DC Freaks - A $12 Beck Extravaganza

Single-handedly the greatest experience of my life, and I feel as though I’m not the only one who shares that feeling.

Sometime yesterday afternoon, the going-out gurus leaked the secret: Beck was doing a surprise show at the Black Cat’s Backstage at Midnight; tickets were to go on sale at 9. Those of us who were fortunate enough to find this miracle of a leak should consider ourselves extremely lucky. The excitement will not drop until at least a few weeks.

Heading over right after work to stand in line was probably a bit aggressive, but I would gladly do it again to see what I saw last night. We were the few, the proud, the extremely bored and under-appreciated who sat on the sidewalk in front of the Black Cat from 6 until 9 waiting and watching the line lengthen behind us.

At this point, I need to stop and reflect on the way that the Black Cat staff handled last night: very poorly. Every wannabe hipster employee they had was on a rookie cop power trip the likes of which I haven’t seen since our parties got busted in high school. There is enough material here for a post all its own, so I will leave it at that . . . for now.

About 9, we all shuffled in and got in another line in the Red Room to get stamped for a second time. $12 to see Beck = fucking genius. Now it was another 3 hour wait until the big event which we all passed in passive excitement and beer fueled camaraderie. About 11, everyone decided to get in line again at the door for the Backstage and wait standing up for an hour to get good placement for the show—man we love standing in line because there isn’t a single bad spot in the Backstage.

When the Black Cat elite decided to let us plebeians through the door, we shuffled to our spots and waited. The lights dimmed, and the myriad band of musicians strolled onto the stage to a welcoming of screaming and shouting, jumping and fist-pumping.

Beck told us they had just made it down from New York filming the Letterman show (which was airing right at that time), and they had the pleasure of having their set terrorized by Borat—we could catch it on TiVo if we wanted. Then they jumped straight into Black Tambourine—a Civil War uniform-wearing, wig-donning dance machine playing a black tambourine was there (of course!). Black Tambourine turned into Devil’s Haircut, and the night progressed and we smiled.

Jumping and sweating and screaming, we loved every minute of the show. Beck apologized for not having any of their gimmicks with them, but he promised they would make it up to us—the Backstage didn’t have enough room for puppets he said. In an effort to “make it up to us,” Beck started taking requests. “We can play anything,” he said. And they did. DCist attempted a complete set list, so I will let you go there if you have interest. I will tell you that when he played “Hollywood Freaks,” that was all me baby!!! He changed it to “DC Freaks,” and we all felt strangely proud.

He told us “Happy Halloween,” and eventually he told us that curfew was being called on him and us—alas, it was coming to an end.

Beck’s all electric set was charged with energy and the crowd played off the band just as well as the band played off of the crowd. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that Rocky here is very happy he was a part of. Hell yes, Beck’s beat is correct!

Is Ben Vereen Gonna Have to Choke a Bitch?!

Recently, Rocky and I were doing some much needed housekeeping around the Styched offices here in Washington, when we came across an old letter that made us smile. It was sent to Jann Wenner and David Fricke over at Rolling Stone in the late Fall of 2003, and we're not really sure why we were Cc'ed on this, but we appreciated it nonetheless. In short, it argues a well-formulated opinion, and we felt that it needed to be shared with the vast community that is the Styched readership (click on the letter below to view in larger format). Enjoy!



Rocky noted that Fifty didn't even pull out the big guns, failing to mention "Magic to Do."

"All the wrong stufffffff!"

Aleksey Vayner, I think you may have yourself some competition.

Behind the Times

Duke: So, I was thinking about getting tickets to see Bloc Party at the Patriot Center on November 11, but then I discovered that they were opening for Panic! At the Disco. I don't think I like them very much, and I'm not sure I care about Bloc Party enough to fork over that kind of cash to see them play for 40 minutes.

Rocky: Doesn't matter. Nobody cares about Bloc Party anymore anyway.

Duke: What? Since when?

Rocky: Since they bagged their Black Cat show for the 9:30 Club last year. Well, more accurately, since they started that US tour two Springs ago and sold out a ton of gigs.

Duke: I didn't know that.

Rocky: Yeah, man. And you have to admit that Silent Alarm Remixed was kinda lame.

