That's just the way things work here.  Sorry it wasn't what you wanted!(*)

Hope you enjoyed the 7K-word sort-of history lesson/obsession.  I promise to someday proofread it.  Now:  Let's talk butt juice!

Dog hasn't been 100%, lately, and was due for his annual poking and sticking anyway, so:  vet.  I do not like our vet, here, and he doesn't like me.  He is VERY concerned about pet hygiene and I'm very much concerned that IT'S A DOG.  I will not brush a dog's teeth no matter how many complimentary tubes of poultry-flavored toothpaste you give me.  (The one time I tried, the dog was all DUDE I AM A DOG.  He's a smart dog.)  Teeth, ears, coat, criminal record.  All must be cleancleanclean!

This visit I got tsk-tsked about how spic-n-span the inside of the dog's ass wasn't.

Dogs have little sacks inside their anus.  These are called "anal sacs."  It's where they store their special individual personal snowflake scent, and that's why dog's noses go right toward other dogs' rears.  Checking papers.  Something like that.

Look!  A graphical representation!

You're welcome!

Apparently, you're supposed to "express" the sacs regularly.  This involves putting your fingers in the anus and squeezing the sacs so any residual fluid splugggghes out.  Failure to do so can result in infected sacs!  No one likes infected sacs!  It leads to discomfort when the dog's doing the pooing, probably other bad things.

Anal sacs anal sacs anal sacs.

This expression of inner booty was another thing none of my previous pooches have ever had to have done.  And Current Dog did get an infection once, so it was appropriate, then.  This time the crapping was happening just fine.  The doctor insisted!  So splurggggggh.

Last time, Dog and I trotted to the park and washed all the spillage off and agreed to never speak of what had happened again.  Because man's best friend's rear end's covered in stuff rejected from Odor Central.  It is the greatest concentration of funk you will ever encounter.

Not pleasant!

And when it's 30 degrees and all the fountains are turned off, you don't have any option but to bring it home with you.  I have now, inside the apartment, washed the poor thing's ass three times.  Pretty positive his backside smells like roses, but I can't tell.  The stench is clinging to my nostril hairs and it's freaking me out.  Logically, I know my hands are clean, because I've scrubbed three layers of skin off with soap.  But my fingers don't smell like anything but dog's ass unless I jam them up my nose and into my brain.  (Even then, the knuckles are suspect.)  The windows are open and the air freshener is either crying or laughing or speaking in tongues and does anyone know where I might get a case of syphilis powerful enough to suck off my schnozz?

This year reeks from the start.  Soon we'll be forced to choose between Mitt and Hill (**) and subjected to the oncoming ska revival and we'll hate ourselves and everyone else and hopefully someone will have the courage and the firepower to do something about it.

Once the air clears I'll be back with The Top 56 Reasons it's Okay to Strongly Dislike Vampire Weekend, or concert coverage from May of 1987, or something.

(*)  There's a Harlan Ellison anecdote - actually, a Stephen King anecdote about Harlan Ellison - that tells how the first words out of Harlan's mouth at a public lecture were:  "I just had a vasectomy on Tuesday and I'm still bleeding.  If you don't believe me, ask my girlfriend."  An elderly couple got up to leave; Ellison said, "‘Night, folks.  Sorry it wasn't what you wanted!"

"Sorry it wasn't what you wanted!" has become my fucking mantra.

(**)  Unless Bloomberg enters the race.  Then, there will be one vaguely acceptable candidate (Obama, McCain) from whom Mikey will siphon votes.

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What else smells like ass?  Kate Nash's t00nz.  Come on, people.  Stop going nuts over substandard shit.

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And that new Cat Power record smells like an ass that's missing a foot.

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It warmed the cockles of my testiclesles to see a clip about Mug Money on Gothamist yesterday afternoon.  When I first moved back to New York, I adjusted the old amount for inflation and made sure I always had $50 in my pocket.  Of course times have changed in a couple ways:  Everything's gotten shopping-mall-safe; and everyone's carrying electronic goodies - iPodphones, sideberries, whatever - that can be bartered for your life.

