ONE STOP SHOPPING

Spam of the week. Jesus, what cojones.

Hello!
After buying our software we give you a pack of chi ld po rn.
Afte wathing the porn
We advice You Download & Buy our Brand New Software!!!

Aside from the usual spelling quirks and the fact that they expect you to buy the product twice, what I hear them saying is: "We are so sure our cure for cancer works that we'll infect you with cancer and then cure you! Whaddya say?"

SHEENA EASTON, PUNK ROCKER

When I make my first billion (I'll be leveraging Google stock for the next few months; once the IPO wave breaks, I should be deep into nine figures at least by the end of the year), like all nouveau riche billionaire types, I'll buy myself a sports team. I'm thinking maybe the Brooklyn Nets (they're in New Jersey now, but we're talking soon, not now, and of all the New York area teams, I figure that's the one where the owner's going to go bankrupt or to jail first).

Now, here's my plan. I'd move them to Queens. Where? Well, how about Forest Hills? I mean, really. Who uses that tennis stadium there, anyway? Tennis Players? Really. It is to laugh. Besides, the US Open runs in early September, and after that the Nets could totally move in, and we could change the name to...

The New York Ramones.
The uniforms would be all black & white, the in-house music would be the best in sports, and we'd save a ton on stitching the names on the back of the jerseys.

Speaking of which. Try out the Ramones Name Generator. Shockingly, I'm Tony Ramone.

THREE VERSE BLUES SONG IN 25 WORDS

I've had mad awful job issues this week, and sleep deprivation is nearing record levels, even for me, and someone last night swapped my voice with that of Ken Nordine's while I was sleeping, so I sound like a really, really shaky Grinch. (I know, that was Thurl Ravenscroft. Whatever.)

That said, I'll be at the WFMU Record Fair tomorrow, singing and carrying on (and not buying anything; pending joblessness. You know.), and I'd love to see you there if you're around.

IT IS POSSIBLE THAT IN THIS ELECTION YEAR, ACTUAL "DOUCHE BAGS" ARE GETTING UNDESERVED BAD PRESS

I have the distinct and sublime privilege of being a right-handed english-speaking college-educated white male in a society that still allegedly rewards such undeserved head starts with an extra twenty percent on top of our wages and the knowledge that no one is going to belittle us with backhanded compliments like "Well, he's not bad... for a white guy," even if it's true or they're actually meaning to be demeaning.

Which, of course, happens all the fucking time.

But part of what being male means (and rest assured I don't exactly dwell on this) is that I don't have much occasion to see some activities and items in the course of my daily living.

For example. Feminine hygiene accessories in general, and (deep breath) douches in particular. (I know many women don't use douches or even see them neither, and there's some question about their hygienic upside and possible side-effects downside, but at least females are more in the potential target market for such things.)

Now, if you'll allow me, I'm going to stop talking about feminine hygiene products for just a moment (I know, it was just getting interesting, sorry) and talk about the Presidential election.

Theres a lot of bad PR streaming out about John Kerry these days. That he's a pompus narcissistic gold digger who does whatever's politically expedient and cares more about his image than the political process. Which is kind of rich, considering where those stories are all coming from. (Google some variations on "Sources close to the Bush campaign" or "an unconfirmed White House report indicates" and see the kind of crap they're spewing.

This bullshit about Kerry lying about his extensive and dangerous military service is especially egregious, coming from someone who lied to get out of any work he's ever had to do, right up to today, and who couldn't even complete a one-weekend-a-month tour of duty in Alabama because he was too hammered and coked up to find the base.)

So yes. John Kerry is a douche bag, but I'm voting for him anyway.

And better a douchebag than an openly corrupt, morally bankrupt fascist.

See, the little metaphor matches the big metaphor. Sort of.

[via]

THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

This morning I was literally the only person on my train who wasn't sleeping on the ride in. It's not that long a trip, and it's the milk run, with stops every eight feet between Astoria and Midtown, and even at that it's 20 minutes, maybe a half hour if there's some to-do under the East River.

