A Program for Mass Constipation in the Form of a Decade-Old Mixtape Review, Vol. 1

Interrupting Cow Blues (1997)

Welcome back, pee-ers! I mean, peers! I'm new to this retroactive/time-warped self/music criticism so I'll provide some context here. By 1996 I'd been listening to WZBC for two years, and felt I had a good grasp of the underground music scene (honestly, I was right). That year I took a co-op job at what used to be Digital Equipment Corporation (since bought by Compaq and then HP, I think) so would be in the car forty-five minutes each way to Acton. Definitely got nice and cozy with the likes of "Psychotic Reactions," "Mass. Ave. and Beyond" and other great WZBC shows, but sometimes I needed to control the playlist. (It's remarkable what a great invention the iPod is.) So I was making mix after mix, mostly for myself, which is a little sad except for the fact that I was so selfish about my music. I had a friend at the time (the one I ranted about once) who would always glom onto a band I really liked and he nearly ruined every single one. Lucky for me he was a Long Island pussy at heart, and could always be counted on to revert to Alice in Chains. And though I didn't date a whole lot in college, I had no confidence in any girl's ability to like what I did. One played that Bush album one night, for crying out loud. That band was terrible and I wanted nothing to do with them, but I didn't want to be rude so I admitted it was "OK" when she asked if I liked it. Then she told me she wished she had "cool" taste in music like I did, and I almost broke up with her right on the spot. It's ridiculous to be envious of another person's taste in music, or taste in anything, because taste by definition is personal. Why aspire to something just for show? Should I force feed myself a lobster just because it's popular, even though I don't like it? So anyway, yeah, I hated that she liked Bush, but I respected that she liked something, as opposed to not caring for music one way or another. I felt no need to introduce her to different music… and it's a good thing, since she dumped me a few weeks later anyway. I did the legwork, spent the money at Newbury Comics (remember when they sold music?) and spit out a mix every other week or so for, more or less, this guy and this alone.

Interrupting Cow Blues is about ten deep into my mixtape career, and the first one I really nailed. It must have been early 1997 because I've only got one song from that year and eighteen from 1996. One thing that jumps out though is I have absolutely no hip-hop, which is strange because I was listening to alot. Must have been in a straight rock & roll mood that day. On with it, then.

Side A
Brainiac – I Am a Cracked Machine
Shellac – Killers
Guv'ner – Coitus City
My Bloody Valentine – Only Shallow
Girls Against Boys – Vera Cruz
Cibo Matto – Birthday Cake
Railroad Jerk – Bang the Drum
Polvo – The Purple Bear
June of 44 – June Leaf
Man… or Astro-Man? – Planet Collision
Make Up – International Airport
Yo La Tengo – Autumn Sweater
Halo Benders – Don't Touch My Bikini
Dandy Warhols – Ride

Side B
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – Can't Stop
Stereolab – Percolator
Beat Happening – Pinebox Derby
Chokebore – Cursor
The Nation of Ulysses – Diphtheria
Quivvver – Mermaid
Guided By Voices – Watch Me Jumpstart
Dub Narcotic Sound System – Robotica
Six Finger Satellite – Padded Room
Retsin – Loon
Unwound – Corpse Pose
Jonathan Fire-Eater – The Beautician
Combustible Edison – Solid State
Boss Hog – I Idolize You

First, the title refers to my favorite joke of all time: "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Interrupting cow." "Interrupting cow wh—" "Moo!" I told so many people that joke that I unwittingly told it to the person who first told me. And so I got the blues for not having more people to share it with. (Second favorite joke? "What do a farmer and have in common? They're both woken up by cocks every morning.") I've denoted songs whose albums I still own with one asterisk; two asterisks means I've sold the CD but kept the MP3; null means it's dead, baby.

A1*
LOVE starting with "I Am a Cracked Machine," one of my favorite songs from Hissing Prigs in Static Couture, which is one of the best albums of 1996 (and still in my regular rotation). Excellent job by me here. A friend of mine saw them at the Middle East Upstairs (I'm not sure where I was) and told me they had a ton of technical problems during the set, and closed with this. By the end of it they had obliterated a keyboard out of frustration. I'm glad they went the irony route there.

A2**
The Shellac song is from The Lounge Ax Defense and Relocation Compact Disc, a 1996 compilation that is exactly what it sounds like. I guess they couldn't have sold enough of these because the club still closed down a few years later. And I sold the disc a while ago too (salvaging this and three or four other MP3s). I dig this song, and have been getting into Shellac again. They're so goddamn tight it's exciting. "I side with the defendant!" Nice progress so far.

A3**
"Coitus City" is from a series of split singles eventually compiled and released as the soundtrack for some movie called Screwed. I know nothing about it, except that it once upon a time must have been called Porn because that was the original name of the seven-inch (heh heh) volumes. Super-catchy song for the three-spot (where alot of sequences seem to lay the first single) except the lyrics are as filthy as you'd expect. Hilarious too. "And I realized that no moustachioed, homosexual porn star could ever finger-bang me the way you do." The complete opposite of every other Guv'ner song I know, and I had their first two albums once upon a time. I love it. Not to be overlooked is the near-nonexistent break between "Killer" and this—a practice designed to barely allow anything to breathe in an effort to milk every second of that tape. This quick transition sounds great.