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Hey!  What's worser than blogs?  Tumblr blogs!

Instead of someone making a public announcement every time they take a shit, now they ping you every time they feel like they might fart.  Even if I love your stuff, I don't need to hear you say "Excuse Me" every five seconds.

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Between this and hearing her do the patented NPR Schwetty Balls "Oooooo" over Vampire Fucking Weekend on the network's year-end wrap-up, Carrie Brownstein is making me want to destroy my Sleater-Kinney records.  I will break them into shards and use them to murder passersby and then defecate on the corpses.

2008:  It will ruin everything you love.

Next up, Kim Gordon warns us against "sweating the small stuff," wistfully fantasizes about a NKotB reunion.

Maybe just stomping on The Woods for a little bit will make me feel better.  Stomp, stomp, stomp.

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If there's one thing the holidays are all about, it's suffering.  That's why, like a hopeful tot on Christmas Eve, I've been watching my RSS feed for an update from the fantastic-but-dead Musical Fruitcake.  "A collection of the worst Christmas songs ever created," the blog might not be the gift that keeps on giving, but it ain't broke:  All download links seem to be intact.

Grab yourself some nog and cozy up to tune-free kid singers, celebrity crooners (Lorne Green!  Charo!  Max Headroom!), historical whooznots and lurid misfires.  John Denver's "Please Daddy, Don't Get Drunk This Christmas" is a personal favorite - it's funny cuz it's true! - but the country weepies about orphans for whom Christmas won't come are all a hoot.

It doesn't get any better-worse than this:

Suzannah - Mom and Daddy Please Don't Steal for Me This Christmas (mp3) (via)

"That's not our car, Mom!  Someone just left it open."  The genius here is that whoever wrote the hee-hee lyrics ("At least you could've changed/the tags to our own names/but then I remember/neither one of you can read") got some earnest tot to warble them.  There's just so much meaning!  "Your love is all the Christmas that I need!"  Also:  Hey, hands off, have-nots!

There's so much more:   "Here Comes Peter Cotton Claus?"  "Christmas in My Pants" ("Jesus was a groovy got, too bad he got so hot!"), "Santa Claus Looks Like My Daddy," "Santa Claus, The Original Hippie" ("He can take a trip without LSD!"), "Santa Lost a Ho," "Mister Russian, Please Don't Shoot Down Santa's Sleigh," and the dreaded "Macarena Christmas."

If you're feeling especially brave, check out - and try not to check out of - "Santa Kissed Me" ("Exciting, my first kiss from an unknown guy").  It's the Manos, Hands of Fate of Christmas Songs.  I made it a whole two minutes and twenty-eight seconds in before screaming "Stop!  Just, stop!" at my computer.  Go on, I dare you!

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Hey, how's that new magic algorithm thingam'jobby going, Netflix?

If you liked Annie Hall, a romantic comedy in which Woody Allen takes Sigourney Weaver to see Marcel Ophuls' The Sorrow and the Pity, a documentary about a French city under Nazi occupation... you'll just love Marcel Ophuls' The Sorrow and the Pity, a documentary about a French city under Nazi occupation.

Both films do, I believe, feature cute scenes involving the throwing of something living into boiling water. 

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Life Imitates Every Cops Parody Ever Made by Interrupting Life Watching Art Imitate Life Dept.:

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Supposedly this sketch of a preliminary design for the creature in the upcoming it-can't-really-be-named-Cloverfield monster stomp has been discredited as development art from some unrelated video game.  But that's just what they want you to think!  J.J. Abrams and Co don't want you to know that their big scary computer generated menace is really just... Blow-Hole!

The Tick - Little Wooden Boy & the Belly of Love

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(You should probably watch that whole thing.  Great stuff.  And it makes a fine companion peace to "Spinnolio.")

Think about it:  J.J. Vatos?  JJ. Abrams?  Evils of Viral Marketing, your insidious plans will wither in the harsh light of box office justice!

