Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Lemmy Kilmister: A Living Legend of Sex

Ripped off from

MOTÖRHEAD mainman Lemmy Kilmister has made the Maxim magazine's Top 10 list of "Living Legends of Sex." In the June 2006 of the magazine, the MOTÖRHEAD singer "explains what makes him irresistible to women." Lemmy reveals his perfect woman and if he's gotten lucky.

Maxim: You popped your cherry when you were 18. How'd it happen?

Lemmy: "On a beach. In the rain. It was miserable, and that sand gets everywhere, you know."

Maxim: And since then you've scored 2,000 women…

Lemmy: "I never said 2,000. I said 1,000. It's probably 1,200 or so now. I've been at it a long time and I was never married, so there hasn't been any time off."

Maxim: Does a guy have to be good looking to impress the gals?

Lemmy: "It's not so much looks as it is making them laugh. Chicks don't give a fuck about handsome in the final analysis. It's because they take the makeup off every day, and they know how deep handsome is."

Maxim: You have a reputation for being considerate with the ladies, which isn't the case with many rock stars. What's the most unchivalrous thing you've observed?

Lemmy: "I saw the whole Ozzy Osbourne crew go through a chick once. But she was up for it, so what the fuck do you do? If a guy fucks nine women in an evening, you'd say he was a hero. But if a chick does it, you'd say she was a slut. I don't believe it, and it's not fair. Women have multiple orgasms, which we don't have. And yet we're the ones tomcatting all over the place just so we can have our moment."

Maxim: Have you regretted any of your conquests after the deed was done?

Lemmy: "It's like the saying: I've never gone to bed with an ugly chick, but I've woken up with a few. Our lighting guy has a funny one. There were these two chicks who followed us around in Germany. We called them the Monsters of Rock. One of them had three teeth, the other one was bald, and they were both fat. One night he called one of them, desperate and drunk, and he went to bed with her. When he woke up he hid in the bathroom until she'd gone."

Maxim: Who's your perfect woman, and have you done her yet?

Lemmy: "Raquel Welch, Halle Berry, and no and no. Oh, and Janet Jackson. I haven't slept with her either."

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Friday, May 26, 2006

20 Fun Facts About Teen Heartthrob Udo Kier!!!!

Udo, I do-o!

1. In Tombstone, Arizona, the Town Too Tough To Die, Udo Kier was named “Honorary Chief Sexecutioner” by unanimous vote of the city council.

2. The musk of a civet-like gland located at the top Udo Kier’s gluteal crease is the secret ingredient in Honeycomb Farm’s Frozen Yogurt.

3. Like a bird, Udo Kier makes number one and number two out of one orifice.

4. Udo Kier’s tongue has a crude light sensing organ at its tip.

5. As a licensed Ombudsman, Udo Kier has been known to leave mid-orgy in order to provide equitable and objective advice to aggrieved parties.

6. Udo Kier’s tongue senses fear.

7. A yacht was found adrift off Corfu. It’s only occupant: a jabbering and blood soaked Udo Kier, wearing only mascara and a sailor’s cap.

8. In a word association exercise with his therapist, Udo Kier’s response to “butterfly” was “rubber pants”.

9. Udo Kier served with distinction as a comptroller in the US Coast Guard.

10. Using only a case of Krystal, Udo Kier put out a house fire, saving a family of six.

11. For every hit of nitrous sold anywhere in the world, Udo Kier receives around half a cent, US.

12. The nomads of the landlocked Gobi Desert have a word for “shark” and that word is “Udokier”

13. Udo Kier is the director of a Waldorf preschool in San Anselmo, California.

14. During the making of Spermula, Udo Kier picked up a lifelong passion for collecting Nagel prints.

15. Udo Kier’s perfect mouth has only one flaw: the small white scar on his upper lip where Betty White bit him.

16. The b-side of the Band-Aid single, “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” is three minutes of Udo Kier describing the deformities of a whore he had in Tangiers

17. Udo Kier is a Realtor® who is eager to help you find the house that suits your needs. He is also bisexual.

18. In “The Bodyguard”, all Whitney Houston’s dialogue was dubbed by Udo Kier. Udo Kier is very professional, so he’d probably deny if you asked him, but read the credits, it’s right there: Ms. Houston’s Dialogue……… Udo Kier

19. Like former Doobie Brother Jeffrey 'Skunk' Baxter, Udo Kier is a missile defense expert par excellence. The two often share a hotel room when providing testimony before the Defense Committee of the US Senate.

20. Udo Kier has had your Mom, and frankly, she creeped him out. Sorry you had to find out from a blog.

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Thursday, May 25, 2006

Best overheard conversation EVER

Two Indian IT-types were walking ahead of me on the way to work this morning. They were having a quite back and forth. One guy seemed to be pouring his heart out, while the other guy seemed to be "Well, there's got to be brighter side to this. Let's think."

Of course, I'm guessing. I have no idea what was said, and I have no idea what the Hindi script below says. I cut and pasted it from Wikipedia.