A4**
My Bloody Valentine. I'm not adding to the eighteen or so years of blather about how blah blah blah they were/are. Suffice it to say, I think I included this song because I liked it, and because I was days away from selling the CD. Now I want to puke whenever they're mentioned. We've come a long way. Next.

A5**
Nothing against Girls Against Boys, but I saw them open for the Jesus Lizard once (still one of my favorites) and all this does is underscore the fact that I excluded Yow & Company. Worrisome, and instantly shameful. Possibly because I had all their albums on tape already? Anyway, GvsB's "Vera Cruz" was great live, and still a good song. Sort of slowing things down a little. See what I mean? I really knew what I was doing with these things. Sad follow-up: House of GVSB is currently in a pile of discs I plan to sell, right next to their earlier Cruise Yourself. I have ripped most of the tracks, though, and am going to hang on to Venus Luxure No. 1 Baby. They're a great band, I just think their songs are better broken up. That's why "Vera Cruz" works well on a mix.

A6*
Cibo Matto's Viva! La Woman is in another pile next to the one of CDs to sell. This pile is of stuff I probably will sell, but only after listening and harvesting the good songs. I'll keep most of this one, I'm sure, and certainly "Birthday Cake." You have to bounce to this. Wasn't it in Brain Candy too? Appropriate, since the best line from that movie is "Can you get me something to eat before I chew my fucking hand off?" and this whole album is about food.

A7*
This is definitely the fun portion of the tape. I first heard "Bang the Drum" on WZBC during one of those Acton drives and was hooked, of course. Aside from the Blues Explosion and the Jesus Lizard I'm afraid alot of the straight-up rock bands I was into were pretty dry and self-important, so discovering Railroad Jerk (on their third-and-a half album, so what?) was some fresh air. This song moves the joy along, but I hope I bring in some weightiness soon. (Alas, One Track Mind is in the harvest pile too, though maybe I'll end up keeping it and selling The Third Rail instead.)

A8**
No weightiness here. "The Purple Bear" is a straight-ahead pop song that Polvo did so well. If I knew better I'd write coherently about how they had the most wondrous distorted-but-not-really-distortion sound available. I sold Exploded Drawing quite a while ago now, but not before the birth of MP3s because I was clever enough to hold onto this song and a number of others. It was a fairly ambitious album, if I remember right, but it was clear by this point that the Polish guy was writing better songs than the Helium-screwing guy. How's that for analysis? Also, if I wanted to sell my copy of Today's Active Lifestyles on eBay I could apparently get $40 for it, since it has the tigers image that was later pulled. I'll keep that in mind for my rainy-day whores.

A9^ø
In case you were wondering, I still like everything I've heard so far. "June Leaf" is the first misstep, and the first song I no longer own in some capacity. Don't know why I didn't go with "Anisette" here, maybe I already included that on another mix or knew that I'd run into time constraints. I should have just skipped June of 44 entirely. They have a handful of good songs and all, but definitely queue up in the "dry and self-important" line and aren't really worth it. "June Leaf" takes too long to get going and doesn't do anything once it arrives. Slow boilers don't generally work in this format. The Polvo-to-June of 44 transition is sort of organic, I guess, but the song no longer does it for me. Check minus.

A10**
Yup, "Planet Collision" is a Man… or Astro-Man? song alright. (Though I think they dropped the ellipsis by this time?) It's a good song too, but pretty shoe-horned on here. I suspect I needed something short in order to fill out the side. I was pretty particular in constructing, in that I basically knew the songs I was going to use, but the order was open to whim. And usually the fine folks at TDK would bless each side of your one ninety-minute cassette with an extra minute and a half on each side, so a little improvisation was required. A generic two-minutes-and-change MoAM song, bookended by some old sci-fi dialog of course, did the trick. I wish I'd gone with the cover of "Television Man" instead.

A11*
"Airport! Airport!" I still loooove the Make Up. "International Airport" is from the fake live Destination: Love. EXCELLENT short rave-up towards the end too. Everything about this band is phenomenal. I've even hung the "Substance Abuse" sleeve on my cubicle wall. Q: How cool am I? A: Very.

A12*
My introduction to Yo La Tengo was I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One. Years later I remain baffled by the title, but it's either my favorite or second-favorite (after Electr-O-Pura album of theirs. I showed some real restraint in burying "Autumn Sweater" at the end of side one, because it was one of my absolute favorite songs of the year. Still like it alot too. These guys stylistically are all over the map and it's awesome how well they pull everything off. Perfect song. Funny story, when I was working in Stoneham there was a girl who had a crush on me… and on every single guy who ever walked through those doors. But I happened to be the flavor of the moment. Anyway, she asked to borrow this CD and I loaned it to her for what turned out to be months. I was New York pissed. She's the type who thought that irritating equated cute, so she was always getting on my nerves on purpose, thinking I'd wear down and realize Wait a minute, I love you! I'll tell you what put a stop to that though: I drove a red-hot Corolla two-door then and was very particular about the driver's seat, and that it never be adjusted because I had it set just right. This one time I drove us to a Chinese place up the street–I always volunteered to drive because one of the other girls was an internationally recognized terrible driver, as in I'd feel nauseous within a mile–and she sat behind me. When we got back to the office I wouldn't let her get out on my side because that would have meant moving the seat. She thought I was joking so I slammed the door in her face. To quote Mayor Quimby, I could not have been happier with the way that turned out.