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This'll burn away what's left of your Thursday:  Radosh points toward this record company promotion where you can do a quick rewrite of the cards Dylan tosses off in D.A. Pennebaker's classic "Subterranean Homesick Blues" clip.

A bit user unfriendly - no embedding? - but totally addictive.  You know you've always wanted to see the beloved folk icon holding the words "POOPIE POOPIE POOPIE!"  People are posting links to theirs in his comments.  I gave mine names.  Just like actual advertisements!

"Freshman Rush"

"I've Seen the Best Germs of My Generation Destroyed by Soap and Water"

"Special Features"

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They've already got the tights!

Superheroes and musical theater are a natural combination.  Like peanut butter and marshmallow, skidmarks and underwear.  Why the Great White Way hasn't been reborn as the Marvel Universe is beyond me.  Every comic book geek has longed for the day they could watch their favorite crimefighters put down their fists and pick up a tune.

Does anyone really think that Hugh Jackman show was a hit because theatergoers were drawn to the story of some flamboyant singer/songwriter?  No!  Everyone wanted to see Wolverine tap dance!

Hoping to tap (!) into this zeitgeist, heavyweights Julie Taymor and Bono are weaving their upcoming Broadway adaptation of Spider-Man! into Art!  As we speak!  I don't know how they'll ever top this, but let's hope they're at least half as successful as Warner Brothers and Jim Steinman were at bringing the Caped Crusader to the stage!

In 1998, Warners announced its first foray into theater:  Batman:  The Musical!  Composer/singer Steinman - the man behind Meat Loaf's original Bat Out of Hell album  - was brought in for bombast's sake, and... nothing materialized.  The Unofficial Memorial to Batman:  The Musical (via MCN) tells the sad story of how a pair of separate, failed vampire shows - Warner's Lestat and Steinman's Dance of the Vampires -  combined to put the kibosh on bat-oriented song-and-dancers.  Silly people!  No one wants to watch vampires sing and dance!  People want to watch superheroes sing and dance!  That's why everyone loved Dazzler!

Batman! might still happen!  Though probably not.

Jim Steinman, Lord bless him, has a website (as well as a blog, hooray), and he's graciously posted mp3s of his Batman demos.  And holy fuckshit, Scooter, it's pretty much everything you'd want in a multimillion dollar megadisaster.  The disconnect between content and all possible audience desire is absolute; the somber hilarity is relentless.

"Is there anybody here that does not hear these cries?" Batman wonders aloud, alone, in the key of E minor.  There are so many head-scratchers in the tracks below your co-workers will want you checked for lice.

Hookers and street urchins harmonize IN LATIN.    Suck on that, Taymor!

A big, blustery batbouillabaisse, re-upped here for your aural derring-do:

• Batman and Citizens of Gotham City - Gotham City/The Graveyard Shift (demo)(mp3)
• Gotham City Officials - In the Land of the Pig, The Butcher is King (demo)(mp3)
• Batman and Catwoman - Not Allowed to Love (Original demo)(mp3)
• The Joker - The Joker's Song (Wonderful Toys)(demo)(mp3)
• Catwoman - The Catwoman's Song (I Need All the Love I Can Get)(demo)(mp3)
• Batman, Catwoman, Young Bruce Wayne and Young Selina Kyle - We're Still the Children We Once Were (demo)(mp3)

(There are also "pop" and "dance" versions of "Not Allowed to Love."  If you dare.)

Batman: The Musical is basically about HOW WE ALL WANT TO BE LOVED AND IS THAT SO WRONG.  Just like Batman: The Comic Book!  "I need all the love I can get," meows Catwoman in "The Catwoman's Song (I Need All the Love I Can Get)."  "And I need all the love that I can't get, too."

THAT'S THE CHORUS.  IT BEARS REPEATING.

