T14:26:00.000-04:002005-07-22T14:27:50.060-04:00

The World Kicked Back, a Lot Fucking HarderSo we've been busy and we're not going to apologize for it. But we promise that today will bring a whole treasure trove of new content, unless we piss off to the bar early and get drunker than Jamie Farr drinking up his quarterly residuals from After M*A*S*H. (Slight digression here: What the fuck was going on when they pitched After M*A*S*H? It must

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1120862972129028282005-07-08T18:49:00.000-04:002005-07-08T18:55:46.080-04:00

I ♥ the InternetSo 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1120760502377277432005-07-07T14:21:00.000-04:002005-07-07T14:21:42.393-04:00

London CallingFair 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1120668581534277402005-07-06T12:49:00.000-04:002005-07-06T12:49:41.540-04:00

You Stole Fizzy Lifting DrinksWhile 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

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1120145208212252622005-06-30T11:26:00.000-04:002005-06-30T11:29:05.680-04:00

Shut Up, Shut Up, I Beg of You, Shut UpNew York has no shortage of self-absorbed conceptual artists (read: douchebags) who spend more time talking about what their next “project” is going to look like than, you know, actually creating anything. This morning, as the N train trundled through the steamy bowels of the city, we got an earful of a conversation between a dude who could only be described

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1119977191004509752005-06-28T12:46:00.000-04:002005-06-28T12:52:18.416-04:00

There's a Fine Line Between Clever and StupidLooks like we've found the first contestant for our Drunk Or Retarded? game show, as Oasis knobhead Liam Gallagher is under the impression that This is Spinal Tap is a fookin' documentary.Brother Noel tells the Guardian: "Yeah, he thought they were real people. We went to see them play in Carnegie Hall. Before they played, they came on as three folk

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1119892045492783212005-06-27T13:07:00.000-04:002005-06-27T13:17:23.750-04:00

Two Buck ChuckWe've been all literary the past few weeks, devouring this on TMFTML's recommendation, as well as this and this and this, which if you haven't read it yet, run don't walk to your nearest bookseller, as it's pretty much the funniest thing we've ever read, outside of maybe Catch-22 and A Confederacy of Dunces. We've also enjoyed Chuck Klosterman's latest book, although we're not

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