But the conversation went a little somethin' like this. (Hit it, DJ):

Troubled looking guy: विकिपीडिया पर आपका स्वागत है । विकिपीडिया

Happy-go-lucky hale-fellow-well-met: सभी विषयों पर प्रामाणिक और उपयोग?

Troubled guy (Jabbing the air with his finger): परिवर्तन व पुनर्वितरण के लिये स्वतंत्र विश्वकोष बनाने का एक बहुभाषीय प्रकल्प है । यद्यपि विकिपीडिया DATABASE MANAGEMENT का प्रारम्भ जनवरी CUPERTINO में हुआ था लेकिन हिन्दी DATBASE MANAGEMENTविकिपीडिया का शुभारम्भ जुलाई AJAX में हुआ और अभी हम हिन्दी विकिपीडिया में १,३४१ लेखों पर कार्य कर रहे हैं । सहायता पृष्ठ पर जाइये और प्रयोगस्थल में प्रयोग करके देखिये की आप स्वयं किसी भी लेख को कैसे परिवर्तित् कर सकतें!!!!!

The two then walk in silence, the comforter looking thoughtful.

Happy-go-lucky, in Ingles:

How's the parking?

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Wednesday, May 24, 2006

My friend Mark made a funny trailer for the Seattle Film Festival.

You should watch it.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

This one’s about poo, among other things.

As often happens in one’s place of employment, conversation recently turned to poo, specifically dire episodes relating to its evacuation.

We were talking about bad poos.

This the story of my bad poo.

My bad poo happened four years ago.

We, the missus and the wee baby Ruby and myself looked like LIVING DOLLS we were so fucking well dressed. Amazing and sleek, like otters. Wife was driving. I was sitting in back with the well dressed and cute-as-fuck baby. The occasion was a friend’s wedding in San Francisco, normally a quick, poo-free shot over the Bay Bridge.

This was not the case come Wedding Day. The Giants were playing baseball against some other asshole team (who cares, really?) so the shit-designed chokehold crap freeway WAS A GODDAMN PARKING LOT.

All was well with our pink and groomed little family, as we sat patiently with our fellow Americans, facing the fucking freeway MORASS with the good humor of the bourgeoisie. But the façade of civilization would soon be shattered, you can bet your sweet fucking ass.

Because twenty-five minutes into our drive, barely scratching four miles, my stomach suddenly knots violently and falls about half an inch deeper into my body cavity, my kishke are pulsing like the abdomen of fecund termite queen and I started sweating like the fat slut I am. IN MY GODDAMN SUIT. Oh, fucking Christ. Kill me, kill me on the freeway. The Baby is mercifully young, and resilient. She won’t remember her father dying in a shrieking geyser of poo. Kill me now, you shitheel.

So great so far, yeah? Another fifteen minutes pass, the baby is gawping at the baritone rumble coming out of me, but whatever. We’re almost on the bridge.

Then the CROWNING STARTS. The reptilian brain throttles my ego and takes over, and the next twenty minutes turn into an Old Man and The Sea-like battle between my will and the newly sentient sea anemone on the bottom end of me. I am pounding the roof of the car and roaring, the baby next to me laughing, and my wife trying not to laugh (she is fascinated and amused by my digestion).

Wife: “Just poo your pants, and we’ll go home”

Me (clenched teeth, clenched ass): “Just…fucking…get… off… at… the… first…fucking… exit.”

So finally an hour and change into it, we get pooted out of the knotted traffic and take the first exit into San Francisco deep into the business district. Being Sunday, everything is shut.

Wife: “Nothing’s open!”

Me: “Go to the fucking Transbay…”

Now, a note about the Transbay Terminal. The Transbay is a dank cattle hall where the busses of various transit authorities converge. Its mensroom is also reknowned as a bit of a tearoom, that is a place to pick up some of anonymous ass sex from rough handed strangers. Mmmm, sweet ass sex.

My wife is openly laughing and so is my daughter. She pulls over and I bolt from the car in a ostrich mincing ass clamped run. A fucking bathysphere could not handle the atmospheres that had come to play between my mighty buttocks.

So I sprint in the gents and… holy… John Jacob Fuckenheimer-Smythe. Uh, yeah.

There are people MILLING ABOUT in the toilets. Just puttering, like fucking Diane Arbus fucking nutters MILLING about like it’s the deck of the Star of India.

In a flash, this is what I saw – in my fucking SUIT and sky blue SILK TIE. (Swear to Christ.)

-- A man rinsing out a fucking PAIR OF WADERS in the sink
-- A man with a one-eyed black cat draped across his shoulder like a stole.
-- A man WATCHING TV on a portable in a stall, with photos taped to the stall walls
-- And, most alarmingly, a large nude African American gentleman in an open stall yelling in such a manner to suggest that he was enjoying himself. No, I didn’t look.

I darted to the only open stall (doorless) unbunkling and hoped that it didn’t read as an invitation. Who was I kidding? No one was going to touch me after what I was about to do. I sat down, position my tie strategically and submitted to Fortuna.

