Going Blank Again

Blog, already updated only with laughable infrequency of late, will fall silent for the next ten days or so. The occasional piece will still run at Popdose in the interim, though, so keep an eye on the front page.

And if you’re traveling this Summer, I’ve got a gift for you—the modestly-titled Ultimate Roadtrip Mixtape, four hours of musical goodness curated by yours truly; the zipfile includes printable artwork for those who like CDs.

The irony, of course, is that we ourselves will be taking our big Summer trip by airplane, and will thus miss out on the experience of listening to this mix loudly as the prairie states roll by the station wagon window. We’re counting on you to enjoy it on out behalfs. Don’t let us down.

(And if you do like it, talk it up, would you? Link it, blog it, tweet it, digg it. Find it del.icio.us. Whatever. I busted my hump on this little DJ project; I’m pretty pleased with the result, and I think that more folks than just me and my 25 bestest buds might groove on it. It’ll be up for a couple of weeks at least, so spread the word.)

Normal service, as they say, will resume in mid-July. God bless you and keep you; try not to die while I’m gone.

You Just Want To Be Starting Somethin’

Late column this week, pushed back to 6:00 PM EST ny Popdose’s rolling coverage of l’affaire Jackson. It’s a connoisseur’s choice this time around—a selection of fightstarters: the empty provocations with which I’ve been stinkin’ up the Internet for nigh on these ten years, now.

Last week’s column was apparently a bit of a fightstarter itself, prompting as it did a heated e-mail from Atoosa’s husband to my editor, conveying in no uncertain terms how upset and angry she and he were over my tone and tactics. The only logical follow-up, of course, is to ask them for an interview.

I have my thoughts and opinions on the passing of Michael Jackson, of course; but I do not need to share them with you just now. You’re probably better off for that, to be honest.

Sick So Sick

No column this week, and not much productivity period, and in fact I’ve been not much fun and quite probably a misery to live with, on account of horrendous lingering somethingorother diagnosed only yesterday, nineteen days into the ordeal, as probably bronchitis. Constant wet cough, exhaustion, lingering fever, listlessness, disorientation; seriously, it’s been a shitty couple of weeks and I’ve been getting nothing done at a time when I desperately, so desperately need to be at the top of all of my various games.

So yeah, I’m sick, and I kinda suck. But I’m taking big ol’ horse-pills twice a day—the kind with an on-bottle pictogram that apparently advises you to only take each pill if it is accompanied by a delicious submarine sammich—and that should cure one condition, at least. In any case, I only hope I don’t require a second course of antibiotics. The price of the pills is largely subsidized by our health plan, but those five-dollar footlongs really add up OH TELL ME YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

When Transhumanism Is Your Gig, Just Having Human Feelings Is A Sell-Out

Marilyn Manson sits in his home studio with a glass of absinthe by his side, strumming an acoustic guitar and singing about a girl he once hurt. Now, Marilyn’s from Transylvania, where you are required by law to eat puppies for breakfast, so usually his confession of casual cruelty would be an occasion for pride, a signifier of his bad-ass beyond-good-and-evil übermensch status. But today, as he sings the painful lines, he feels something wet sliding down his face—and to his horror, it’s not blood.

From across the room, his nineteen-year-old fuckpuppet looks up from her Japanese torture porn to gaze at him, questioningly. “New contact lenses,” he mutters, and indeed, the pair he’s wearing today give him the appearance of hosting parasitic fetal aliens in his vitreous humours. “Totally gonna freak the mundanes when they get a load of these,” he drawls, and dabs his eyes. She nods, and returns to her reading. Marilyn Manson goes back to work, thinking he’s kept his secret for another day.

And across the room, the girl wonders: wonders what happened to the leather-tongued cockgoblin she fell in love with; wonders just who is this sensitive artist sitting in his place; wonders how on earth she’s going to tell him. Because it’s time, now. It’s time to tell him.

A cautionary tale, this week, from the case files of How Bad Can It Be?