Duke: Geez. I didn't think it was remarkable, but I didn't think it was that bad either. Well, at least I have Tapes 'n Tapes to look forward to next week. That'll be a pretty good way to spend Halloween.

Rocky: Uh, Dude? We're not listening to them either.

Duke: We're not?

Rocky: No. Not for a few months now.

Duke: Why aren't we listening to them? I don't know if I ever understood all of the hype around them, but I still like most of their songs and I think The Loon is pretty good on the whole.

Rocky: No. Don't you read Pitchfork at all? Any music blogs? We're not allowed to like them anymore. They're overrated and the hype-machine got to their heads.

Duke: Says who?

Rocky: Says Pitchfork and music blogs.

Duke: Well, who are we allowed to listen to now? Lilly Allen?

Rocky: NO! God, you embarrass me sometimes. That Perez Hilton dude is into her. You might as well put on Fergie's new album and get it over with.

Duke: Well, this is just getting ridiculous. So, if I can't listen to Bloc Party, and I can't listen to Tapes 'n Tapes, then who can I listen to?

Rocky: Barry Manilow's new album that he's been peddling on QVC is pretty hot. And I hear Michael Crawford is coming out with a new disc of show tunes.

Now I know how Kim Jong Il feels...

Ah yes, the proverbial "morning after" post...

Some thoughts on Wilco's show at the 9:30 Club last night:

1) There are some bands that are just so consistently solid that there's really no point in trying to review them. Peal Jam is one of these bands, and yes, Wilco is another. I'm not trying to say that these two bands are similar in any way; what I'm trying to say is that you're rarely let down when you buy a ticket to one of their shows, because the odds are very good that your high expectations will be met. And anyone who would be taking the time to read a review of one of their performances is probably a big enough fan that they've seen them in person themselves, so they already know what a Wilco or a Pearl Jam show sounds like. In short, I'm not going to waste my time and your time doing a song-for-song overview of the show, because you already know that it was very good, and that it was exactly what a Wilco show should be.

2) I made it through the show alive, and intact. I know some were concerned for my safety, what with Tweedy getting all Hulk on us, but the concert went off without incident. It's pretty S.O.P. for concerts in DC, but he did go through the typical "fuck the government" routine during one of his banter sessions, mentioning that we have the best and the worst in this town: beautiful buildings with terrible people working in them, etc. But no angry republicans/hill staffers stormed the stage, and the riot gear could remain in the closet for one more night.

3) Big, sweaty, hunch-backed guy with the GIGANTIC head wearing the khaki shorts and the Nike Dry-Fit long-sleeve t-shirt? Yeah, I'm looking at you. I know you're drunk, and I know you're buying those two lesbians a ton of drinks, and they're being nice to you, but let me save you some time and money: it ain't happening, brah. You might be too wasted to realize this, but somebody had to break the news to you.

4) Also, big, sweaty, hunch-backed guy with the GIGANTIC head in the work-out clothing, can you tell your friends to shut up? I really, really hate being that guy that gets all pissy about loud concert attendees, but there are a lot of people who spent a lot of money to be here ($80 - $160 per ticket on Craig! You've gotta be shitting me!), and most of them didn't realize that "Radio Cure" had backing vocals with the slurred lyrics, "DUDE! This shot fucking sucks, bro! Red Headed Sluts, dude. That's a fucking shot," and "Hey pussy, drink up! Put it back! PUSSY!" You and your obnoxious posse have spent the entire show over by the snack bar where you can't even see the stage, taking shots, ordering drinks, and macking on lesbians. There's a little place in Arlington called Whitlow's where this is acceptable behavior. I know they might sound similar, but the 9:30 Club with Wilco performing is not Whitlow's.

5) Was anyone else struck by how many tall dudes there were at the show last night? I don't think any studies have been done, but Wilco might have the tallest average fan of any band in America.

Wilco Update: No I Will Not Make Out With You Edition

ohmygodohmygodohmygod

Pitchfork, you bastard! You've done it again! As if I couldn't be any more STYCHED for this show tonight, you've gone and cranked that mutha up to eleven! And the best part? This all took place during "Airline to Heaven," which, my friends, is so much more ba-dass live than it is on Mermaid Avenue Vol. II.