Now, in the mining industries, there is a sort of pump, a Peristaltic pump, that operates on the positive-displacement principle of our digestive system. Within the pump housing, rollers compress the hose against a semi-circular track - like flattening a garden hose between finger and thumb. The pressure point moves along the hose, pushing the tube's contents before it. Behind the pressure point, the hose resumes its shape, sucking in more fluid. Solids – even bulky ones – are carried through the pump harmlessly. I could have passed a Baby Grand and not even noticed. All told I was in and out of that stall in about five minutes, for I did what I came to do. I had poo’ed.

I was shaking like a newly born colt when I came out. I made my way past the throng to my waiting family and wiped my hands over and over and over again with sanitary wipes. Out damn spot, indeed.

We went to the wedding and had a lovely time.

And that was my poo story.


Shocklingly, this is only the second poo-related post to appear on Bastard of Art and Commerce. The first can be found

If you have a slow afternoon, and your desire for true tales of poo has not been slackened, you can find some charming true poo tales here.

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Winner: Best Hitler Related Humor Site

Over at Titler, we are confronted by Hitler in drag singing impromptu showtunes (go to the bottom left and click on "nummers".) You may ponder "Greg, surely this must be offensive?". And the only answer I could give you is: Yes, it's offensive, but only if you find all that is true and beautiful and good offensive.


Sunday, May 21, 2006

What is a democracy?

I will try to tell you what a liberal democracy is. But for the sake of clarity, and to help define our parameters, I think I should tell you what a liberal democracy is not.

What it’s not:

-- A society where loyalty is a measurement for credulity

-- a society in which someone who has committed no crime is monitored and tabulated.

-- A society is which a plant can be criminalized.

-- A society in which thinking can be viewed as a suspicious act.

-- A state whose soldiers are the first to set foot in the territory of another country

-- A state who warns citizens to curtail their own speech.

-- A state birthed by the Enlightenment, and distances itself from its parent.

-- A state that has more prisoners than nurses

-- A state where the bureaucratic population expands faster then the rate of growth

-- A state where politicians are outraged by transparency

-- A state whose neighbors curse geography

-- A technologically hyper-advanced state with a third world infant mortality rate

-- A state where corruption is institutionalized as tradition

-- A state where the press expects a different outcome from consistent input

-- A society where people have to rely on god to do the right thing

-- A state that whose goals are different than those of civil society

-- A political class that knows its smarter than civil society

-- A state who determines the rights of its citizens and whose citizens in turn have little input in the rights of their government

-- A government believes nothing matters more than its being in power

-- A state that makes pacts with criminals who are then transformed into heroes

== A state convinced of its right -- and talent – to change the worldview of all mankind at any given moment.

--A state that is not very good at distinguishing between occupation and liberation

--A state that blames its neighbors for its incompetence

--A state who is impatient for public will to catch up its wisdom

-- A state who looks to its military for legal guidance

-- A state whose media shares the same opinion as its leaders, but always after the latter has expressed them

-- A state where a popular view of freedom is obedience to the state

-- A state that sees no difference between the truth and its interests

-- A state that claims that the world is very complicated, but in fact believes that it is very simple

-- A bureaucracy that sings the praises of the private sector, yet is populated entirely by career bureaucrats

-- A state convinced of its special place of esteem among nations, despite all evidence being contrary

-- A state that honors the opposition, as long as the opposition opposes just the means and not the ends

--A state that says the opposite of what it said last week, then insists that it’s always been consistent

--A state where the willfully ignorant can claim the title “pundit”.

--A state where consistency in the face of change is a virtue

-- An administration looks for wisdom in past failed administrations

-- A state that subsidizes analysis by sycophants

--A state that is intent on creating heaven on earth, and doesn’t care who it sacrifices to make that happen

That was the first part. As for the second part, the important part, the part where I tell you just what democracy is:

Well, you tell me.

(Apologies and propers to Kolakowski)

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Wednesday, May 17, 2006

the best joke ever

Guy goes to his Doctor's office.

Guy: "Doctor, I can't stop singing "What's New Pussycat?"

Doctor: "It's probably Tom Jones syndrome."

Guy: "Is that rare?"

Doctor: "It's not unusual."

Oh, like you know a better fucking joke.


The Old Man I Intend To Be

Going to wear a tie, something thin and grey. Cardigans or charcoal sport coats. Beret in cold weather.

Or I could just get really sunburnt and wear clothes the color of sherbert. Haven’t decided yet.

I’ll either go for a buzz cut if balding and white haired, or long, lank and shiny if not. Might go for a large moustache with a van dyke. Wireless glasses.

I carry a walking stick, but not use a walking stick. I will threaten my enemies with it and use it to point out things of beauty to undeserving little kids. Deserving kids will get candy. All kids get to hear me tell filthy jokes that may go over their heads.

I will develop a sensible appreciation of women with big bottoms. Heh.

I will shake my fist at things, or at cops behind their back. I will especially shake my fist at statues and churches. I will swear at paintings in public galleries.

I’ll curse modern gadgets, unless they amuse me. Then I’ll tinker with ‘em until they’re broken, then put ‘em in a drawer filled with old door knob and fuses.

