Archive for March, 2010
It’s raining like a mother-fucker again today. Oh well, ‘April showers bring May flowers’ I suppose. Whenever it rains in New York I’m reminded of that final scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s where Holly and the dude from A-Team are frantically searching for a cat in a rain swamped alley. Then I’m reminded of Mickey Rooney ruining the whole movie with his racist depiction of a Japanese man: “Miss Gorightry! Miss Gorightry!”. Dreadful. He was much better in the movie Bill; I think that that role came pretty natural to him. Jesus. It’s not even lunch time and already I’m taking swings at Mickey Rooney. Well, he’s had it coming since the roaring 20′s. He started his career in a monkey-sized tuxedo, performing in his parents vaudeville act age 17 months (no shit), and he hasn’t had a break since. The guy has literally been working since 1921. Naturally, he got into drugs and gambling somewhere along the way (cool), but then he had an encounter with an angel in a coffee shop in 1970 and became a born again Christian (gay). So, besides the Jesus thing and the slapstick-jap thing, he’s actually pretty awesome. He’s made like 500 movies! Two of them are in post production right now! That’s insane. He should be filling his pockets with mothballs, loading his pants, and smiling at the ceiling by now.
Anyway, that’s Mickey Rooney. What we’re really here to discuss is podcasts. My buddy Ed texted me the other day to see if I wanted to do a podcast with him; just he and I, drinking a few beers, perhaps smoking a bowl or two, talking about whatever. This isn’t the first time I’ve been approached to do something like this. Last year Wendy James emailed to suggest that her and I do a radio show at EVR. She was friends with the station manager, and had already sorted out a slot if we wanted. I felt a bit weird about it because I don’t really dig the sound of my own voice, and I’m also very shy; you might even say I’m a touch farouche, if you had a thesaurus handy.
So nothing ever happened with the EVR radio show… But now I’m wondering if we should be doing a radio show. I’ve got a face for it (that’s a joke. I’m handsome).
Anyway, Penis-Beachers, I’m really waffling hard now. Do you want some stickers? We got stickers coming. We’ll send you some.
Stay tuned for Wooooo Radio? Maybe. See what happens.
New issue in the works. More name dropping tomorrow.
Read the rest of this entryHas anyone noticed no excuses have been made for the absence of a new issue? We were hoping you hadn’t noticed. Then this arrived in the mail today:
“Crombie and Co,
Wheres number 7? It’s been like a year you dick. I want more!!!!
Cam.”
It’s coming, Cam, chill out with the name calling. Why do people assume it’s okay to call me- a complete stranger- things like ‘Dick’? Irreverence is dead; long live politeness.
It’s raining…again… in New York. And it’s Monday, and we’ve got stuff to do besides waffle on to you.
We do love you, though. And we’ve got another issue coming. x
Everybody knows about the CIA plot to assassinate “the three pied pipers of rock”: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison, but only one film dares investigate that dark page in rock’s history, and that film is: Beyond The Doors.
And because this movie is so fantastically well produced, conceived, acted, scored, lit, costumed, cast, directed, written, edited, shot and, who knows, probably catered, I found it almost impossible to select the best scene to showcase here. Eventually I realized, however, that Beyond The Doors is, scene-for-scene, categorical solid-gold, so I’m posting a random bit featuring an uncannily accurate portrayal of Jim Morrison (Bryan Wolf, you chameleon of chameleons, where are you now?).
Skip to 0:18, and then, when your goosebumps subside, move on to the masterful live performance at 4:40. Want more? Fortunately for you, dear reader, the movie in it’s epic entirety can be viewed in 9 minute chunks on Youtube… at least until the government catches on to this subversive cinematic masterpiece, and has it destroyed in an incinerator two miles below the Pentagon.
Warning: You may want to staple a shower cap to your head to catch your brains when they explode.
How you feeling? Like you just had your mind totally blown? Like you just went back in time to the Summer of LOVE?
Far out.