Check the videos:

A Moment of Weakness

I'm pretty sure I just had a religious experience, and I'm sad to say that it involves the Dallas Cowboys. As a lifelong resident of Washington DC and someone who lives and dies by the daily goings-on of the Redskins, it's been ingrained into every inch of my being to loath everything about our hated rival. But there is a television show on Country Music Television, or CMT (don't feel bad, I'd never heard of it either) that follows the rigorous process of becoming a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader called, appropriately enough, "Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team." This will be my one exception to the "Dallas Sucks" rule that guides my life. Don't like it? I dare you to watch "Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders" and say any differently.

In a word, this show is brilliant.

While the title of the program pretty much sums it up, cameras sit and watch - nay, gaze upon the cheerleading squad as they rehearse their routines and choreographers separate the outrageously gorgeous wheat from the not-quite-as-outrageously gorgeous chaff. Highlights include: looking on as the squad shakes pom-poms, looking on as the squad does jumping jacks, looking on as the squad crawls through an obstacle course, and looking on as the squad gives each other moral support (i.e. jumping up and down and hugging one another). Tiny shorts and sports bras are the required uniform.

And what on earth does this have to do with country music to warrant its airing on CMT? I'm not really sure, but I also don't really care.

Pucker up, Buttercup

Oh, brother. The countdown to Wilco's show tomorrow night at 9:30 has begun, and it looks like my new goalie pads arrived in the mail just in time. Remind me to lay off the champagne and oysters before the show, because I don't need any aphrodisiacs getting me into trouble with Tweedy when he starts playing "Monday." At least we know the man is true to his wife (when others are watching). Now Nels Cline, on the other hand... the Duke here is pretty sure he has a hard time resisting nobility of questionable Eastern European origin.

Typical Day at the Office

I think Will Ferrell summed it up best when he said, "Get up you crazy black man. I will make you drink my piss."

From Russia With Love

I have this Russian friend - we call him Vlad. Vlad makes his living by dealing in controlled substances. Much like the prescription drugs shipped in from Canada that are all the rage with the geriatric set these days, Vlad's trade is a legally ambiguous one. Sure, the actual product itself is perfectly safe and one that millions of people purchase every day. But Vlad's method of acquisition is questionable at best. The murkiest of the murky issues at hand, however, is if Vlad is even permitted to be selling this legal commodity to us at the hilariously competitive price he offers.

Vlad is an MP3 dealer.

And Vlad doesn't hold a monopoly in this market either. He has friends, partners, and competitors, all dealing MP3s to a voracious world market via flashy, well-designed websites. And his prices, as mentioned earlier, are hard to beat: whereas iTunes and Yahoo Music, et al. might charge $.99 a song, Vlad, Sergei, Alexei and the gang all offer music for the low, low price of around $.15 a song, with a great selection of complete albums ranging in cost from $1.50 to $2.00. For their countrymen, I'm sure that's a fair price, and they're arguably offering a valuable service. But for the shoppers in America, England, France, and the rest of the EU, that's a RIDICULOUS price - one that you'd be a fool to ignore. And because he operates out of a country with relaxed intellectual property laws and a struggling economy with a weak currency, he can keep his business afloat without warranting reprisal.

For those of us here in America, we've now had it ingrained into our minds that it's illegal for us to download copyrighted material using file-sharing services such as Kazaa and Limewire. We may continue to use such software, but at least we are aware of the risks. As for Vlad's select group of friends, well, we're not so sure what we're doing is technically within "the rules." Yes, we are actually purchasing the music. We're slapping down our credit cards and buying songs and albums using our hard-earned pay, and the fact that currency is changing hands makes us feel a little better and a little safer. Vlad will assure us ad nauseum that we're breaking no law, that he has made arrangements with those who own the rights to these pieces of intellectual property, but something tells me that if I approached an attorney for the RIAA, I'd get a completely different answer. The bottom line is, the Duke here is pretty certain that nobody knows the answer to this question, because there is no answer, and anybody who says differently is merely stating either their opinion or their desire.