Somewhere between now and then I’ll try and earn a medal of some sort. I’ll wear this under my sweater.

I’ll drink schnapps. Feed hamburger to little dogs. Walk as a hobby.

I’ll talk openly about assassinating public figures. When my then grown kids try to shush me, this is what I’ll say:

“Goddammit, I’ve been sushed, and sushed one time too many. I AM OLD, GODDAMMIT. If you think I’m going to stand here and take it, then, well, you can go back to your fancy schmantzy schmantz computer world thing and piss up a GODDAMN ROPE. Gimmee that goddamn phone, I’ll gonna call that pretty boy Mayor and tell him he’s full of BEANS. And I want a goddamn sloppy joe for lunch. What’s on TV? I’m going for a walk. I’m going to go shake my fist at stuff.”

I’m actually not that far off.

(Note: The old man pictured is the philosopher Leszek Kolakowski. Not me.)

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Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Motorhead. Hockey fights. 666.

Monday, May 15, 2006

My Friend Chris, the Canadian.

He's Canadian. But he's more than that. He also has a hip hop podcast. Clever little ape. It can be found here:
DJ Kris One.

He busts it old skool AND motherfucking electro. Should do an all scratching show, but he has to decide that for himself. I'm not his fucking wet nurse.


Full Disclosures

Please note: During the interview of Prime Minister Blair, the interveiwer set up some framed photos of various world leaders and notables on a nearby side table, as the interviewer is wont to do during interviews in order to set the right tone of gravitas. Mr. Blair spent most of the interview pining after a framed photo of Mr. Bush, thus may have been not in the moment.

Please note: When conducting this interview of David Geffen, the interveiwer was wearing tight dungaree cut-offs and continually dropped his pencil then bent over to pick it up, directly Mr. Geffen line of sight, thus blowing Mr. Geffen's fucking mind. As such, Mr. Geffen’s responses may have colored. Please look for the Interveiwer's upcoming album, "You Gonna Pay for that Peach?", on Geffen Records.

Please note: during the course of the following interview, your intrepid celebrity interviewer and Mr. Lemmy Kilmister might share a familiar jocularity that will no doubt go above most of your heads. This is because stone cold rockers fucking know each other, because it’s like a fucking brotherhood. Apologies for any alienation you may experience.

Please note: In reading the following interview, you may note that the interviewer does not use any honorifics traditionally used in referring to his Holiness. That’s because the interviewer possesses knowledge about certain madcap escapades that a certain Hitler Youth detachment go up to at a National Socialist Youth Jamboree in Saarbrucken one glorious week in the Summer of ’39 (Hint: Panties were annexed) and has photographic proof thereof, which allowed the interviewer a generous amount of leeway with the Pontifex Maximus.

Please note: An astute reader might notice the clipped cadence and perfunctory nature of Bono’s answers. The interviewer attributes Bono’s curious reticence to the fact that the interviewer spit out his diet Sprite when Bono entered the room, because the interviewer was not prepared for dealing with the incongruity of Bono’s perceived height in music videos and album covers, and the actuality of what a sawed-off runt Bono actually is. The interviewer stated as much (in a joshing manner) then patted Bono on his head, making a Leprechaun reference. Bono’s Christ complex apparently has made harmless joking off-limits. What a dick.

Please note: If the reader notices a certain unspoken tension between Mr. Federline, Ms. Spears, and the interviewer, the reader is right on the goddamn money. While demonstrably retarded, Mr. Federline processes a certain rude animal cunning. The interviewer intuits that Mr. Federline may have picked up on certain connectedness that the interviewer and Ms. Spears shares, possibly because the interviewer’s scent can be detected on one of Ms. Spears’ offspring. Ms. Spear knew she could never be with the interviewer, so she decided to carry his child within her is the ultimate momento mori of those blinding elemental moments shared in a coat check closet on a warm Santa Monica night.


Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I defend the Advertising Industry from crazy people in coffee shops

Sitting with the Boy Child in the local (666) coffee boutique the other day, I heard a conversation (boobies) that made me want to freeze time, go to a hardware store (perineum), grab a few rat traps, slap a Big Head Andy (Judas Priest) down on the counter before the frozen, pony tailed and dental-applianced sales clerk, walk slowly back (bunion porn) through the time-clenched streets, back to the coffee hut, set the rat traps, slide them under the fluttering hands (Julie Andrews in a girdle) of the women speaking, take my seat, un-stick time, and wait for her fingers to be (lite beer) snapped like stale pretzels.

Because this (tanning booth) is what she was saying: “Well, I know marketers USE SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES to get people to buy things.”

Now, as you know, I’m one of the nefarious tribe. In fact I may be the most nefarious one, if only because I appear soft and slow (am actually quite cunning for a fat man). So, let me take up the defense of my less than sympathetic industry against the mad woman in the coffee shop. I will attack her, and cut her overheard assumptions to ribbons here, in this sad little wrinkled blog.