(Later, when Catwoman sings, "I'm not allowed to love/Not in mid-career/There's just so little time/I can't afford to be wrong," I think she sings for all of us.  It's poignant!  And it's just nice to know Catwoman has a well-plotted career path.)

Only time for one number?  Make it "The Joker's Song," which rattles off references to The Marines' Hymn, the Big Bopper, the Steve Allen Show, the Gallic wars, Jim Morrison, The Sound of Music, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Ricky Martin, and Eminem.  "How did Abercrombie & Fitch come up with so many boys/And where does he get all those wonderful, wonderful toys?!"  There's a racial slur!  All over a Pianosaurusish tinkle.  Madness!

I! strongly urge you to yank off your headphones, pump up your speaker volume, climb all over things in and/or around your cubicle, and gesture melodramatically along with that shizzle.

If, by the final "(sniff)...now!" in the climactic "We're Still the Children We Once Were" (Pretty much what you'd hoped the title of the climactic song in Batman: The Musical would be called, right?  Also, it's basically "Unchained Melody."  Also, is it wise to end a show with a character begging to be taken home?), you haven't giggled yourself into full-on hysterics, then consult your physician!  Because the demos from Batman:  The Musical must have batmurdered you.

You can read more about the whos and whereforartthous behind each song at the Memorial site.  And remember, these are only demos.  The tightwads at Warner Brothers are standing between you and the full-force gale of the full-on Batman: The Musical experience.  So you might want to send them a card, or something.

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It's worth noting that the folks behind the Batman Beyond animated series have parodied the notion of a Batman musical (here, first couple of minutes), and that Batman has appeared in a couple shows that ran off, off, off-Broadway:

Also (slow loading... but it’s so worth it):

I think that guy's on to something.  I know if I were making a Batman musical,  them's the tunes I'd want.  No one captures the Dark Knight's gravitas like Seeger.

I AM NOT MOCKING BOB SEEGER.  I DO NOT WANT YOUR ANGRY LETTERS.

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Batman!'s not the only four-color figure to trod the boards as if they were a plank.  Consider the 1966 stage failure It's a Bird... It's a Plane... It's Superman!  Lasted a whole 129 performances exclamation point.

Hey, he's beating up on Al from Happy Days! 

Impressed, the suits at ABC - it's tough to remember how dire that network's straits were before they hooked up with Aaron Spelling -crapped out a cheapie TV adaptation nine years later.  Above's the only footage on YouTube featuring a singing, smashing Supes.  But don't the absence of WHAM! ZOW!  keep you from the following:

"We Need Him"

“It’s Superman”

"The Woman for the Man"

“You’ve Got Possibilities”

Yes, that's Lesley Ann Warren as Lois Lane, and a pre-M*A*S*H Loretta Swit as... someone.  The Original Broadway Cast Recording for It's a Bird... is still in print.  (Crazy Rhythms, not so much.)  And if you're so inclined, you can watch an entire high school performance of the play; the production values are only moderately better than ABC's.

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Not a musical... but maybe it should have been!  I mentioned the 1975 concept album Spider-Man:  Rock Reflections of a Superhero a long time ago, but didn't offer up any audio sweetmeats.  Let's fix that now.  Taymor, Bono, other evildoers... Pay heed!

More ambitious than Spider-Man 3, Reflections attempts to deal with the webslinger's origin, his identity crisis, Doc Octopus, The Green Goblin, and the death of Gwen Stacy.

Most of the action takes place on a corner where White Boy Funk and 70s Self-Help collide; by the end, we know that we're free to be you and me and my secret identity, and that great powers and great responsibility are teh awesome!  It's all ‘nuff-saided together with colorful narration from Stan "The Man" himself.

• Stan Lee - The Ammunition of Determination (mp3) (buy)
• Peter Parker - Peter Stays and Spider-Man Goes (mp3) (buy)

"This crazy war's got me weary, and I can't fight any more!"

"What is this change within my bein'?  Feels so strange, like I'm skiin'!"