You may remember a while ago I was very concerned with the goings on on North Sentinel Island. Well, I’m over it; I’ve moved on. These days I’m watching a different island; an island far more mysterious than North Sentinel (upon who’s shores, incidentally, I discovered the skeleton of a mysterious sunken barge. I can’t find any info about it anywhere. Latitude 11°35’36.50″N, Longitude 92°12’45.45″E. Check it out, mystery lovers). Yes, I’m talking about the weirdest, most intriguing island of them all: Johnny Depp Island!
What’s he up to, the little weirdo? Why does he need an entire island with six individual beaches and golf carts and free ice-cream probably?
What are you doing, Johnny Depp? What’s going on?
Little Hall’s Pond Cay is the island’s name, as specified by your everyday Atlas. According to google earth, however, it’s called ‘Depp Island’. Seriously.
What’s he up to?
Are you kidding me? What the fuck are you up to, Depp? I’m watching you.
No, it’s not Dracula at the library; it’s Gay Talese! And he is super fucking good. You need to read this guy. Did you check out Didion like I said? Why not? You’ve changed.
Busy-balls today. Nothing to say. All I got is what you read.
Far too nice out to be sitting here at the desk anyway. PLUS I have to find some more money. Thank you to whoever it was that lost $120.00 on Stanton St wednesday. It went to a good home.
Here’s that extra Jose you ordered….
Do yourself a massive favor and check out Phil Ochs, assuming you haven’t already… you probably have though; you’re pretty up with it.
It’s great discovering new stuff, isn’t it? Just when you thought the internet had robbed you of the joy-of-finding-stuff, good ol’ Phil Ochs steps out from the woodwork to shake your hand.
Nice.
This song (below) isn’t very typical of his music, but it’s awesome. I can’t believe I’m only just discovering this dude. I’ve had that Jackson Brown rammed down my throat my whole life, but Phil has been well off the radar. Funny old world. Who actually likes Jackson Brown, by the way? He’s like a head cold with a guitar. Fucking awful. And is Dan Akroyd that funny? He’s passable at best, and yet he hogged the spotlight on SNL for years. What? It’s true! All he does is that “earnest nerd” thing. If his head was a normal size he wouldn’t have a career. I don’t get it.
Bill Murray, now there’s a funny guy; I’m just sayin’.
Riley Payne probably gets a few too many mentions over here, but we like his stuff.
Bums and palms: two of our most favorite things.
Speaking of artists we like (there aren’t many), Wes Lang has a show coming up on Thursday at ZieherSmith, 516 West 20th Street. Get along to that one.
Speaking of having very little to say because there’s a bunch of shit to do today, here’s a video.
If you don’t have any Jose in your record collection there’s something wrong.
I was walking down 3rd Ave today, way up in the east 60′s where I live (languish), and this little three-peice Ralph Lauren family turned the corner and headed toward me. Mom, dad, and little Jimmy. They were one of those families where the parents look too old for the kid; you know the type: a little too young to be grandparents- a little too old to be parent parents. It’s like they waited until they only had one egg left and then totally went for it. Anyways, the kid was your typical little six-year-old douche-bag from the upper east side (borderline translucent skin, mushroom shaped haircut, oversized, overly red, dribbly lips), and he was skipping along between his L.L. Bean parents, in a cape no less, chanting at the very top of his weird little lungs, “SUPER-DOOPER FUN! SUPER-DOOPER FUN! SUPER-DOOPER FUN!” And you know what? I didn’t believe him for a second. I don’t think he believed it either; he was trying way too hard. In fact, I’d say he was already deeply neurotic.
So that sucked, and then I saw three grown-ass men come out of a cafe, all wearing their baseball caps backwards. I’m not even making that up; I wish I was but I’m not. Why do all the dudes in my neighborhood think that that looks cool? And who said it was okay to pair that backwards hat with a pair of distressed G-Star douche jeans and striped button-down? Assholes. They probably all got laid last night too. There are so many assholes in the mid to upper 60′s, you wouldn’t believe it. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. Someday.