I had to hold myself back from going on a tangent about divorce albums, in this piece. I would argue that Shoot Out the Lights still counts, even though it was completed while the marriage was still operational, if not actually functional. Phil Collins’s first disc, Face Value, is another one, and not coincidentally it’s the best of his solo work. What are some other classics of the genre?

He Was Not, However, Wearing A Little Hat

Just saw, through my window, a blackbird jam his head into the ground and withdraw it, reeling a worm out of the earth with his beak, the worm stretching before giving way and popping from his hole with a nigh-audible twang. I’ve always known that such things happen, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen it, except in cartoons.

Has Time Rewritten Every Line?

Keen-eyed readers will note a couple of typographical errors in this week’s column, along with a few instances of questionable punctuation, a dodgy standard of grammar, and occurrence of the phrase “Anthony Newley with a vagina,” which probably could have used a re-think. (There was also a minor HTML screw-up, which—though invisible to the general reader—surely gave my editors at Popdose cause for disappointment.)

Now, it’s true that I wrote most of this one while running a 101° temp. That doesn’t excuse the damage, though it may account, in part, for the tone. But despite the loopy, semi-detached fever vibe, I’ll be honest with you—this one was a slog, and it hurt me some.

Idylls Of The King

A notorious commercial flop upon release, alternately adored and reviled by fans; an object lesson in the perils of excessive reverence; an everyday tale of a bright-red T. Rex and his fuzzy monkeyboy sidekick. Plus meditations on the problem of influence and the necessity of managing expectations (and a spiffy new banner), all wrapped around a critical reappraisal of Jack Kirby’s mind-croggling 70s opus, Devil Dinosaur. Hey, how bad can it be?

So what’s your favorite Kirby? Self-conscious artist Kirby, or get-‘em-out-by-Friday, give-the-people-what-they-want Kirby?

Just A Fiend For That Bean Of Caffeine

Man, I shouldn’t have drunk those six cups of coffee. It seemed like a good idea at the time, though. In fact, it seemed like the only idea at the time.

Dancing On A Pinhead

Hello, precious Internet friends. How’ve you been?

It’s been a curious and action-packed couple of weeks for us, and I’ll happily provide details—with photos and everything!—once I’ve written my way out of this hole in which I seem to find myself.

In the meantime, have a column. In fact, have two. In the first—in case you missed it last week, circumstances rendering me unable to flog it as usual—we confront the existential horror that is Hannah Montana; in the latest, we thank Satan for the utter lack of self-awareness and humor that make Heavy Metal the most mockable of genres. Honestly, if Ronnie James Dio gave any sign of knowing just how ridiculous he looks, I’d be looking elsewhere for column-fodder.

This column also gave me an excuse for a link and a shout-out to the always-worthwhile Andrew Weiss, whose Armagideon Time blog is truly a gift that keeps on giving, day in, day out. That’s the best part of any writing gig—the opportunity to hype people who deserve it.

Hots On For Nowhere

Once again the cool kids at Popdose have turned over to me the reins of the Friday Mixtape, a collection of MP3s for your weekend amusement. (Told you it was busy week for me there.)

The perceptive listener may note that this playlist is based around a theme that is never stated explicitly—a seeming absence, an invisible center that yet exerts pressure in all directions, defining the shape of the material surrounding it. Rather like the gas a balloon. Or in, y’know, a dirigible.

Play it loud, baby.

Alas, No Sheryl Crow Joke

This week How Bad Can It Be? looks at the intriguing (if horribly-betitled) Fox TV series Lie To Me, in a column with everything: Hollywood plagiarism, weird behavioral science, comics theory, remedial anatomy & physiology, terrible titles, HAWTT LIVE THESPIANS, and Johnny. Fucking. Cash.

Seriously, Lie To Me is the worst title on TV. Can you think of a better one? Of course you can. Come on over to the comments and let’s hear it.)

It Wouldn’t Take A Genius To Work Out What The Scene Is

It’s a busy week at Popdose, is what it is—kicking off today with an appreciation of Kirsty MacColl’s 1989 album Kite.