The RIAA could probably throw a few lawsuits at my friends and I, and we'd cower, recant, pay a fine, and they'd come out the victors. But what if Rocky, for instance, decided to show a little moxy? What if he decided to take a stand and hire an expensive lawyer to defend himself? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe that there is a specific law or regulation written anywhere stating: "thou shalt not purchase discounted MP3s from Vlad, Sergei, Alexei and the rest of the foreign distributors." After all, it's not illegal to buy a Persian rug from Iran at a discounted price, and it's not illegal to order a pair of all-leather hiking boots from Kenya for $19.95 a pair. Rocky could probably win the case if he had enough patience (not likely) and deep enough pockets (he doesn't). Maybe Rocky's a bad example, but you get the point.

But if it's just as risky to buy music from Vlad, and we're too cheap to purchase it from iTunes, what's to stop us from doing the same thing we've been doing since high school, downloading tracks for free using file-sharing services? Well, it all comes back to guilt. While it might be just as illegal to download music from Vlad as it is to download it from John Doe in Randomsville, USA using Kazaa, that $.15 is enough to calm our anxieties and reduce any dissonance we might incur from knowingly breaking the law.

And that is why Vlad probably drives a Mercedes.

(Update: The folks at Idolator just posted some new info about Vlad. Looks like our parents won't let us play with him and Sergei anymore.)

Aquarium Drinking

Admit it. It’s been lingering in the back of your head ever since you first heard it in 2002 and the confusion isn’t necessarily undesirable, it’s more of a welcome frustration. Nonsensical lyrics are all over the place and just about every artist is guilty. You can make anything you want out of a Dylan song, but at the heart, even he admits he doesn’t know what some of them are about. Jeff Tweedy, the slacker rock god who occasionally likes painting faces on his beer gut and smoking cigarettes through his navel, is no exception.

So, what the fuck is an American Aquarium Drinker? Frankly, I have a couple of leads and they have taken me nowhere. Sure, the line “The Subway is a porno” from “NYC” is questionable, but it just doesn’t quite provoke the same inquisition as “I am an American Aquarium Drinker.” American is easy. Any Colbert fan can tell you exactly what an American is (check out this site for details). So the real question lies in the last two words; aquarium obviously describing the kind of drinker he is.

First impression: our narrator is a boozehound. Considering he’s a damn rock star, this is no surprise. So is that quantity? Does he drink aquariums full of booze? I sure as hell hope so. There’s nothing more clear about the American dream than the absolute concrete fact that everyone wants to swim around in their own aquarium of liquor. If you disagree, you are a terrorist--I can tell.

But maybe that is a stretch. I always thought it a little funny that maybe the guy who wrote this was on too much vicodin and actually did this once. Every drunk must admit to coming home loaded and plowing through the refrigerator—it’s just a fact of life. So maybe you took too many pills and you’re getting dry mouth. Hi Nemo! You’re such a good fish. Water is great huh. You live in water. Mmmmmmmm. Then you stick your head in the tank and start guzzling. Aside from all the bacteria and paramecia (What’s a paramecium brain Peter?) you just inhaled, you have just been awarded a very prestigious title: you are officially an aquarium drinker. Congrats.

We should all endeavor to drink more aquarium water. Maybe not literally, but if we are all fish swimming around in this sea of shit, why not? We already smell like it anyway. Even with a mouth full of aquarium algae, for some reason I trust this guy singing to me. I’m not really sure what the fuck he’s talking about, but it sounds nice. It really makes me want to take off my band aid because of my belief that there are no such things as touchdowns. Sure I’ve seen them on TV, but all these pills and aquarium water have my head a bit skewed. That wasn’t a touchdown, it was a damned football game.

Somewhere between Dylan’s eleven-dollar-bill cynicism and Jeff Tweedy’s ramblings my life has found a happy place. Sure, I smell like a fish tank, am not allowed into "classy places," , sleep on newspapers, and read mattresses, but damnit I’m an American. Excuse me while I assassin to the bathroom.

Weekend Awesomeness: Codpiece Edition

I hope everyone made it out of Friday the 13th in one piece. We leave you this weekend with the Electric 6's sublimely entertaining video for "Danger! High Voltage," which makes me chuckle just about every time I see it. Hope you enjoy.