Turning onto 1st Ave I saw a homeless guy wearing a pair of brand new dunks; like, glowing-in-sharp-contrast-to-everything-in-the-world dunks. It’s not uncommon to see bums wearing really nice shoes, but this guy looked like the Nike fairy had paid him a visit, you know what I mean? Boom! I was wearing a busted pair of Vans and he had the nerve to hit me for some change. Incredible. Then this perfectly healthy woman sitting at a bus stop hit me up for some small change. She looked like Renee Zegwhatever in a pink sweat-suit. “Get a job” I said. She said she didn’t want to. I asked her if she’d like to make fifty cents the hard way then. She said no. I told her it was her loss. She said, “Whatever” I said, “You’re fat”
True story.
Still no sign of the elusive Joan Didion I’m afraid. Stay tuned though; she’s bound to turn up in line at Duane Reade soon, and I’ll be there to accidentally insult her, like I have so many others.
Here’s Jimmy Page not being your awesome dad very much.
Zanimal braved the mean streets of the west village to bring you this St Patrick’s day story, so you better enjoy it.
In other news: I have to get cable back; I really miss this show.
How do you get a cold in Texas? By eating poorly and drinking too much. I can’t help it; I love those little jalapeño poppers, and beer is okay too. I’m paying the price now though. I have to go do an interview with a really energetic, chatty, young girl. I feel and look like the devil used me for a Q-tip.
I used to work in a bar that had an enormous Frenchman working the door. I called him “Franken-frog” because he was French and enormous.
One night after work Franken-frog recounted a funny story about someone getting battered to death by someone or something, and he laughed heartily at the memory and then mused, “Ah, life.”
Whenever I feel I’m being dealt a less than fantastic hand I hear those two words, and booming gaw-faw, in echoey refrain.
I hear him now.
“Ah, life.”
Texas was awesome; thanks for asking. This is the bedside table I shared with my assigned photographer, Tim. This is also the table Tim shared with his assigned journalist, me. That’s right, we shared a room; times are tough in publishing. Tim’s assistant slept on a cot at the end of his bed, which sounds pathetic because it is. To be honest, I’m surprised we were even sent to cover ‘the event I can’t mention for fear of being scooped’ in the first place. Times are tough, man.
Anyway, I’m back now, and you can read all about the Texas trip, the unmentionable event, and how bad a hotel room smells after three days of man-farts in next months Playboy.
Now, a few people got weird with us about the ‘Sean Costello in Texas’ video we posted a few days ago; they thought we were making fun of disabled people (?). We weren’t. That footage is from a hilarious show called How’s Your News?, and if you’ve never seen it- you need to. It’s brilliant.
Long story short: it’s an interview show hosted by some really funny people who just happen to be disabled. They had a six-show season on MTV last year; not sure what the deal is this year, but you can watch last year’s episodes on the MTV website.
And you can also check out the How’ Your News? website HERE.
My favorite interviewer is Robert ‘Bobby’ Bird, who’s speech is so incoherent that his subjects are forced to improv their reply and consequently reveal more about their character than Barbara Walters could ever dream of. Case in point: Sarah Silverman.
BOOK CLUB! BOOK CLUB! BOOK CLUB!
Still on that J Diddy binge (book two doesn’t really make it a binge does it?); I can’t get enough. You need to check her out if you haven’t already.
She’s so gooooooood, and she was a bit of a spunk in the 60′s. Me, I likes them mousy.
Slouching Towards Bethlehem is actually, in my opinion, better than The White Album… or just different maybe. Whatever.
Check it out.
I found out Joan lives four or five blocks from the office. Hopefully we’ll see her one day and fan-out on her: “Joan! Joan! I’m your biggest fan!” Or maybe be all “Hey. I read that book you wrote, can’t remember the title… whatever, it was ok.” and then lift a leg, fart, and then saunter off like it’s no big deal.
And that’s book club for another week.
Goin’ ta Texas tomorrow, ya’ll! Yee-haw! It’s in the high 60′s all weekend!
Say what you will, but he did some great work early in his career, and he wasn’t a total prick; he was just messed up. What a bummer. And what a shame the news didn’t come as a shock to anyone. There’s nothing worse than not being surprised by a young person’s death, is there? Pretty fucked.