I’ll tell you, after the regular snarkfest of How Bad Can It Be?, it’s a relief, a palate cleanser to write the occasional Popdose Flashback piece—to be achingly, even embarrassingly sincere for a change, to write at length about something I love, something that’s meant a lot to me, something about which I’ve had twenty years to form a considered opinion. Of course, given that it’s Kirsty MacColl we’re talking about, unvarnished truth straight from the heart is no less than she deserves.

If A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

...then Popdose had better raise my salary. Plus, a few words in defense of Not Being A Member Of The Fan Club.

Also: boobies! (Sort of.)

Parklife

Ah, a day at the ballyard; cold beer, bleacher seats, promising young talent playing their hearts out—and the same eight songs, in endless rotation. How Bad Can It Be? considers the state of (literal) stadium rock this week, and proposes some new additions to the jock-rock canon. MP3s! Snarky asides! Embarrassing photographs! Gratuitous use of Comic Sans! Come and give me a hard time in the comments!

And check out the rest of the site while you’re at it—Popdose has just put a redesign in place, and the whole site looks shiny and sleek.

...Who Needs Enemies?

If you think Jesus got a hard time from His foes on Good Friday, then you should hear the way He suffers at the hands of those who claim to be His friends. Just how bad can it be, you may ask? Three words, friends: Jon Bon Jovi bad. Two more: Jon Bon Jovi sings Gospel.

And a trembling fear seized all the guilty world around.

A Plague of Serpents

Two hawks, way up above the trees, gliding in long arcs, slow ellipses occasionally intersecting. One of them carries something in his talons—a snake, trailing like a ribbon as the hawk wheels, his wings perfectly motionless. The snake coils and lashes in his grip

The hawk suddenly flings the snake away and down, letting it fall for a second or two. It drops maybe ten, fifteen feet before the hawk plunges down and snatches it again, then beats wings upward and resumes his idle circling. The snake, still alive, makes again to strike. The hawk has had enough. He releases his prey and lights out for the west, leaving the snake to tumble to the grounds with a lazy, drifting helicopter motion.

From my porch I watch it fall for a slow count of eight; then it vanishes behind the roof-peak of a distant house. All the while the traffic rushes by, everyone intent on their own errands, no one looking up. A singular rain of snakes, and no one’s looking up.

My Bad

No column last week, because I utterly screwed the pooch. Oh, it’s not that the piece wasn’t written—in fact I’m a couple of weeks ahead on columns. And actually, that’s what caused the screw-up; in my haste to get these multiple columns saved to the Popdose server, I neglected to, y’know, actually drop Friday’s column into the publication queue. There’s no system so simple that it can’t be misunderstood, especially by me when I am tired and easily distracted.

This coming Friday’s column will be about shiny things. And monkeys. Look! They think they’re people! So funny.

(The above may not actually be true. Also, I may actually have been drinking.)

(In fact I haven’t. But MAYBE THIS WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO START.)

Evidence

A photograph arrived in today's mail, in a plain brown envelope. No note; just a glossy print and a piece of cardboard. It was a photo I'd been waiting for; neither an en flagrante blackmail snap nor a bloody crime scene. For once. Just this:

Another loose end, sewed up nice and neat.

Some Folks, They Just Shouldn’t Talk About Religion or Politics

...and some, they don’t talk about nothing else. And all too often, it’s the same folks.

This week it’s the How Bad Can It Be? that every freedom-loving soul should read, as Popdose turns me loose on the true rockstar of the conservative movement, the indispensible Ted Nugent.

If, somewhere in Texas, there’s an arrowhead with my name on it, then bury my heart at the whole foods co-op and remember me sweetly with liquor. America, I did it all for you.

I Was All Excited Because I Thought It Was A Deep Space Nine Spinoff

...because that really was my favorite of all the Star Treks, and let’s face it—wouldn’t you watch a wacky sitcom about Gul Dukat and his merry band of space fascists?

Alas, I was mistaken. Behold the consequences of my error in another potentially-libelous installment of How Bad Can It Be?, this week at Popdose.