Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Madonna Who?

L'amour looks a lot like Leslie Feist:

Feist reminds me of my first love (seriously, I was tore up over that girl even though I was 5 at the time. I was devastated when she moved away and it was then that I turned to booze.). Her name was Leslie also. Leslie Allen: A tiny little slip of a girl but old beyond her years and so mod and funkdafied in her plaid schoolgirl skirts...

We played the 'Hair' Original Cast recording LP on her Close N' Play. We played doctor too behind somebody's couch.

I'm moving to Chicago on Thursday. Bye NYC. Kiss my sweet, sweet ass.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Courtney Love Is A Name-Dropping, Bug-Eyed Gay Donkey.

I think we can all agree that anymore the vag-flashing celebutard phenomenon appeals only to Perez Hilton, the GoFugYourself.com girls and paparazzi. Nicole Ritchie, Paris Hilton...even my fourteen year old twin nieces could give a rat's ass about these haggard convicts. These slags are so obviously without worth that 'washed-up' can't describe what they'll be next year because to be 'washed-up' you have to be treading water to begin with. Remember Paris Hilton's post-incarceration born-again week? That moment was so absurd pop-culture pundits couldn't bring themselves to snark online about it...to comment at all would have been so lame and obvious and just plain redundant that all snark privileges would have been instantly revoked by the Gods of Twat: Gawker.com. Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, other assorted Disney bitches and their useless little sisters (e.g. The Duffs), Zac Effron...their fates have all been foretold. If they play their cards right, they're all gonna grow up to be Courtney Love.

Courtney. Love.

The name alone gives me gooseflesh. I feel like the letters COURTNEYLOVE are an anagram for ROMAN CASTEVET. She's the sloppy drunk at the party who staggers by you en route to the bathroom and slurs "There's too many of 'em. I can't kill the world" into your ear. Howler monkeys berserk at the sight of her as do armies of recovering Seattle-area rrrrriot grrrrrrrls.

Fatty Arbuckle bred Paula Fox and hatched Linda Carroll who lay with Tex Watson and then begat the feral scourge that is the Courtney Love Cobain.

If you're in any way pro-Love check out these dismal five minutes up close and personal with this carelessly preserved husk of a woman and then reconsider:

Jesus. Because I've spent much of the last five years of my New York City existence spinning for inebriates in bars, that clip leaves me wracked with spasms of deja vu. How many times have I found myself cornered, bleary-eyed and blinking at some ghastly, fame-whore of a Gay leaning into me and braying names of people I've never heard of, all in the effort of selling to me the idea that s/he has a legitimate
presence in the public eye. Courtney doesn't just introduce her friend as 'Kimberly' but as 'Kimberly Stewart', as if broadcasting the fact that her Coachella companion is Rod Stewart's daughter will somehow give her some infotainment cache'.

Courtney Love took the road better off not traveled. At one time, I bought into her decadent California pop-rock goddess pose. Hole's 'Celebrity Skin' is a glorious update of the whole 70's Eagles/Fleetwood Mac L.A. noir aesthetic.

It demanded a series of sequels but instead she hooked up with the Jim Steinman of chick-rock (Linda Perry) and has opted to shill a wretched, screechy radio-friendly caricature of herself. I hated 'America's Sweetheart' (CL has confessed that she's not a fan either...probably because its chart performance was underwhelming)and I'll no doubt hate her long-delayed follow-up 'Nobody's Daughter'.

She's the Joe Pesci of rock n' roll which is sad because she could've been a contender instead of a mook, which is what she is.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Brooklyn Tornadoes, Rats & Zombies!

One would think that the fact that Parker Posey is starring in her very own Fox sitcom this fall (laugh track and all) would suffice as unimpeachable evidence that the GOP and their desperate intelligent design rationale have won the culture war...one would think so...but 'The Return of Jezebel James' is scripted and it's videotaped...so cute!...is it also filmed before a live studio audience and brought to us by 'Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific'? Leave it to the queen of indie-snark to infiltrate the Murdoch fortress with a lame 'Odd Couple' retread featuring a Reverand Jim wild-card little sister/roommate (Parker Posey lookalike/beloved 'Six Feet Under' wild-card: Lauren Ambrose, replete w/ army surplus jacket and yucky matted hair). Here's a clip:

Funny, yes?

In other news of pending apocalypse:

Twisters touched down in Brooklyn early yesterday morning. Now, for those of you who live in fly-over country...this is totally unheard of. Tornadoes fucking up the morning commute? That's just crazy talk! Precipitation however...now that's a whole other animal. It dumped rain for a half an hour and that was enough to short circuit all the major subterranean arteries that drag our resentful, sweaty asses into hated Manhattan. Does MTA have a system in place to handle subway train hydroplaning? No, sir. And fuck you for asking.


I watched 'Rataouille' this evening. 'Ratatouille' is a French peasant dish as well as a Pixar creation about rats in the kitchen. The latter caused me to gape in wonder at it like a wee child. It was gorgeous to look at, it referenced one of my favorite directors, Jacques Tati, it was fast and funny and it had something meaningful to say. So I logged on to IMDB.COM to read what the hoi polloi had to say about this contemporary masterpiece...five-year old crumb-snatchers became bored 30 minutes into it so naturally the film sucked. Okay. Fair enough. But why would you ship your screamy, snot-caked progeny off to a 'cartoon' that didn't feature fart jokes, cell phone hijinks and Jackass-inspired pratfalls in the first place? Hunh? Don't get me wrong, I don't hate kids at all, it's just that I can't stand to be around feral, unhappy vanity projects for any more time than it takes to hold my breath. That's all I'm saying.

Music. Where would I be without iTunes? So I'm surfing the net, earbuds jammed into my waxy, indifferent earholes, and then all at once XTC segueways into The Zombies' 'Odessey And Oracle' and it's Kismet. Wow! Now you may know The Zombies for their three hits: "Tell Her No", "She's Not There", and of course "Time Of The Season". But The Zombies were so much more than a sub-Beatles British Invasion also-ran. They were the Radiohead of their time. They experimented with minor/major chord changes, choirs, keyboard driven melodies (as opposed to the default chart-friendly rhythm guitar antics as exemplified by The Kinks' "You Really Got Me"). Their magnum opus 'Odessey And Oracle' is the British Invasion 'Pet Sounds'...moreso than the cold, clinical Beatles bore: 'Sgt. Pepper'...who makes out to 'Sgt. Pepper'? Does anybody actually listen to 'Sgt. Pepper' for pure listening pleasure anymore? But The Zombies, they have it all: Warm, skinny-Britboy-R&B flavored vocals courtesy of mop-topped, Jagger-lipped studwaif Colin Blunstone, lush baroque strings, AMAZING Rod Argent keyboards (Argent branched off and recorded the epic "Hold Your Head Up" which was a Stateside hit and an AOR radio staple).

The Zombies. The Beatles wish they were The Zombies.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Friday, August 03, 2007