I may have to reveal some Super Masonic Mk Ultra levels secrets of my profession, so if the blog goes silent, know that I am face down in a dumpster filled with unspooled 3 1/4”
inch video tape and back issues of Communication Arts. Hopefully I will not face the indignity of having a Von Dutch hat stuffed into my scabby craw, as has happened to others.

So, let me first state emphatically THERE ARE NO SUBLIMINAL MESSAGES IN ADVERTISING. (Booty Dancing.)

To attempt such a thing would be contrary to the culture that advertising and marketing frolic in together.

The thing about the statement that the poor confused woman made up top was it showed a lack of understanding about why most advertising is generated. The de facto truth is reaching consumers is fairly low down the list.

Agencies do not in fact produce advertising; they produce billable hours, of which advertising campaigns are the exhaust. (Agencies also tuck a nice percentage on top of any production fees generated in the course of making the ads and on top of any media placement costs.)

Despite what you may have picked up from Full House or thirtysomething, agencies are populated by many, many people creating thick documents, only a few of whom own bongos that they use to write sock-it-to-me jingles on. No one does non-ironic jingles anymore, beside some crappy toy accounts. Sad really.

You see, a lot goes into producing an advertising campaign, great fucking Canadian plains of drifting pseudo-empirical harf-n-har. A lot this harf-n-har is there to distract the client from the fact that hey, it’s just a fucking advertising campaign, something that more than likely was pulled sui ass the afternoon before the presentation before said client.

Meanwhile, the client is whipping up her own blue ribbon batch of sweet harf-n-har by which she justifies her departmental budget for the year. (There can be a free-for-all for some clients toward the end of the fiscal year as they attempt to burn their vast reserves of marketing dollars before they stand before the CFO for the next Big Ask. Strange ads are usually the product of this orgy). In generating her brand of harf-n-har, the client is also marshalling all her powers to fight internecine battles with the product people and the accountants. You can bet the talking penguin selling cough drops you see on TV has been recently used as scythe in a Year Zero-like blood bath at a vague conglomerate.

The advertising brief is the kernel of all this harf-n-har. (This is hugely wrong and overly simplified, but it’s my blog, so take the gas pipe.) Ideally, it’s a one or two page document that details the assignment. Here is where the harf-n-har race is won. If the agency pulls their harf-n-har together before the client, the agency writes the brief, thus putting the client on her back foot. An agency-written brief will be a coalescence of broad-strokes and meaty language that gives the agency creatives more room to be weird. But, sometimes the client has serious “research” fire power, usually an outside consultant who has some proprietary voodoo methodology that might be a set of rad Dungeons and Dragons dice.

We’ll never know. All we know is these people charge phenomenal amounts of money to tell client that the agency’s harf-n-har is a scam, while the consultant’s harf-n-har is pooted, fully formed, from the rectums of cherubs. If this is the case the brief is then pages long and filled with graphs that are based on Sumerian numerology. But they certainly TASTE empirical.

In any case, the brief is generally ignored until the week the work is to be presented to the clients, at which point none of the creatives have a copy, so the junior account executive has to send out an email. At that point everyone gathers in a room and attempts to reverse engineer the various candidate campaigns to “fit the brief”. This is not hard, since the brief is usually meaningless.

The work is presented. The client picks three campaigns to go into testing. So the agency starts fiddling with the work so it’ll do well in testing. Testing is not advertising.

Testing is a ritualized invocation of Plato’s Cave.

In testing, focus groups of people who have nothing to do during the day, or have something to do and are willing to cancel it in order to collect thirty bucks and a free sandwich, are gathered in a room and shown poorly drawn static representations of the action that may or may not take place in a commercial. The focus group facilitator then reads in a flat, uninflected voice a simplified script. The exact moment the group becomes hostile to the facilitator is recorded and more harf-n-har is generated.

A lot of clients lose interest if the focus groups go well, because they are now armed with the harf-n-har they need to justify their jobs back at the monolithic office park. At this point they start scouting hotels in Santa Monica to stay at during production.

If groups don’t go well, clients get anxious because it will make their next round of Office Gymkata nastily unfavorable towards them. So, at least, the agency goes back and produces more static images, or the process might start all the way back at the brief. Not good. This is when campaigns die and clients get mad.

So, after the testing hurdle, the agency gets shoved off on a junior client, who is tasked with shepherding the work to production. Occasionally the big client will chime in with some weird notion that has nothing to do with anything that she thought up while listening in Huey Lewis in her Saab. A bone is thrown, and mostly these comments can be ignored.

Come production, a director is brought in; the creatives go to the shoot and eat free candy. The client goes to Fred Siegel with the account supervisor. A good director pretty makes anything run smoothly. The creatives edit the spot; the client has a couple of last minute freak-out, so the creatives go back to the edit suite. Blah, blah, blah. The air date is made. You see the commercial on TV.

By that time the consumer is forgotten and next year’s Olympus of harf-n-har is the process of being generated. Who has fucking to time to sublimate anything? (Areola)

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Tuesday, May 09, 2006

A nice song about George Plimpton.

As I've mentioned in the past, my friend Toby is agitating for a MOTHERFUCKING statue to be put up somewhere for the late George Plimpton, a man who be the guiding light for all intelligent little boys (and girls) to emulate, that is if the universe had any class, any fucking class at all.