We were going to post a classic scene from one of his movies but then we thought- why not expose the reason that he slowly killed himself with drugs? So, here it is: Corey at his worst.
We’re not shrinks, but this looks pretty close to a big, fat, TELEVISED call for help.
RIP.
Our good buddy Strath hales from Seattle, which happens to be the birthplace of a little known musical revolution called “Grunge”, maybe you’ve heard of it? Anyway, Strath is a brilliant designer by trade, and for years he’s been collecting images and pasting them into scrap books for inspiration.
Occasionally he posts spreads from his Inspiration Archive on his blog, and we’re very grateful for that because they’re really nice to look at. He’s kind of like a magpie: collecting stuff, swooping kids, crapping on my hood… Yeah, he’s kinda like a big, bear-sized magpie with a beard, that lives in Seattle.
This may not be the best example of his work, but it just happens to be my favorite. Check out the rest HERE.
Need advice? Then why not…
$6.99 for a package of raspberries? I must be getting old, because that’s highway fucking robbery, Gourmet Garage. You have got to be kidding. Someone turn on the radio; it’s time for my ‘stories’.
It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? One minute you’re having sexual relations with Geneviève Waïte at the Hyatt Regency in Indianapolis, the next minute you’re paying seven dollars for raspberries. Frozen peas or limousines; it can only be one or the other.
It’s friday and as you can see I’m still putridly ill. It feels like I’ve been trying to digest a raccoon for the last seven days: night sweats, nightmares, lime-green nasal discharge. Just horrible. And I’ve been on deadline for about 87 different projects. When it rains-it pours, and it doesn’t wait for you to pull on your wellys, I can tell you that.
Anyway, we’ll see you next week for BOOK CLUB! BOOK CLUB! BOOK CLUB! and a bunch of other shambolic miscellanea. ZAnimal is filing another of her adventure stories too, so stay tuned.
Here’s the latest episode of Everyone Loves Melrose: the show where inappropriate canned laughter never gets old.
Talk Monday.
Oh my god! Almost forgot! We’ve started a new project! What we do is, we find advice on the internet given by people who’s second language is english, then pair that text with this picture of an awesome old Chinese dude. It’s sort of racist, but in a nice way. Enjoy… or just get upset, what ever feels right.
Click the pic.
Hello friends. I’m sick. I got a cold; that’s why there’s been nothing new for a while. No one cares about me when I have a cold.
My girlfriend just says, “you’re not that sick.” Meanwhile I’m pissing green spaghetti and breathing a lemon yellow mist.
I’m fucking sick, man.
Tonight I was reminded again that the movie Weird Science is the greatest movie ever when I met a teenage kid who could recite the whole script word-for-word. Last year I had a challenging round of Weird Science quote tennis with Nieratko via email. He was pretty good, but this kid tonight blew my mind. He was still swimming round in his old man’s sack when I first saw the film, and here he was killing me with quotes. It’s interesting to note that women don’t stand around quoting funny movies like men do. Why?
And why don’t they make engine noises when they’re telling car or motorcycle stories? What are they up to?
What are you up to, women folk?
Anyway, as you can see I’m sick. What little word-power I possessed has been syphoned from me like so much pus from the spine of a corpse; yes, they suck the pus out of your spine when you die.
Last night I was tossing and turning, trying to sleep, and I got hung up on this thought: what if I run into Joan Didion and accidentally let it slip that I’ve been passing myself off as a writer. And then what if she visits this fucking blog? Or worse yet, what if she ordered the last two issues and a t-shirt like Mandy Reese of Oakland California did this morning (cheers Mandy. It’s in the mail)
What if I meet Tom Wolfe at a party and he asks me what I do? What if you all find out I’m a fraud? What if the moon explodes and bits of rock come hurtling at the earth and destroy Johnny Depp’s island before I can get there? What if spiders are really aliens? What if god was one of us? What would you do if you crapped the worlds largest diamond? Who would you tell? Would they try to steal your ass?
See? I’m sick. How else can you explain that warped screed I just vomited? I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m just mucous and bad feelings.
There’s your words for today. I’m going back to bed.
Here’s a song that’s kind of about being sick.