Also, it wasn't like this was 5:30 in the morning. The sun was up, it was a quarter to nine, and all the working gurls and guys were nodding off in their undrank coffees like someone had pumped chloroform into the car. I half-expected ninjas or some evil menace to get on at some point and rifle everyone's purses & wallets, but the closest thing even visually to that kind of hello-there was a bunch of Goths who got on at 36th St. They were all apparently going to the same place, as they sat four wide in an empty three-seater and curled up against each other like newborn puppies.

If it wasn't for the guy on the one side of me who, while not exactly snoring, had some sort of septum issue that made him hiss loudly through his nose, I could have shot a pastoral scene in the place. Hell, maybe I will.

NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW

It's Monday, which should mean a new song is up for your perusal, and that's the case. I'm starting to worry about overproduction in these songs, which is kind of funny because in terms of recording style, I'm basically dictating the song to a pterodactyl with a chisel. It's a wonder that you can hear anything, let alone understand it or like it.

See, I'm much better live. But until I book some shows in your town, which at the moment is a project with which I could use a little help, these quaint little recordings are all we have.

Listen and let me know if these things are any good.


And speaking of pterodactyls, here a lovely site for those who have a fetish for being stomped by dinosaur feet.

It's quite safe for work, unless someone where you work is into being stomped by dinosaur feet.

You're welcome.

[dinos via]

PRODUCT PLACEMENT FOLLIES

I've been playing a little bit with the new Google G-mail system, and it looks okay, although it's still very clearly not ready for prime time yet. It can't import mail from other clients, you can't save drafts of emails you want to send later, and the cursor occasionally thinks for itself. (I want my cursor to be like me at work. I'm aware that I'm not paid to think, and every time I do, it turns out badly. So I don't. And everyone's happy. Well, except that I'm looking for a job now. So, uh, never mind. Bad metaphor.)

But the upside is huge. It's a much better interface, the storage capacity is sick (1GB instead of, what, 6MB with your average freemail), and if I could run my main domain mail through it, I'd be freaking with glee.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding. I am freaking with glee.

Write and say hi, and let me know if you're paying attention or not or whatever. Let's test this puppy.

HAPPY EARTH DAY TO YOU

New song is up at Area 52. The only reason it's called Emily Post is because Dear Dotti didn't have the right cadence. (Sorry, Dotti, babe. I'll get you next time.)

Blender Magazine: 50 Worst Songs Ever (The full list is here) is actually pretty accurate, although I would switch out "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" for "Two Princes," and a lot of these acts are more to be pitied than hated (The Rembrandts had no idea that their little tossed-off clapfest would become the national anthem of 30-year-old teenagers who were holding on to sixteen as long as they could, and I actually like "Shiny Happy People").

Still. Right Said Fred are still together, and still touring. What, as Nietzsche used to say, the fuck.

OH, THE MANUFACTURED DRAMA!

Two things. One. I've been ordered* not to go on hiatus until dong comes back, but since he's apparently working on a schedule similar to mine (he'll come back when leg warmers and painter's pants come back in style, which is soon, sadly), I'll have to keep on keeping on here, despite all indicators pointing to now being a very good time to take a break and work on this other large project I've got perkulating.

Two. This week's Area 52 song, Emily Post, is currently recorded and not mixed. I'll probably post it later tonight, like late tonight.

Three. I need a job. Anyone know who's hiring? I have a big fat bulging resume, a journalism degree and a whole lotta love for the right place. My lifestyle has just gotten blingier and I got needs, and the life of a bon vivant is not going to fly for very long.

PURDY PITCHERS

I posted a few pictures I took on Monday of some of the fine, fine people who went to Punk Rock Heavy Metal Karaoke at Arlene's Grocery on Monday night.

Like any great photography exhibit, you'll notice the pictures are arranged alphabetically by first name. And since you probably don't know these people, that'll be a real help.

You're welcome.

Oh, What's Punk Metal Karaoke? Check here. It's a world of fun. You should come.

ALL THOSE MATCHBOOK COVERS WERE RIGHT! I CAN DRAW! SORT OF!