To this end, Toby and a bunch of other Plimpton goons have a site called The Plimpton Project. Nice site. Spend a few moments.

But I am not writing this to flog The Plimpton Project, human be'en lovin' as it may be. Instead, I'd like to point you toward the winner of the George Plimpton song contest, a sweet little number about how we could all do worse than living our lives just a little bit like Plimpton. I give you, "A Talk With George".

And while you're at it, and the blue sky still retains some of it's vivid mid-spring impact, you may also enjoy this:
Some animations of selected Billy Collins poems. Really,
Something Awful isn't going anywhere.


Andrew Sullivan posted an email I sent him!

He didn't mention my name actually, but oh, THAT'S ME baby.

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Thursday, May 04, 2006

At a pitch meeting for Japanese television.

48th floor. The NHK building. Somewhere on the smoggy Tokyo plain.
A conference room filled with eager young programming executives. The Boss enters, a middle-aged man in a faggy Takeo Kikuchi suit

Boss: Okay folks, you’ve got 20 minutes. I’ve got an appointment to have a cigarette put out on my scrotum by a very expensive prostitute. Let’s get this shit going. TAKAHARA!

Takahara: Yessss.

Boss: Talk.

Takahara: Okay. The show is called “Negro Parachute Amoeba”.

Boss: Nice.

Takahara: A junior high school and its surrounding environs…

Boss: Environs? Environs are FUCK. Give me specifics.

Takahara: Ah, sports field. Some sidewalk. A corner grocery. A mailbox. The neighborhood.

Boss: I’m on. Go, go, go.

Takahara: A 900-foot tall sun demon rips the whole caboodle out of the ground and hurls it into space. The Junior High is sort of drifting in space on a hunk of the Earth’s crust. Gamma rays turn the kids into warring tribes of homosexual vampires.

Boss: You had better start dropping some interesting shit maintenant, because I am losing the interest thread fucking rapidement, shitbag. Give me sparkle.

Takahara: I was getting to it…the sparkle. Get this: the headmaster or principal or whatever is… a black man.

(Boss’ eyebrows shootup): Go on.

Takahara: Big fucker, like 2 and a half meters.,

Boss: That’s a big fucker.

Takahara: Sure, he’s black. Anyway, he has an afro and his genitals… jesus, I almost called you direct when I thought of this…. His genitals have been replaced with a….

Boss: Cuttlefish.

Takahara: How’d you know?

Boss: I read the same comic books as you, shitbag. Listen, the negro thing is dynamite. Get me a new take on his genitals and I’d be happy to chat some more about this thing.


The Tuj: Uh, yeah.

Boss: Don’t fuck me, Tuj. You’re on my list, you shit eating pigfucker.

The Tuj: Sir?

Boss: Just fucking with you, hahahaha!

(Everyone starts laughing.)

Boss: What have you got?

The Tuj: A historical…

Boss:…don’t say…

The Tuj:…epic.

Boss: You said it. You said the ten million yen magic fuck you word. Shoot me. Shoot the fuck ME. Let’s hear it…

The Tuj: During the Takagawa Shogunate…

Boss: You’re a creep and a hack. Look, for once in your goddamn life, could you lay off the shit with the Takagawa mothefucking Shogunate.

The Tuj: Well, it was an important period of history…

Boss: BITCH! You think I don’t know that? I went to fucking Tokyo University! Where’d you go?

The Tuj: Um… Hitotsubashi.

Boss: Hito-motherfucking-tsubashi. How sweet. It makes it almost excusable that you think it’s a good idea to come into the most important meeting happening in the the NHK building today with MOTHERFUCKING TAKAGAWA SHOGUNATE BULLCRAP.

The Tuj: I’m… sorry.

Boss: Not as much as I am. Tell you what I’m going to do Tujimoto... because of my Kobe beef consumption I must have some kind of ENLARGED HEART.


I am going to take your bitchy little hand, and I am going to lead your useless mind to an idea: how’s about the ASHIKAGA SHOGUNATE…


…and it’s about bisexual samurai retainers. Ronin, or some such shit. Live, love, kill, blah. Now GET the FUCK out of this ROOM and WRITE, YOU MEWLING PUKE.

(The Tuj, shivering, stands up and bows, and scurries away. The door shuts behind him.)

Boss, with tears in his eyes, point to the shut door: That guy, that guy gets it. Jesus. I love The Tuj. Love. Anyway… (he claps his hands and goes back to scurrilous instantly )…SCHWARZTMAN. Speak.

Schwartzman (who is Japanese, despite the name): Sort of a game show reality thingie: "Ancestor Double Sunshine Bear Cave!!!!".

Boss: How many exclamation points?

Schwartzman: Four.

Boss (smile contentedly): Nice. Schwartzman always nails it.

Schwartzman bows.

Schwartzman: Get a big soundstage, maybe the one over where we shot "Mystery Caramel Clinic".

Boss: Not your best effort, Schwartzy.