A13**
With the Halo Benders, Calvin Johnson makes his first of three appearances here (really, no room for the Jesus Lizard at all?). He must have forced himself onto me the way he did all those K bands. "Don't Touch My Bikini" was a big 'ZBC hit the summer of 1994 when I first discovered the station. It's a fun little song. On paper you think this band would sound like a 50/50 mix of Beat Happening and Built to Spill, and that's exactly what it is. Plus some boingy sound effects. I still like the song but they could have severed a minute out of the middle there somewhere. Side one is getting a little tired now, thankfully this song is second-to-last.

A14**
Is there a sillier band out there than the Dandy Warhols? Posing nude in the liner notes, selling songs to The O.C., accepting a role as the receiver to Anton's giver. And the fucking name. Still a catchy song, and I'll hang on to it even though the CD is going away. Maybe if I draw red lions on the cover I can make another $40 for those whores.

Entr'acte. I will say I know how to close a side, since "Ride" ends perfectly as an "Ahhhhh… let's regroup" transition.

B1*
With that said, "Can't Stop" is a mistake. The sound is just raw enough compared to the slick Dandies, yet not overly raw as to be a deliberate-enough shift in tone. Oh well. This song is good I guess, great riff, but an awfully weird choice for a mixtape. The Blues Explosion were definitely my favorite band at the time (Orange still slays) and I had a whole mess of songs to choose from. I do love the Iggy shout-out of"'Cuz your girlfriend still loves me", and maybe that was enough to favor it at the time. But something like "Get Over Here" would have worked better. It's a better song.

B2*
To this day, "Percolator" makes me think of a particular intersection along that drive to Acton, right at routes 2 and 126 (where you'd turn to go to Walden Pond). I must have heard it for the first time right there one morning. (Funny that "Bang the Drum" reminds me of a spot a couple hundred yards eastbound, probably where I heard that for the first time.) I'd been familiar with Stereolab since Mars Audiac Quintet came out in '94, but "Percolator" is the song that made me a real fan. Emperor Tomato Ketchup is easily my favorite album of theirs, and I can listen to "Metronomic Underground" for hours. "Percolator," also, is cash money.

B3**
Welcome back, Calvin! What was I thinking? "Pinebox Derby" is a good song but I really should have opened things up with Dr. Octagon or something (I like "Earth People" here). Anway, I'm not about focusing on past mistakes. (I never did steroids, dammit!) This is Beat Happening in down-and-dirty mode, down-and-dirty for them anyway. I do like the guitar sound here and am definitely in favor of this style rather than the lesser "Indian Summer" stuff.

B4^ø
About those past mistakes though: Chokebore. Really? Misstep number two. Dull, repetitive, overlong, real momentum-killer. I hate when bands think they've stumbled across something oh-so-clever and just can't let it go ("indie" bands are particularly guilty). That describes every element here: the noodly little riff, the retarded crunchy riff, the megaphone vocals and the "slow" parts. I'm really annoyed with myself for including this. I pulled it from an Amphetamine Reptile sampler with cars on the cover. Clearly, aside from "Percolator," this B side is not winning again and again and again.

B5*
Ian Svenonius makes appearance number two with his Nation of Ulysses comrades. If you excise "Cursor" and make this number four, suddenly I'm not so harsh on things. Theses guys excelled at weaving in and out—their albums are so perfectly sequenced that I had to steal "Diphtheria" (from 13-Point Program to Destroy Americaas my a chill-out track before getting loud again. I'm pretty sure Steve Kroner handled the backing vocals on all their stuff because this contribution is absent from The Embassy Tapes, recorded after he quit/was booted from the band. I think he's fantastic and really makes songs like this and "Mockingbird, Yeah!" stand out against contemporaries. (I don't know if the intention was to amuse, but "DEE-NIGH-YULL! DEE-NIIILE!" makes me smile.) In one hand it's a shame these guys broke up after only two proper albums, but in the other we know that a band's first or second album is usually their best. I guess it worked out.

B6**
Quivvver! I think this "Mermaid" is different from the original single version I first heard in I think '95. Seems that was a little slower and probably better, but I only had the re-recorded album version. SUPER fun song. It's kind of the complete opposite of "Rebel Girl." Inclusive! I wonder how Quivvver didn't become mega-stars, because they wrote great pop songs.

B7*
Pretty safe GBV choice, indeed, but I'm still enamored with this chorus. It is so grand and earnest that even I want to cry whenever I hear it, and I hate grand and earnest things. I'm not talking about the lyrics because I don't know what he's saying, as I don't listen to lyrics, but the melody is beyond catchy. In-and-out harmonies too. I love this shit.

B8**
Ho-hum, Calvin Johnson again. I still enjoy this song but I don't know why I felt I needed some Dub Narcotic on here. It's a better song but sort of accomplishes what "Cursor" did earlier on by killing any type of vibe I was building. Practically an instrumental, and when an instrumental is the best song from the album (Boot Party is not a good album) then you might have an overbearing singer.