Bittersweet Nothings

So, the last few days have been a roller coaster for Rocky and me. First, we cried a little when we discovered we'd BOTH be out of town for the Hold Steady's show at the Cat the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Damn you, guilt and your accompanying family obligations! Then, we died a little when Pitchfork broke the news to us that Justin Hawkins was quitting our favorite not-so-guilty pleasure because of a silly little cocaine addiction. Huh? Wha? It's hurtful when your role models trip and fall from their pedestals. Whoddathunk that the catsuit-wearing front man for a throwback heavy metal hair band with a thing for Queen would be a dabbler in Schedule I narcotics? Now I know how all of those 9 year-old Kobe fans felt.

Our spirits were lifted a bit when we celebrated our "you are a moron" milestone, but then we realized that alcohol was a depressant, so we became sad again. Rocky took it especially hard, consuming a whole bag of Snyder's hard pretzels while curled up in front of a Lifetime TV special. But for every low, there's another high. On my way into work this morning, I finally made up my mind that, yes, Beck's new album is very good, and "Strange Apparition" is the type of song that was written for the iPod, just so every working stiff like the Duke here could have a badass soundtrack to strut down the street to, ala Travolta, byatch! When I high-fived the homeless man outside my office as I walked by, he could tell I had something good flowing out of my headphones, and the "right on, brutha" just reinforced my suspicion.

As if Fortuna was looking out for us, making up for our inability to attend the Hold Steady's gig, the Ticketmaster gods decided to hand both Rocky and me two floor tickets EACH for the D's upcoming Patriot Center show via their Thursday presale (password: "DESTINY" - this was no coincidence). YAHTZEE! This made us happy again.

Oh yeah, and Cassette Stories' "Talking Wolf Rakims" track posted on Idolator is HAWTT! Though, I'm pretty sure you could sample the lyrics of "In the Ghetto" with Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" and it would be crazy-cool. A very special thanks goes out to the lovely Maura for bringing it to our attention. Well done, Cassette Stories! I'm departing from the cynicism of the blogosphere for just a moment, but I'm always so impressed with how many talented people there are out there. The fact that some dude or dudette can just whip out that little bit of AWESOMENESS in a few hours is awe inspiring.

Whew. Glad I got that out of my system...

Celebration!

Rocky and I have been getting wasted in celebration of our first ever comment on this humble blog. We pawned the Casio keyboard and bought some Moet, muthafuckah! "Anonymous" set a wonderful, blog-worthy precedent by stating, simply, "you are a moron" in response to our ubiased critique of how (or is it why?) The National sucks. A well thought-out argument, indeed, but we both agreed that we needed some clarification: is it the Duke that is a moron, or Rocky? The posting itself was written by the Duke, but the lease for the Styched offices is under both of our names. Clearly it's not a collective "you," otherwise the comment would have read: "you are morons." Regardless, we were pleased with its simple, straight-forward nature, and we look forward to more like-minded commentary on Styched!

Why I Dislike Your Favorite Band: The National

You know that band? The one that you keep hearing about from all of the cool kids? The obscure indie band whose name is thrown out in passing by hipsters, causing you to ask yourself, "where the hell have I been?" The band that Clap Your Hands Say Yeah were the week before Pitchfork reared its head?

The National is that band, or one of them at the very least.

At some point a little before Christmas last year, I started seeing "The National" popping up on writers' "Best of" lists for 2005. My curiosity was piqued: usually I've at least heard of the bands on these lists, even those by the writers and bloggers who revel in touting obscure artists. But not The National. Were they the next big thing? Was I given some divine opportunity to "discover" a group before any of my friends? While they might not admit it openly, most fans of indie music live for that moment, when they can mention an obscure band while sipping on a PBR, and be answered with only a blank look and a polite, yet resigned inquiry:

Gloating: "Oh, you've never heard of [fill in the blank]? They're pretty good. I don't know... they're sort of Alice-in-Chains-meets-Talking-Heads, with a little Wolf Parade and Eric B. & Rakim thrown in for good measure." (WHAT?)

So, I was eager to fill this void in my admittedly shallow knowledge of indie rock. But try as I might, I couldn't locate their new album, Alligator, the one that was making all of the year-end lists. (Disclaimer: lacking any street cred, I usually rely on the Barnes & Noble or the Borders near my office, so obscure CDs can be difficult to locate during my lunch hour).