My first real work of aht might not be the transgressive monsterpiece that the bastards at the Times might have expected, but it's not like I have a ton of experience with the brush. In fact, the last time I wielded a paintbrush in anger was in my teens inthe Muskokas, and it was in the middle of a gravel driveway over the face of one of my brother's unconscious friends. I had great power and desire to do evil, but I too was intoxicated, and it was close to 4:00 in the morning, and it being out in the middle of nowhere there was only the moon for light, and so I made up his face to look like Gerry Cheevers' goalie mask. This sounds bad, but I was doing it in watercolor and we were beside a lake, and so after the walk of shame in the morning and a quick swim, he only had the gravel-pattern on his face and whatever hangover he had to remind him of the fun he'd had the night before.

So, in that light, I present unto you Nude Sitting Still At The Red Lobster, courtesy of Mister Picassohead.

LIVING LARGE ON AN EXTRA $100 A DAY

In case you were wondering, here's some background on how to bribe your way into any restaurant.

No doubt the tip-starved hosting staff at these places is thrilled to see this piece, and I'm sure it'll be helpful to some scenefuckers looking to make a good impression with whoever might be impressed with a prime time seat at Balthazar or Alain Ducasse, and I'll use this information as soon as I have the extra fifty bucks to stuff in someone's pockets just to sit down for water & breadsticks.

But even at my richest, I've never had that much extra bling to spread around. Which means I've learned to cope with the second tier of restaurants, where the food is plenty fine and the servants are still somewhat snooty, and you get all the trappings of haute kweezeen without having to sell vital organs and live in a refrigerator box under a bridge to subsidize it.

"I know a place" is a vastly more appealing phrase to me than "Can you get me in?"

See, money comes & goes. But knowledge is power.

(But Tony, you're just jealous.)

You're so right.

THE ROCK WAS BROUGHT, AND SHARED

Thanks to everyone who came out to see me play last night. I'm getting better at telling people about this stuff, but if you didn't know, please don't be insulted. I don't know how ready for prime time I am yet.

I have this fantasy where I just show up one day and blow the doors off the house, and all my friends are shocked that I'm as good as I am. Until then, though, I'm just some smartass with a lot of potential.

I hate the word potential. It means stuff you haven't done yet. The mere mention of damned word makes me miserable. But it is what I know. So I keep woodshedding long after I'm probably good enough to make a living at this stuff again (I did for a couple of years, so I know I can do it).

Anyway, it was an excellent night, and I hope to do it again. Thanks for continued listening and giving of a shit. I'll take it from you any time.

THAT'S WHAT SHE WANTS

There are eight hundred quadrillion flash videos out there, but this one is fantastic. The music is really cool, the animation is black & white lo-fi perfection, and you really feel the flow and emotion of the piece. I'm a little bit blown away.

She wants to be A New York Girl in Baghdad.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?

This is my formal invite to get you-all to come down to see the official playing of (most of) the first CD from the Area 52 project. Come down and bring someone you love. Yeah, it'll be that kind of show.

Here's the specs.

Thursday, April 8 (tonight!)
8:00 pm
Baggot Inn
82 West 3rd St (between Thompson & Sullivan)
(If there's a cover charge, it will be minimal.)

After the show, there may be hockey watching, or maybe bowling, depending on how y'all feel. Maybe we'll have a sit down with tea and shortbreads.

I like shortbreads. But first, the rock shall be brought. By me.

Question this wisdom at your peril.

THE GREAT WHITE WATERFALL

Milk bags. It's a Canadian thing. I might have thought it was odd as a kid, but now I look at it and think, who thought that was a good idea? Is the amount of trash you save by serving milk in a plastic bag really worth it? (Yeah, probably, actually. They're way cheaper to make, use and reuse than jugs or cartons, as long as you're not a total hamhanded klutz.

So no, then.)

If you've never used milk bags before, and you plan on moving to Canada, Here's a how-to for drawing milk from a bag.

Needless to say, there's nowhere else I've heard of on Earth that delivers milk in flimsy plastic tubes, and it certainly never made it to New York, where a sturdy container is the sine qua non of proper milk delivery. (According to ITV, they do it in India and Switzerland, and they've tried it in England. I stand corrected.)