B9*
Thank god for Six Finger Satellite, because "Padded Room" wakes this party right the fuck up. Every few weeks their four albums (and now the new/old Half Control) end up right back in my regular rotation (I love listening to them at work, for some reason) and there aren't many bands I'd take over them. Like Shellac, I get such a kick out of how tight they are. I like my roving sixties psych workouts as much as the next guy, but I definitely have a soft spot for straight-ahead, focused, rehearsed volume. For when I die it, too, will be from severe exposure.

B10**
What the fuck was I thinking by following 6FS with Retsin? Trying too hard for variety? When I die will it be from sincere cooing? Nah. "Loon" is a pleasant little song on its own, but to cram it between two of the best rock songs of '96 is unfair and lunatic. A friend of mine once made out with her backstage at a Rodan show, so maybe this was a shout-out to him. Or I was justifying buying Egg Fusion in the first place. Frankly, I should have to justify buying something called "Egg Fusion" that doesn't cook me omelettes.

B11*
Yes. Unwound's Repetition was a welcome bounceback after the somewhat lackluster The Future of What. That album grew on me over time, but Repetition is excellent all the way through. WZBC might have played "Corpse Pose" before the album was released since it was the single (in a slightly different mix that I don't remember) but I'd be surprised if I didn't trek down to Newbury Comics (seriously, remember when they used to sell music?) and buy it the day it came out. Great song, and though I prefer their looser earlier stuff, this post-punky type of stuff still does the job. Sounds to me like that direction started on TFoW, reached its apex with Repetition and especially "Corpse Pose," grew a little stale by Challenge for a Civilized Society and then got old and dull with the monumentally overwrought Leaves Turn Inside You. "Lazslo" victoriously redeemed the band for me (not that I ever stopped liking them) but I don't know if it was recorded before or after. Anyway, I didn't hear it until after. (Not that LTIY was without great songs, but the overall sprawl—sixty minutes of music split over two discs… when's that a good idea?—really crimped my crack. "Scarlette" and its video were amazing, but I could not have sold that album faster.) But anyway, yeah, apex and "Corpse Pose" are near synonyms.

B12**
Let me check Wikipedia: yes, Jonathan Fire-Eater (I do not acknowledge asterisks in place of hyphens) are American. Tremble Under Boom Lights is good, if slick, but the band's anglophile tendencies gets annoying. I'm surprised they didn't name themselves Jonathan Color-Favor so they could spell it Jonathan Colour-Favour. It's a good thing I liked "Cherry Red" so much because I certainly would have balked at the oh-so-British cover with the oh-so-Wire band photos. And then they sprinkle in phrases like "night on the tiles" and name their singer Stewart Lupton. I have to admit it, though: "The Beautician" grooves along nicely for some pasty wannabes. The whole EP does, really. Who's the asshoule now?

B13**
Combustibly Edisonic! I haven't used that modified adjective in at least four days. Who would guess "Solid State" works so well here, fitting wonderfully after those fake British guys and everything and setting up the finale. I don't speak whatever language their singing, but it doesn't matter as I am a confirmed ignorer of lyrics. I still have their first album and I bet I haven't listened to it in fourteen years. What's that about? Maybe I'm afraid of no longer liking it? Of course "Solid State" is gold, and anyone who disagrees is… well, they're probably OK I guess. But I dig it. I dig you too.

B14*
But Jon and Christina idolize you, baby. A slightly tongue-in-cheek Ike & Tina cover is better than no Ike & Tina cover at all, but that's underselling the song. Jon (Spencer) is making taking a B-side curtain call and faring much better this time. Terrific closing number. You can almost picture the nudity.

Término. Well that took some time. Worth it? I don't know, but it was fun to listen and write. (Jeez, 4,000+ words?) Overall I gotta say my original assessment was right, and this is a very good mixtape. I still like most of the songs and that means I-don't-know-what. That I'm handsome, you say? Well OK then. The final count: twelve source albums sill in possession (and this is significant because I'm in the middle of my second large-scale selling wave, though a couple of these are on the bubble); fourteen songs that live on as MP3s (so, fourteen CDs gone); and two songs I no longer like enough to listen to. Strong ratio, especially, I'm sure, compared to earlier mixes that I shan't bother reviewing. Next up (if my "readers" and my stamina demand it) will be 1998's Menace II My Ho. Diffuse pastness is the best kind!

Have you seen this man?

Greetings and salutations! I'd like to thank the Revere R.M.V. for this glamour shot, taken a few weeks ago for my renewed license. I told Amy afterwards that if I ever go on a killing spree and they show this picture on the news, people will say "Well of course he's a murderer."

One thing about moving to the suburbs is you have to drive everywhere, so a valid operator's license is like prison cigarettes. In Cambridge I went quite a while without a car and did just fine for the most part, since everything was within a ten-minute walk. The only times it got annoying were when I had to meet people outside the reaches of the subway, such as when I had to rely on a friend to pick me up on time at the blazing-hot South Acton commuter rail station, when that friend is never on time for anything, so I stood there for a good twenty minutes with my golf bag and a developing sunburn. Or when my bike and I rode the train out to Concord (bikes are just the clumsiest goddamn things when you're not riding them) and then ride for three miles to Minuteman Park so I could… go on a bike ride. And then ride back afterwards. And then realize there's apparently a clan of hippies that does this every weekend, and they seem to be in cahoots with the train conductor, so the conductor hoards all the bikers into one car and doesn't make them buy tickets, which made half of the prepaid round-trip ticket in my pocket an absolute waste. But even then, the Porter Square commuter rail station was ten minutes from my apartment.