Schwartzman: Well, we zigged when we should have zagged. It was too close the Sarin gas attacks I guess. People weren’t in the mood to watch people eating yakitori off electrified skewers.

Boss: Ancient history. Today’s about "Ancestor Double Sunshine Bear Cave!!!!".

Schwartzman: Right. So, we’re on this soundstage, balloons, giant day glo giant crawfish. An animatronic badger with massive swollen teats. You know, tasteful.

Boss: So far, I like.

Schwartzman: In the middle of the stage we have this old…whatchacallit…TELEX machine, with the scrolling paper?

Boss: Good.

Schwartzman: In each episode, a dumpy junior high school girl comes out. Host asks her a few questions: favorite food, if she’s virgin, cute stuff. She can barely speak because she's so shy. It's cute. They walk over to the TELEX machine. It’s starts clattering away.

Boss: Listen, I hope to FUCKING Amaterasu this shit is going somewhere.

Schwartzman: Hold on. The host says: “Little girl, there is some important news coming in….would you care to read it out loud?” And so the girl reads the TELEX… and it’s about a car accident, or a train wreck, or earthquake... changes week to week... in which the little girl’s grandparents DIE.

Boss: Christ. That’s some funny shit.

Schwartzman: So she’s crying. The host is giving her tissues, asking if she was really a good grandchild, blah. Maybe we get her to admit some minor chickenshit thing she did. Pee in the tub or something.

Boss: Awesome

Schwartzman: Then…BLAM. Her grandparents appear, they aren’t dead, the bastards are ALIVE. Everyone laughs. The little girl cries. Maybe the grandmother tells her she’s fat. Cute stuff.

Boss: Schwartzman.

Schwartzman: Yeah?

Boss: I love you.

Schwartzman (smiles): Oh, yeah?

Boss: I love you because you make my job so goddamn fantastic. Great meeting guys! Raises for everybody!

Seated group: Banzai!


Monday, May 01, 2006

Rad famous people, living and dead.

The following are people that are the best ever, at least according to the list I made at lunch. These are people that have influenced me in one way or another, I guess.
One thing is for certain: they're all worthy of being featured on this, the most important blog in the universe.

Marcel Duchamp was a nutter artist because it pissed people off and it was fun. He didn't learn how to be a nutter. He made it up as he went along. Now you have to spend huge amounts of money to learn to be a nutter artist. My favorite thing about him is said in so many words that he had been against the bourgeoisie, until he realized, yep, he was pretty much bourgeoisie. A great guy. Quit art to play chess full time. Awesome.

Janna Levin is a theoretical cosmologist who watched a lot of TV as a child. She also entered college undeclared. Two things I support.
Charles II put England back on its feet after the insane rule of the motherfucker Cromwell. His response to Cromwell's no fun policies was to expand democracy and tolerance, support the sciences, and generally air out the cupboards. He also was a randy fellow who sired many illegimate offspring. Has a breed of spaniel named after him.
Kurt Godel was a mathematician with a superhuman creative streak. The story of how he reached his Incompleteness Theorem is stomach churning because of it's weirdness and simplicity. Died crazy. Died awesome.
George Clinton was a barber in a Detroit, who sang in a doo-wop band. Then he took acid and created the world's largest amoeba, Parliament Funkadelic. He proved that interracial love can be found by dropping a tab.
Howard Gossage was an ad guy who really hated advertising. He agitated for independent media, not treating people like idiots, and he fully supported biting the hand that feeds you, if the hand belongs to someone corrupt, stupid, or absurd. Kind of made Marshall McLuhan's career.
This is Hunter S. Thompson. An obvious choice, I know. Who have you got? Reading him as a teenager, I guess what inspired me about him is he showed me you can be a freak but still be laser focused.
Greil Marcus is sort of a creep, but his book Lipstick Traces is untouchable as a history of weirdos. It's a book that has fed my fever dreams for years.
H.L. Mencken would have killed stupid people if he had the chance. He took an axe to false piety wherever he could find it, be it religious, ideological, or just the result bad taste and a feeble imagination. People hate this guy, so I feel I must love him. "Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats." - HL Mencken. Fuck YES.
Hugo Ball dressed like this and saw nothing wrong with it. So what are you wearing right now that's so sassy? He also performed recitations of gibberish and had a hot mystical girlfriend. He also had a bowl cut, like Moe Howard.
Lighting Bolt plays music that sounds like Zeus farting. Makes me estatic to listen to it, for the first ten minutes anyway. After that, I kind of never want to hear music ever again in my life.
Letterman was a enema. In his corny way, he said "Man, TV does suck alright, and by extension, most everything is kind of phony. Let's laugh about how stupid everything is." It was subversive, but very nice, too. The man doesn't get enough credit.
Harvey Kurtzman was the first artist for kids that I encountered that wasn't lazy. He understood kids could get pissed off at hypocrisy and that they knew that adults were stupid.
George S. Kaufman wrote screenplays for the Marx Brothers. He was also said to a struggling young playwright: "I understand your new play is full of single entendres." Awesome. He was mean to dumb people, which is an underated hobby.
Lemmy doesn't do ballads. Lemmy goes in, destroys and leaves. And he's 75 years old.
Miles Davis perfected Fuck You as an art form. He dissed everybody and everything. He also dropped Stockhausen and Sly Stone on one album, and every one hated it. Except for me. I love it. It's called On the Corner and it MAKES NO GODDAMN SENSE.
Mystery Science Theater 3000 gave me the sense that being a goon was perferable to being a normal. It's more fun anyway.
Debated this one. John Lydon has always been consistent and seems to default to the truth, rather than self aggrandizing bullshit. He is also lives in Venice Beach, which is cool.
Steve Stapleton or Nurse With Wound makes creepy music that most people wouldn't like if they actually heard it. But I do. He's also managed to create a self contained little life for himself, making the art he wants to make, taking his own risks, and enjoying fatherhood at goat farm in Ireland. His integrity and passion for what he does is a huge inspiration to me. He also likes Missy Elliot.
Mel Blanc was/is Daffy Duck. Awesome.
George Plimpton did weird things (like trying to play professional football as 140 lbs weakling) and wrote funny, self-deprecating books about the experiences. He also wrote prose that seemed effortless. He's dead.
Patton Oswalt is a grab-ass goon that's very funny.
Ornette Coleman made a new joyful new music. The trouble is, most of the jazz establishment -- weirdos, like Miles Davis -- greeted it with like it was a large and friendly Great Dane with an erection. Ornette still makes joyful music. He didn't give a shit about what anybody thought then, and he doesn't now. Right the fuck on.
Karl Popper is a cranky philsopher who thought everyone should leave everyone else the FUCK alone. Actually, he thought the best society was an open society, where everyone could experiment as they saw fit. He also was deeply suspicious of anyone that had the solution for everything. Wittgenstein may or may not have threatened Popper with a fire place poker.
Sarah Silverman is hot and offensive.
Mark E. Smith is the Ranter di tutti Ranti. He's the lead singer of the Fall and as such has a license to be obscure and angry about it.