Turns out, The National has been around for a while. They formed in 1999, and all members are from Cincinnati via Brooklyn (aren't they all?). They've got three albums and two EPs, and have been toiling in relative obscurity for the last seven years.

When The National showed up on the Black Cat's schedule in January of 2006, I decided to take a chance and I bought a ticket so as to see what all of the hubbub was about. In preparation for their show, I resorted to "alternative" means of acquiring the bulk of their new album, listening to a few tracks here and there. I wasn't too impressed with what I was hearing, but I didn't despair: as any KISS fan can attest, what transpires in the studio is not necessarily an indication of what to expect in a live setting.

Concert night rolled around and I sidled up the merch table in the Cat's main room, slapping down the $10 for Alligator (which included a bonus disc of B-sides - score!), hoping that it was a small price to pay for the possibility of a future conversion. It certainly wouldn't have been unheard of for me. As the lights went down and the band took the stage, the usual reserved, polite claps and cheers greeted them. What I was subjected to for the next 45 minutes could best be described as a combination of boredom, frustration, and borderline outrage.

First and foremost, the band's lead singer, Matt Berninger (where most of my ire lies), has seen one too many Morrissey/REM videos. Lots of dramatic poses. Lots of face-cradling. Lots of gazing up into the stage lighting. Lots of erratic hand-clapping. You know the routine. Watch the video for "Losing My Religion" for a refresher.

Secondly, their music is flat out boring! Sure, there are the indie-requisite nonsensical, clumsy, pretentious lyrics and metaphors, but The National ain't Bright Eyes, kids (and Conor Oberst isn't even that good - music critics just haven't figured it out yet). I read somewhere that their lyrics are "self-deprecating," but I'm usually fighting off a severe case of the yawns when their music is playing so I couldn't say for sure. Admittedly, there are somewhat interesting rhythm changes throughout a few of their songs, but that won't get you anywhere if the music itself accompanying that rhythm is uninspiring and doesn't even match up with said rhythms. And through all of this is Berninger's deep monotone, mumbling singing, putting the final nail in the coffin. While most at the show would be loath to admit it, I am fairly certain that more than half of the ticket-holders that night at the Cat were as bored as I was, judging by the amount of background chatter. Basically, the scene consisted of a few hundred dudes in tight jeans, Vans Slip-ons, and Buddy Holly glasses, drinking Amstel Lights and PBRs milling about and chatting with one another.

Come to think of it, that's what most nights at the Black Cat are like.

To date, The National's performance that night is the one and only time I've ever left a show early. Around 40 minutes into their set, I decided that my time would be better spent sleeping in my bed than sitting through another 30 minutes of drivel.

And that is why I dislike your favorite band (The National).

I always knew Night Ranger were a bunch of pussies

Michael Scott's favorite singer engaging in some very un-Volunteer Deputy Sheriff-like behavior:

Come to think of it, Mr. Big was sort of a funny name as well...

Quick show of hands:

Who else found themselves strangely attracted to the hot lesbian lead singer of Mr. Big?

What?

Nobody?

Well, when Lean Into It was released in the early Spring of 1991, Mr. Big's hit song "To Be With You" catapulted the band into the national consciousness. And without a doubt, the beautiful face of the group was their hot lesbian lead singer, Erica Martin. Her gruff, soulful vocals struck a chord with America's music lovers. At the peak of the country's hair band/power ballad obsession, and just prior to Nirvana's Nevermind and "Smells Like Teen Spirit," the song that would become the soundtrack of the grunge revolution (or at least the soundtrack to many a VH1 special discussing the grunge revolution), "To Be With You" received loads of radio play, and brought fame and fortune to Mr. Big. When my older sister bought the CD, I remember listening to it on repeat and making a mix tape that was composed almost entirely of Mr. Big songs. On our family vacation up to New Hampshire that summer, the Mr. Big mix tape never left my walkman during the long car ride. And boy was I smitten when I browsed through the liner notes - I was completely floored when I saw the photographs of the band. Erica Martin had this sexy Joan Jett, Melissa Etheridge thing going on... the type of woman who would pick you up, spit you out, and ride off into the sunset on her motorbike, flipping you the bird all along the way. Basically, every guy's dream girl, and a powerful mental image for a boy entering the early stages of puberty.