In Swampscott the station is a five-minute walk from our front door, which is excellent since the train zips me between work and home in twenty-five minutes. Otherwise it's not particularly helpful, though last week it took me one stop north so I could pub it up. Therefore, simple tasks like buying wart remover at CVS and bagging my own groceries at Stop & Shop require hopping in the car. Aside from walking to the beach, the library and this amazing Italian place we discovered in Lynn, there's not much to walk to. But I guess those are pretty awesome things to have closeby.

Which makes me one of those assholes who drives everywhere. I know it and am not proud, but it can't be helped. Feel free to walk that hour and a half to get me some damn eggs. Still, except for occasional trips the car sits in the garage 95% of the time. And one benefit of driving is I'm getting to know the area. I never had much connection to the North Shore. (And by "North Shore" I mean the part of Massachusetts north of Boston that's actually on the coast, and not landlocked towns that happen to be north or northwest of Boston, miles from the ocean. A coworker of mine moved back to Melrose after growing up there, and she refers to it as the North Shore. Semantics is semantics, but geography is geography, and these dummies need to stop pretending they're seaside. Meanwhile, everyone from the South Shore is a douchebag—whoa, where's that come from?) Occasional touristy trips to Salem and family obligations in Manchester ("By-the-Sea," shit) would bring me northeast every now and then, but that's about it. You don't even drive through these towns if you're going to New Hampshire or Maine, since they're east of the interstates. But Amy and I enjoyed our visits to Salem enough to put it on the eventual list of settle-down destinations. (Not that I've settled down, whoop! whoop! Though that just took alot out of me.) After browsing Salem we expanded our search to Beverly and the Swampscott, and here we are today. Now that we're planted in, NEVER TO MOVE AGAIN, we need to learn our way around. So far I know at least three routes to the Target in Danvers, and I consider that important.

Plus, with all the driving it means alot of radio-ing. Commercial radio stations are so weird, not only do they play the same newer songs over and over but they latch onto the same older songs. Sometimes you can attribute this to Guitar Hero and Rock Band or whatever, where people want suddenly to hear "Tom Sawyer" over and over. But other times I swear all the program directors are listening to each other. Since not one of them is capable of independent thought, they steal each other's "ideas" and it turn into some kind of circle-jerk for mimics. It can catch you off guard, like "Wow, you never hear 'Creeping Death' on the radio, cool!" But then you realize that alot of people own and like Ride the Lightning, so it's not at all a bold programming decision. They'll probably follow it up with "Enter Sandman" anyway.

(The alternative, if I'm lucky to be driving on a weekday, is listening to WZBC or WMBR, though that always costs me money—a couple weeks ago I was compelled to buy "Erase You" by ESG and "In a Rut" by the Ruts after hearing them one recent morning.)

But on a trip to, say, the Danvers Target I might have to pop in a tape (I think I've mentioned before my excitement over our cassette deck). I get a kick out of this because I can revisit my salad days of music taste supremacy, when I openly judged people by the music they like. (Please infer that said judgment is merely silent today and not dormant. Aging and maturing are different things.) Lately I've dug up some old mixtapes, and it's high time to judge that elitist twenty-something asshole, show him who's boss. Or, perhaps, learn that he was a cool shit, and wonder whether liking what I did a dozen years ago is good or bad. Have I progressed as a person? Have I erred in my own estimation as a wise and chiseled future-man? In a matter of days you will know. (Seriously, it's almost finished, and even excessively long.)

What’s wrong with Peter King?

Say what you will about context, but Peter King is writing some real crazy shit this week:

"Wake up, Washington. You know what I dug out of my closet the other day? Form-fitting Detroit Tigers pajamas. Now we'll see if all the sweat pays off, alternating between nausea and terminal ugliness… people would watch that. There's hope both for the killer and the killed. What happened when the action was really live? Not to be preachy, but the redemptive quality of some combo platter of Joe Namath, miso soup and accidental death grips you. Taut. Sounds like the script for a commercial. Brett Favre leads the nation in screwing, scurries from one explosive reacher to the next. (Plus I feel very good about the nuns.) I've been staring at that since I was a kid, and it's time I do something about it. 34 inches! He's used to giving, struggling to fit, now I'm ready to take all of his powerful stuff out of spite. Just wake up every morning and go. We've been in here 45 minutes? I thought it was 10 or 15. I tell you, there's nothing sinister about packers. How about throwing it to Jay Mohr, dripping with sweat in the center of some hotel? Pick him up and have it done in two days, only with more aggression—he's on record as being opposed to discipline. Dude: you're a dumb, uncomfortable and altogether needless midget and you can only mow your grass so many times. Tell him to eat balls. Who knows? We'll all make it. You're welcome."

The death of quick sizzle

Hi all. I moved to Swampscott last week. Bought a condo! Really happy, and am looking forward to being an adult. I'll probably write about my impressions of the town in the coming months. Since Amy and I (enough with the anonymity… I mean, who reads this?) are now a short walk to the beach (well, I don't suspect it's much of a beach beach where you go to get all bronzy, but it should be a nice stretch of sand to clear one's head, enjoy a fantastic view of Boston and snicker at ugly people; and I don't like the sun anyway), I figure the late spring and summer months offer the best time to become acquainted with and take in the local offerings. And maybe become a townie.