• Spider-Man - Spider-Man (mp3) (buy)

"I rescue those who need me, when I can."  And when the game's not on.  It's sort of like the Serenity Prayer, with a lot of bouncy a-ha-ho-na-naing.

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This has nothing to do with superheroes (or DOES IT?), but we don't talk often about musicals, here (not a fan), and I'm taking this opportunity to lay unto you this turdnugget:

• Robert Guillaume and Elizabeth Stack - Phantom (Compressed Original Mix)(mp3) (buy)

If you made it all the way through, I'll mail you a cookie.  Indeed, that's TV's Benson  Yessss!ing amongst the sturm and drum and bass; that's Robert Stack's daughter shrieking amidst the toccata and fuckery.  That's one of FIVE remixes of their interpretation of "Phantom of the Opera" contained on this particular CD single, and although I've no idea how it wound up in my collection I will TREASURE IT ALWAYS.

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This is how the world ends.  Not with a bang but with a DELICIOUS FROZEN TREAT.

No, not Snozzberry, or whatever you upscale trendfuckers are ingesting.  Turkey Hill's Party Cake.  Big, wonderful, white trashy tubs of it.  I've talked about it before, mostly because I can't not talk about it when it's available.  In short:  It's not good ice cream, not at all, but there's so much sugar and artificial everything that it gets me high.

And I'm not alone.  The first time I mentioned it, I got a couple very telling comments from folks who'd obsessively Googled in.  One was posted three times, and I'm sure that wasn't an accident:

WOAH!!!! I love Party Cake SO MUCH! You will not understand. It is SO good it is like a PARTY inside my MOUTH! I totally agree with everyone above....PARTY CAKE IS THE BEST! In fact, I just finished eating it a couple minutes ago...I had to put all my force in stopping to eat it because it is so irressitable!! I LOVE PARTYCAKE ICE CREAM! IT RAISES THE REPUTATION OF ICE CREAM! GO PARTY CAKE WOO WOO WOOHOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Party Cake DEMANDS that you express yourself through CAPITAL LETTERS and MULTIPLE EXCLAMATION POINTS.  It DEMANDS that you WOOHOO.  But this comment is pertinent:

Oh.My.Gosh. I thought I was alone in my absolute crazed desire for more and more Party Cake. I believe there is an opiate running through the buttercream frosting. There is no other explanation. I dream Party Cake. Each time I go into the grocery store I pray for two things: That there will be party cake that day.
OR
That there won't be party cake that day.

I could eat at least once a day and would, too, push upwards of 400 lbs.

Anyhow, I guess we'll have to wait until next summer. You can try writing to Turkey Hill. I have and I did get a letter back that they would consider it being a consistent flavor, but they already have "too many." Well then drop some of the cruddy trite ones I say!
How much vanilla does society need?
My last question remains....if I were Madonna or someone similar, could I get Party Cake year round? Madonna might be the wrong example, but I think you catch my drift.

Keep praying, kid.  If you'll examine the photo above of Party Cake's new packaging, and compare it to the old photo, at right, you'll note that PARTY CAKE IS NO LONGER A FEATURE FLAVOR.  IT IS A REGULAR FLAVOR.  Related:  PARTY CAKE PARTY CAKE PARTY CAKE.

This is dangerous.  Because there's no moderation with Party Cake.  Party Cake demands your full and complete attention at all times.  Which is okay.  Because Party Cake is all that matters.  It is everything.  It is the Alpha, it is the Omega.  Ashes to Party Cake, Party Cake to Party Cake.

This sort of thinking, and binging, is okay on a week-long twice-a-year basis.  But in perpetuity?  Jobs will be lost, marriages torn asunder, waistlines expanded ad infinitum.  Society will bloat to a standstill.  At some point I guarantee you'll be able to shove a spigot into someone's love handles and blue buttercream icing will flow out.  Scrumptious blue buttercream icing.

This could be a national crisis, peoples.  I guarantee you it would at least be a local one, were the stocking at my neighborhood Key Food done more consistently.  I totally didn't mean to grab you by your vest and throttle you, screaming, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S NO MORE IN THE BACK?!" Frozen Food Aisle Dude.  Sorry about that.