And the band lived it up, taking full advantage of their popularity that Spring and Summer of 1991. Festivals throughout the country. Massive world tours. Fast foreign cars. As the old adage goes, SEX DRUGS & ROCK 'N ROLL! Most importantly, ladies for everyone, especially for hot lesbian lead singer Erica Martin. Her conquests were legendary (the rumors of an affair with a certain 90210 actress, while unsubstantiated, are now widely taken as fact). And...

What? There's no "a" at the end of her first name?

That's sort of weird. I guess "Chris" can be short for Christine, and "Sam" could be a nickname for "Samantha." I mean, I know she's a lesbian and all, but even so, "Eric Martin" is sort of a funny name for a woman - not funny because it sounds weird, but more funny because it's almost the same...

as...

a...

Oh, lord.

I think I need to explain some things to my mother.

Who Was Carl's Stunt Double In The Hot Tub Scenes?

Two questions logically follow:

1) Who directed this music video?

2) Is s/he available for future projects?

Because if those two directors from the Smashing Pumpkins videos could put out Little Miss Sunshine, there's no telling what this guy could do in time for Cannes.

Big Break

Guys, I've got some great news. I just got off the phone with Vince, and he's finally come through for us...

No, the Des Moines gig fell through...

No, that was never actually set up, Vince lied to me about that one. But this is so much cooler than Oklahoma City. Trust me. You know how I told you Vince was talking to some dude at a big advertising agency in New York? Well, they listened to our demo, and they dig it, bro! We fucking got it, man! We're doing a commercial!...

No, it's for, like, Lean Cuisine or some shit...

No! Listen, dude!...

No, they didn't want any of our originals. But it's not so bad. We get to re-record one of the Monkees' songs!...

Hey, man, they're legends. And we're going to be recording "Pleasant Valley Sunday!" Carole King, buddy! It's what you've always wanted, am I right?...

How can you say that, Phil? "You've Got a Friend," "I Feel the Earth Move," "It's Too Late!" Fucking, Tapestry, dude! Tapestry! She's a fucking living legend, bro!...

Well, no. We just have to record the chorus with different words, and then they'll splice it together so...

I don't know, something like "another healthy diet FUNday" instead of "Another Pleasant Valley Sunday," or some shit...

Well, I still think it's fucking badass, man...

How can you say that? This is what we've been working for! Darius Rucker didn't just write Cracked Rearview Mirror out of the blue. Those dudes toiled in the trenches for years!...

Well, no, I don't know that for a fact, but those dudes were OLD when that album came out. And look at them now! I bet those fuckers tag so much ass - whenever they want, man. Whenever they want...

Don't fuck this up for us, Jake! Don't fucking do it! We've worked too hard and too long to let your fucking pride get in the way...

I promise you, man, this is going to lead to bigger things. We'll totally see a jump in our MySpace views. And they're paying $16,000, bro! You can finally get that Japanese Strat you've been fiending. No more of this Grog & Tankard bullshit...

Well, don't think about it for too long, dudes. I've gotta give Vince an answer by tomorrow morning...

La Naissance d'un Blog

Excerpts from a Gmail chat

Rocky: this is an exciting day
Duke: how so?
Rocky: in a very exciting way
Duke: yep
Rocky: uhhhhh huh
lets start a blog
Duke: Sure
So...
I just had a craving for Lucky Charms walking back from the copier
just the marshmallows though
Rocky: well obviously, they're the best part
Duke: The only reason to buy the fucking box, goddammit
cursing can be a big part of our blog
cursive.blogspot.com
Rocky: ic an fucking curse
Duke: I don't know what that means, but cursive.blogspot.com is already taken
shit
Rocky: what a terrible blog
Duke: Yeah... those guys suck.
Rocky: we could starta pretty damn good music and movie blog
Duke: We could start a Westside Story-type of feud with them
...or start a music movie blog
Rocky: whats holding us back?
Duke: Fear of ridicule
Rocky: anyway, we should start a blog
Duke: I have this sinking suspicion that this is exactly what it sounded like when Jack Black proposed the idea of a band to Kyle Gass