Anyway, the point of this post is to really rechristen the blog. I started out figuring I'd write mostly about music, and I have some, but alot of the time I've posted only a sentence or two commenting on something that, for the most part, becomes instant old news. Little did I know I could have turned that idea into Twitter and been done with it. (I almost made a remark about earning millions by creating Twitter but, from the little I know, it sure seems like one of those enterprises that makes no money.)

Therefore, I promise to knock it off with the lazy little posts about whozits and what's-his-nose and the like (click the "quick sizzle" label below to see examples of said silliness). From now on I'll be posting only in-depth, well considered, fully baked columns. Or, half-baked nonsensical shit longwinded enough to out-lengthen (word?) this post right here, the one you're reading, which is my new minimum guideline. Anything I'm compelled to relate in fewer words likely isn't worth relating.

I hope to reclaim the blog with more music writing in the coming weeks and months. On the agenda are a recap of the new (to me) music I've gotten into since my last such list (over two years ago!); the long-promised review of one of my old college mixtapes (probably from 1996 since I was making one every other week around then); and, for no real reason other than my inability to shut up about things I dislike, an unabashed assault on Nico's The Marble Index.

Last thing (and call this the final "quick sizzle" entry if you'd like, since it's the type of thing what earned the label): I was straightening up our storage area in the basement, sweeping and organizing (and discovering that attaching a dryer hose is deceptively impossible), and my hands were getting really dirty. So the old Lava jingle popped in my head: "I don't need no Lava soap, nope. Ladies' hands don't get that dirty. I don't need no Lava soap." Ladies' hands? How did they get away with that?

Also, the real last thing: I was listening to classic-rock radio down there for like six hours and heard a live version of "The Joker," reimagined as a reggae song. It was like chocolate and peanut butter, only if the chocolate were dogshit and the peanut butter were AIDS.

Item! Manufacturing sports opinions is not journalism

Listening to thursday’s PTI via the podcast, and I simply cannot take it anymore. Commentators, writers and announcers are killing sports. Wilbon is riffing about clutch (defined as “he hits the shot when his team needs offense”) players in recent NBA history. Here is his list:
• Paul Pierce (discussion of whom kicked off this whole thing)
• Moses Malone
• Reggie Miller
• Dwyane Wade
• Dennis Johnson

He glossed right over Bird and—laughably!—Jordan. How many championships did Miller clutchify himself to against Jordan? How many championships did anybody clutch himself to over him? It’s insane how people forget how good he was.

The context of this whole bag of nonsense was: would you rather have a player like Kobe/LeBron (like how I switched to first names there?) who can score at will against the world, or Pierce (I am not bashing Pierce here, he turned the corner with every Celtics fan last year, and he's inexorably fun to watch, let’s just be realistic) who can selectively/intermittently come up big? I'm no basketball scientician, but it seems to be the sport where it's most common for one great player to single-handedly lead his team to success. So I'll take the player who’s great seventy-five times out of eighty-two, thanks.

Anger, Part 2: Watching one of the all-time most exciting football games I can remember, Pats–Jets, thursday night. The Sanctimonious Christopher X. Collinsworth and some other dude are calling it on the NFL Network, your home for programming I'm excited to have but never watch. Pats are down big, game seems hopeless early, but our man Cassel remembers what team he plays for and turns it into a nail-biter. The bad guys won, but what a game.

Highlight of the game was naturally Randy Moss's exceptional game-tying catch at the end of regulation. My #2 highlight came seconds earlier. Collinsworth was all "Moss is lazy. He is a lazy dog. Watch this replay of the last play. What a dog he is. Look at that, he's lying on the ground! Who does he think he is? He never even won a Superbowl. Cocksucker. I didn't either, but I'm white, and no one ever calls white people lazy. People would rather stick their tongues right up David Eckstein's pure gritty asshole than pretend anyone other than a rich non-white athlete can be lazy. I mean, have you seen Manny Ramirez? That guy should get a haircut. Touchdown, Randy Moss." (Verbatim. From the transcript.)

And lastly, the Fire Joe Morgan guys are hanging it up! One of the few sources of common sense and realism in the entire sports internets. What an terrible waste. If only there were commercials where coaches' post-game press conferences were edited as a bunch of out-of-context quotes in a way that told me what kind of beer to drink.

This Is Wal-Mart Do Not Panic

This goes back a ways now, ages and ages, time and space, shadow and substance, etc. But I'm sitting here at work staring at my dual cinema displays (fanciness!), getting headaches every day because my right earbud is fried and zapping me with non-artful distortion, and the story demands to be borne unto my public.

Background: I own an Xbox 360. I enjoy using it to make Lego Han Solo assemble Lego golf carts and to pretend Tom Brady is still alive. And lately, the wife (I love when guys say "the wife," it's possibly the most condescending phrase in the world) A. and I have taken to setting the world ablaze with our color-coordinated riffing via Guitar Hero III.