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I recently, coincidentally, rewatched The Stuff, (Tagline:  "Are you eating it, or is it eating you?") a movie I frequently cite when talking about Party Cake.  It's a 1985 low-budget horror-comedy from writer-director Larry Cohen; I hadn't seen it since it first came out on video, probably two weeks after it was in theaters.

The titular goo is found bubbling out of the ground in an upstate New York rock quarry.  The nightwatchman who first stumbles across it puts it in his mouth - because that's what all us grown-up infants do - and it turns out to be a tasty, lo-calorie treat!  A tasty, lo-calorie treat that hollows you out and controls your mind!

Sign me up!

Cohen's a filmmaker held in some esteem for a few slightly-smarter-than-necessary B-movies:  God Told Me To, Q, the It's Alive! killer baby trilogy.  Lately he's been involved with scripts for high-concept phone-oriented flicks (Phone Booth, Cellular) and that unfortunate Elisha Cuthbert tortureporn thing Captivity.  It's sort of nice to see someone who's not above-the-title famous continuing a yeomanish career.  Paying the bills, making it work.  But I've always found Cohen's ideas better than his films, and The Stuff is awful.

It's not as much about gluttony as I'd remembered; it's mostly about consumerism.  But we already have Dawn of the Dead (the first one, the good one), which is sad and deep and sort of covers all the available bases.  We don't need another zombie movie about consumerism.  Especially not one where Michael Moriarity wears a bad blond wig and affects a bad southern accent for ninety minutes.  Or one where Garrett Morris plays a coked-up kung-fu Famous Amos who projectile-vomits shaving cream.  The movie's a mess, the effects are lousy, the satire is both hamfisted and unfocused.

The saddest part's the DVD commentary, where Cohen blamed the movie's box office failure - it opened in, like, a single New York theater - on a hurricane that hit the city on opening day.  Supposedly, the name blew right off the Times Square marquee!  Imagine that!

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Party Cake!

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From the makers of The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra (which I enjoyed more than I probably should have):  TRAIL OF THE SCREAMING FOREHEAD!!! (via)

It depresses me to see Dick Miller and James Karen in that.  They're being used to UP THE PEDIGREE of Forehead.  Though it's good to know they're both alive.

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Want to suck on something sweet that won't ruin your life?  How about SIGMUND FREUD'S WATERMELON-FLAVORED HEAD?  (via, Marie Antoinette also available.)

And, from the same company:  Cloverfield action figures!

That movie looks awesome, J.J.!  So awesome that the best way to convince me to see it isn't the awesome story or the awesome big-name cast or the fact that it's being released in the awesome traditional suck-spot of January!  I prefer my movies virally marketed.  It's what matters to me!  It keeps me from thinking about important things!

Like Party Cake!

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Who doesn't love TV's Michael Cera, George Michael from Arrested Development?  From his parody of the information superhighway's beloved Star Wars Kid to his parody of the intertube's bestronglydisliked Aleksey Vayner, he's found a place in our collective too-much-time-spent-online hearts.

Why, I can't fathom any circumstance that could dislodge him, save the molesting of children, or the mewling of fey, out-of-tune indie rock...

Oh, dear. (via Underrated)

Five minutes and four seconds of your life just bolted from the room, hands over its ears.

A band fronted by Michael Cera is about as exciting a proposition as Jena Malone's band, or Juliette Lewis' band, or Jared Leto's band, or That Kid from Rushmore Who Only Gets Acting Work from Relatives and People Who Want to Meet His Uncle's former band, or that same schmuck's latest band, or that guy who thinks Gus van Sant is still shooting Last Days.  Or the latest records from singing sensations Hillary Duff and Lindsay Lohan. The Return of Bruno (Still in print!)!  Heartbeat (Sadly, not.)!  So on/forth. 

I blame vaudeville and its undue influence on today's children.  Here:  Watch these guys cover Weezer!