An example:

"hey built the road over dumb fellows like you
they built the world as you know it
all the systems you traverse
they rode slipshod over all peasants like you
they were curious orange
they were curious oranj
they disliked papists
they rode
and their horses loved them, and their
horses loved them too
they were curious oranj
they freed the blacks too
built a church in one day man-amish
their clothes were cool
turned into Napoleon over and didn't know
they made Hitler laugh in pain -
they were curious oranj.
They invented birth control
they were ridiculed, invulnerable to -
(courtesy the Fall Lyrics Parade)

It's about William of Orange. Dang dude.

Edgar Varese was a mad scientist composer who created the most hair raising hunk of tunage of all times (to me anyway). If you are invited to a Varese dance party, DON'T GO. You will be killt dead on the altar. And they'll be playing Poem Electronique.
Vladimir Nabokov proved that if you write with enough wit and grace, you have eternal license. Pale Fire is the end of everything for you. Don't read it. You'll want to stop reading altogether. Why bother? He also collected butterflies and lived in a four star hotel.
Voltaire liked pissing everybody off so much, he moved to Switzerland where he could do it full time. I read Candide at fifteen and I'd have to admit it pretty much ruined me for a couple of years.
Francis Vincent Zappa was a junior college dropout from the high desert of southern California that told poop jokes professionally. He did it in weird time signatures and played ugly guitar. He also hated hippies before it was cool. And Lou Reed. Frank is the best American of the second half of the twentieth century and his autobiography is second only to Julian Cope's in the pantheon of rock shaman autobiographies.
Irshad Manji has a good haircut, and she keeps it looking good in the face of angry mullahs and their trained attack dogs. She's out calling bullshit on Islam where Islam needs to be called bullshit upon. Rock on Irshad.
Bob Wilkins hosted Creature Features, a fantastic late night crappy monster movie show in the 70s and early 80s, right here in the Bay Area. He let you know up front if a movie sucked. He was also the local weatherman. Ran old Flash Gordon serials, too. Awesome Bull Geek stuff you don't see on TV anymore.
William James was the excitable brother of Henry James, who was anything but. He was also the father of neurology and he paid a lot of attention to his own brain, observing how it worked. I like him. He also developed a philosophy called Pragmatism, that codified a way to apply empricism to everyday life. I guess you could say it's a way of gauging the truth of a statement by it's practical results. Very materialistic. Cool.
Buckminster Fuller sat around thinking up crazy shit all day, stuff that turned out to be sort of true. He gave the world the geodesic dome and predicted the discovery of the Buckminsterfullerene, an unusually strong carbon molecule with a geodesic structure. He was largely self taught, he didn't talk for one year, and he had dozens of the same suit made, so people wouldn't judge him on sight. He was a glorious crank and the last of a certain sort of tinker generalist that doesn't exist anymore.
Alfred Jarry wrote the Ubu plays, which concern the adventures of Ma and Pa Ubu, as they ascend to the throne of Poland. A lot scatalogical horseplay and carrot jokes. Insanely stupid, thus...BRILLIANT.