When I first heard of this game I thought it sounded ridiculous, and I'm sure it is, but I guess I enjoy ridiculous things (Love's "Revelation" comes to mind). But after an all-night session of Rock Band at a friend's house, we really couldn't deny how fun it was. We were hooked after our first go. So we played until 3 a.m., woke up the following morning (luckily a saturday) and shot straight to Target to get GH3, because that's all our small P.R.C. apartment could handle. (We're in a much bigger place in Mitt-Town now, and are already in a heated debate over Guitar Hero IV (she) versus Rock Band 2 (me). Frankly, I think RB2's setlist is beyond ridiculous—in that good way again.) Sadly, the game came with only one guitar, and we wanted to play together the way adorable couples should. So our next mission was to buy a second wireless guitar, which is indeed sold separately with some assembly required.

Last Christmas my brother- and sister-in-law were nice enough to buy us an iPod adaptor for the car, one of those you have to wire into the back of the stereo. But it sat unopened because our car has a tape deck (old school!) and we already have one of those flimsy-yet-functional cassette adaptors that are much simpler, and we had held onto it for long enough that the return/exchange period lapsed. It came from Wal-Mart online so who knows if we'd have followed up on that shipping nonsense anyway. It took a planned visit to my Dad's in New Hampshire to start the let's-get-away-with-something wheels rolling, thinking that if they sold the same item in actual stores then they might take one back.

More background (tell me this isn't like reading a novel): Some time last year we saw the documentary Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Price. I was easily and illogically (and uncharacteristically, but I'll get to that in a second) swayed against ever shopping there again, even though I recognized the film's point of view as purely one-sided. I'm the guy who complains about unions and, while living in Northampton, said local shops that couldn't compete with the Wal-Mart up the road should stop whining. Still, I was so repulsed with the way the chain was portrayed that I took all the bullshit and made a nice quilt, and then burrowed into it with the effortless cuteness of a purring kitten—my naiveté was darling. (On a related note, unless I let my dark soul pull the lever for Ron Paul next month, I'll be voting for Obama simply because I don't squirm and turn away from the television when he speaks, whereas watching McCain in action is the most uncomfortable thing I'm capable of doing. During the debate the other night I went into Kennedy/Nixon mode and watched during Obama's turns but closed my eyes and only listened during McCain's turns. I figured it was the best way to fairly judge the discussion, like how television viewers allegedly determined Kennedy won the first 1960 debate while radio listeners decided the opposite. This plan worked until I closed my eyes too successfully and fell asleep.)

Anyway, I figured Wal-Mart must sell video games and stuff, and they certainly must be able to afford a little red ink. Why not try to return the iPod thingie for store credit (we had the receipt, but the date would debunk my "We received this as a gift, um, last week" cock-and-bull) and see about getting ourselves a gee-tar? So after dinner we hit the Jaffrey Wal-Mart for some scam-o-rama. Nice, right? Nice.

Except: not nice. The plan was a brutal failure: no receipt, no return. ("But I do have a receipt, see?? Wait, let me scratch out that date and barcode and everything. Are you calling me dishonest? Well fuck you. Eat that truth.") To make matters worse we ventured back to the electronics department after the monkey-wrench incident and saw that they did carry the individual GH3 guitar we were looking for. Drag. So we went home empty-handed, and for some reason held off buying one on Amazon or wherever for a couple of weeks. Soon enough we had plans to head to Wal-Mart country again for a dinner date at my Mom's in Fitchburg. The Lunenburg store was closeby so we figured we'd give the return trick another shot. This one’s close to where I grew up, and I knew that whole strip-mall sat on a manufactured hill that used to be a lovely cow pasture. I always loved driving by those cows when I was a kid. I figured the awareness of this attack on nature and childhood wonder might shift some points our way when we stopped in on the way home.

And—huzzah!—it did. The nice old lady working customer service accepted it without question, even going so far as to cut open the security tape (we never opened it since we always planned to return it) and taking everything out to make sure nothing was missing. I didn’t mind this overt mistrust because it meant they had to take it back, since she was the one to ruin its pristine newness. So now we had like a $60 credit, which as we learned in Jaffrey was an even swap for the guitar. Sweet! We practically ran to the electronics section, and I had that feeling in my stomach like I was shoplifting. It was exhilarating. But rats! They didn’t have the prize in stock. Fucking shit. Luckily I anticipated this at my Mom’s, and mapped out other Wal-Marts more or less on the way back to Cambridge. (Rest assured, you pinko bastards, there is no Wal-Mart in the P.R.C.) Hopefully we would get lucky in West Boylston, Hudson or (the inconvenient last resort) Framingham.

Route 190 is a scenic highway I enjoy traveling on. It’s the only direct north-south passage in the middle of the state, and I’m always amazed at how little traffic it carries on the weekend (I guess Worcester isn’t quite a saturday night hotspot, unless the WWE is in town). So I had no problem with a southward detour to West Boylston. Unless, of course, the West Boylston store was also sold out. And naturally it was. Getting lost on the way to Hudson was not as fun as cruising 190. I had a bad attitude going into that store and a worse one walking out, after learning that “We only sell the Wii version” wouldn’t help us. This was not working out, and I was in no mood to deal with route 9 and its Framingham/Natick Shopping Madness Spectacular. But I also didn’t want to go home without that friggin' guitar. So off to Framingham it was, even if we should've been home an hour and a half ago.