Granted, that song's sort of supposed to sound like it's falling apart anyway.

The difference between those other actor-slashes and Cera is that his appeal comes from a modest self-awareness.  Which is why I'm choosing to believe that The Long Goodbye (Cera, like Ms. Lohan, is a huge Altman fan) is a total joke.  And a real wayhomer; their first blog mention came over a year ago.  The sound is earnest and lo-fi - of course it is, and of course there's a glockenspiel involved - and though there isn't a big twatty picture of the group frozen mid-air during a jump, they've already myspacefriended a band with exclamation points in its name.  So it's all right if you want to laugh. They want you to laugh. Confusingly, they call themselves "Indie," as opposed to "Hawaiian Slack Guitar/Hyphy/Funk."

This may all exist as a promotional gimmick for the new [insert awesome new slanglingo for "internet"]-based comedy series "Clark and Michael," which has something to do with subway hero Wesley Clark and Michael Bloomberg teaming up to fight terrorists and apathy in The Big A.  Action!  Romance!  Or something. 

Cera co-stars with bandmate Clark Duke.  If the name sounds familiar, it's because Duke was nominated by the Young Artist Awards, in 1993, as "Outstanding Actor Under Ten in a Television Series" for his role as Elliot Hartman in the John Ritter/Markie Post sitcom Hearts Afire.  (He lost to I'll Fly Away's John Aaron Bennett.  I'm sure it was a squeaker.)

Series premiered yesterday, here (nice socks!); it features a cameo from Buster Bluth and the following line: "I was raised like a gentleman.  Like a classy gentleman."  You can watch other clips n' shit at the show's myspace page (where they want to be perfectly clear that they prefer the British version of The Office, you fucking Philistine).

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This morning, I was passed in Prospect Park by a diminutive female police officer riding a Segway.

Toward the base of a flight of stairs.

"NYPD got themself some flying motorscooters," said some guy.

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Alec Baldwin - Daily Affirmation (For My Daughter) (mp3) (via TMZ, via Lindsay)

Maybe not the last time, Alec.

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What dizzying Davrosity is this?  Damn you, Tom Kruse, inventor of the Hoveround!  Damn youuuuuu!

(If someone finds a better quality video, please pass the link along.  Please.)

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This Moment in Black History Month - Garbage In, Gargage Out (mp3) (buy)

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It took, like, fifty people to pantomime that.  Impressive.

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Via Battering Room: Cloud Cult tix are on sale for a Mercury Lounge show on Saturday, April 14th. They’re available here or at the Merc b/o.

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Quick question: Has any YouTube vlogger ever done a second take? Just curious...

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Soundbites found a yuletide offering of yore on YouTube:

Cosmic Christmas, a 1977 animated special about three aliens who come to Earth looking for the meaning of the holiday and become involved in goose theft! They steal old peoples’ memories and use them to redecorate living rooms! Mars Needs Handicrafts!

They look like Wise Men but are TOTALLY NOT WISE MEN.  They’re more like most inane government-funded research study. “Have we come to Christmas yet?” Your intergalactic tax dollars at work.

It came from Canada! When I was a kid, Cosmic seemed to be on every channel, all the time. Why? Because people who do drugs watch TV all the time. The aliens are totally freaky. When they move they leave trails, and that one dude’s face totally changes colors and stuff. Their spaceship sounds like Keith Emerson. Pretty scary if you’re a kid, and unfortunately, by the time I got into drugs the thing was out of rotation and (perhaps because of the drugs) I had no idea what it was called.

So bravo to Bill for the nostalgia trip. You can catch Cosmic in four parts (1-2-3-4) on YouTube, or in one big chunk on Google Video.

See you in the 79th Mervent!

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There are good kinds of insomnia. I’m a fan of the one where you’re so fulltobursting with ideas and excitement over those ideas that sleep slips to the bottom of the to-do list. You crash for four straight days afterwards, but those missed nights aren’t really missed.

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