I miss them, in the way you miss anything figuring prominently from childhood, but I remember the mess when a bag would rupture at the supermarket and some poor sot would have to hose down the rest of the bags and clean out the dairy case.

Go ahead and laugh.

FRANKLY, I'M NOT THAT POLITE

This handy-dandy guide to walking in New York City is actually written fairly straight for TMN, and even though it doesn't factor in bicycle traffic (bikes are the fastest thing in the Manhattan street; they're vastly more agile than even pedestrians are, especially walkers who aren't paying attention, which is, sadly, most of them), it's a solid primer if wandering around NYC bothers you.

One other thing. Of course cars can kill you, but drivers in this town are as courteous and aware of their surroundings as anywhere I've ever been. Seriously. It's the pedestrians that are the dangerous ones, and following even these rules can only help make that better.

(What we really need is something like the WALK RIGHT! coalition. I'm way more scared of some dumbass on foot accidentally pushing me in front of a bus than I've ever been of cars that rarely get up to killin' speed, especially in Manhattan.)

MY LUNCH HOUR

"So. What happened here?"
"Oh, Lieutenant, thank god you're here. It's horrible. Horrible."
"Alright, suck it up, officer, there's a lot of blood here, but it ain't Iraq. Tell me what happened."
"Well, the suspect was in the drugstore, over here in the Insipid Greeting Cards and Shitty Candy aisle, and that 'I Will Go Down With This Ship' song came on the muzak, and all of a sudden he screamed, let me get this quote right… Ah yes. He said, 'Clumsy trite little fucking metaphor, fuck this song and the whores that play it every eight fucking minutes.'"
"And then?"
"And then he opened a box of Bic pens and started carving people up. One witness said it was like he turned into the Hulk or Godzilla, some evil angry green thing. You know, it's odd how much blood a simple 29 cent pen can bring out of someone."
"Mhm. Is the suspect in custody?"
"That's him in the squad car. He's been screaming and beating his head against the interior of the vehicle for over an hour."
"He hasn't calmed down much, has he -- ooh, that's gotta hurt."
"Yeah."
"I hate that damned song too."
"It's unlistenable."
"Who does it? Dido?"
"Frankly, I've had no desire to even find out."
"You know, It's kind of justifiable, actually."
"The homicidal rage, sir?"
"Absolutely. My heart goes out to him. Listen. Clean him up, and take him home. Poor guy's suffered enough."
"With pleasure, sir."

FINALLY (UPDATED)

Two (Deux! Zwei! Due! Dos! Ni!) new songs are up at Area 52. Under The Subway is a breezy little Christmas ditty about everyday apocalypses and salvation therefrom.

Also, there is the F word in it, in a place where it makes two internal rhymes and an alliterative declaration. I can't remove it even if I wanted to. Which, as it happens, I don't.

I'm mixing a version tomorrow with the offending word bleeped out for radio play (don't want the few deejays who play my stuff on air to get fired, because that would be, what's the word, oh right, counterproductive), oh and the bass will be in tune at the end. I have the technology, and I hear that shit helps, though I like the cacaphony at the end so maybe I'll leave it be. Funk as puck, brother. Bite my big shorts. So's yer ma. Epatez, little queen bee. Booyah.

And so on.

The other song, a Leonard-Cohen-meets-George-Thorogood thing called Tanzania, went up tonight too. L'Chaim, y'all.

Let me know what you think.

Oh, one more thing. I know this place has become a lame place for me to vent about the rigors of my recording schedule and the obstacles in the way of same, and I'm goshdarn sorry about that. But the election ain't for another six and a half months, Trivia and hipsterfucker parties won't reenter my life until next weekend and then only sparingly, and I got lots of other excuses, many of them possibly valid, for being so single-minded.

If I didn't love you, would I be humiliating myself like this, week in and week out, in front of you?

No, I wouldn't. So take your lovin' like a grownup, even if'n you ain't.

Good night and sleep well.