As it turns out, the fourth (fifth, really) time was the charm. They had like ten of those fuckers on the shelf, and you're damn right we took our time picking out the perfect one. Of course we got home too late to even play, but who cares. We'd just gotten away with something, however minor in the grand scheme of things, and that's what counts when it comes to dealing with the Man. But you knew that, right?

In case you’re wondering, my blog is the shit

I was just perusing a fairly professional-looking sports blog written by (let's see) my wife's coworker's husband, who coincidentally is also my ex-conjoined sister (I find the wife's-coworker's-husband story easier to explain). The blog's OK, not good enough to name here, very Sports Guy rip-off-ish (territory I've admittedly come close to at times). And since the Sports Guy seems to have had his recent articles composed by those people who post on IMDB message boards (save for the Manny diatribe, which I think is strong and coherent if you discount a couple of (natch) forced A Few Good Men and The Usual Suspects references, and for the fact that he never called Boras out either, which really deflates his whole argument, which really devalues the article, which is now an oozing pile of turd-flavored pixels) I don't think this is much of a compliment anymore.

Anyway, sis is a Sox fan who either gets paid to write the thing or has crazy amounts of free time. He wrote about the first win against the Angels the other night, at one point posting the Sox lineup and noting that it contained "no easy outs." Meanwhile, The Adulterer Jason Varitek is in the ninth spot where he belongs, swinging at every first pitch in the world and being reduced to sacrifice bunts (I HATE bunting because making outs is the one thing batters are supposed to avoid, but it's better than the inevitable double plays). That scumbag is such an easy out he's actually making outs on purpose. So this writer's judgment on easy versus difficult outs is, at best, lame-brained. (And in case you think I'm being overly critical based on one voiced opinion, a few weeks ago this guy wrote multiple posts about replacements for Tom Brady, and one of them was entitled "Bring In Daunte Culpepper. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD BRING IN DAUNTE CULPEPPER!!" Way to be!)

Meanwhile, Manny is the greatest consistent offensive player the Sox have had since dickhead loser Ted Williams, and he gets run out of town for another white guy. New England's baseball priorities are misplaced since getting that 1918 shit off our backs. Before October 2004 everyone would have overlooked Manny's occasional ho-humness and pointed to his outrageous offensive output. In fact that's what every true Sox fan did; the only ones complaining about lack of hustle and grit and gamer-ness were the casual fans who couldn't spell Youkilis (or Belichick, for that matter) and the exact same media types whom the Sports Guy properly (though not often enough by name) calls out in the article—"exact same" because they will never leave us alone until they are destroyed, and even when they do leave an outlet they just jump from one sinking ship (the Herald) to another (the Globe) like notable fucktard Tony Massarotti. ("Mazz." Really! Can we stop applying sporty-sounding nicknames to sportswriters? And can they stop calling each other by their last names like they're sporty teammates? Also, that link is purposely and hilariously transposed.)

(More parentheses: I noticed baseball-reference.com changed the address for Youkilis's stats page from www.baseball-reference.com/y/youkike01.shtml to …youklke01.shtml, even though it defies the site's standard first-five-letters-of-last-name-followed-by-first-two-letters-of-first-name convention. Would they have made that change if he weren't Jewish? Incidentally the i version still works, for all you anti-Semites.)

Changing one’s mind on short notice

Alot to get to here. I have all these crappy unfinished posts and if I don't complete them this weekend I think I'll just lump them all together and call it poop stew.

I did want to throw this up though, interesting ride on the red line last friday morning. I was standing and half out-of-it, listening to loud Hawkwind, following a night of celebratory drinking due to our company softball team's semi-final victory. (I am not good and don't play much. I managed to get a hit in my only at-bat, somehow, but when it was my turn to take the field in the last inning I couldn't dig my glove out of my backpack because there were too many beer cans piled on top of it, so someone else ran out instead. Really the right move there for everyone involved.)

So at Central Square an older man gets on the train, walking with a cane, and stands across from me. A minute later as we're approaching Kendall a Cambridge-type woman ten feet down the train gets up, walks over and presumably offers her seat to the guy. Very nice. (The best part was when people started boarding at Kendall, and she had to lunge back to block for the guy so he would get the seat. The new people were appropriately puzzled.)

I was fully prepared to flash her a "Good on ya!" smile if she looked my way: it was a legitimate good and unselfish deed. And then she went and did it: walked right up to a some poor sap, 50 and healthy (sexy?), who—criminally!—sitting closest to the old guy in the first place who didn't get up and offer his seat. Thing is, he was intently going through a bunch of papers in a briefcase, and likely didn't even notice the guy. Naturally this asshole woman chews him out in front of everybody (at least I think she did because, again, Hawkwind). And (I think) he was like "Screw you, I didn't even see him." Of course she didn't let it go, because Cambridge types never do, and they yapped back and forth some more. At last she walked away, and he grinned to himself, and it was over. Except now I hated her.

P.S.: The live version of "Time We Left This World Today" from Space Ritual, Vol. 2 outlasted my entire ride.

That’s right, the Mascara Snake!

I will return soon. New apartment, new computer, new ipod, same sizzle. Not sure about a football preview this year because it would just be the largest typeface available calling Favre a dirty ballsack.

See? There's the sizzle!

I have no words