Styched

American Idol: Season WMATA

2007-02-23T13:13:00.000-05:00

Whoa.

Okay. We won't count this as a Weekend Awesomeness. Instead, we'll count this as a public service announcement. Next time you ride the Metro, keep your eyes peeled for the next BIG THING. A huge thank you to whomever shot this.

Weekend Awesomeness: Politically Correct Edition

2007-02-23T12:08:00.000-05:00

It's Friday, so you know what that means.

No, not endless web searching and obscene levels of procrastination...

Well actually, yes. That is usually what happens on Fridays at the Styched offices. But sometimes we have something to show for our lack of productivity. We typically like to call it "Weekend Awesomeness" (i.e. lazily inserting a YouTube clip that makes at least 1/2 of the Styched partnership giggle incessantly at his desk for the rest of the day).

This week saw the passage of one of college sports' greatest (?) traditions: the retirement of University of Illinois "mascot" Chief Illiniwek. Christ. If a drunk, middle-class white guy can't throw on some animal hides, paint his face, and hop around in front of a crowd of equally drunk, equally middle-class, and equally white sports fans, well then, my friends, the terrorists have already won.

So, in honor of Chief Illiniwek and all Illini fans out there, we dedicate this edition of Weekend Awesomeness to you. Let me take you back to a time of innocence, long before 9/11, a time before the commie pinko PC police took over America, a time before we'd surrendered our consumer-centric lives to al-Qaeda, a time where a terrifically mustachioed Dane could watch a few spaghetti westerns, discern hundreds of years of an entire indigenous culture's lifestyle, and then set that routine to a wonderfully danceable disco beat.

Who knew Tommy Seebach was such an avid amateur anthropologist? And who knew I was so good at alliteration?

Nobody. That's who.

Lindsey Buckingham Does Not Qualify

2007-02-21T18:49:00.000-05:00

My Wolf Blitzer sighting in the Mens' bathroom at the Verizon Center last night prompted Rocky to point out that the CNN newsman's parents must have been rather concerned with the masculinity of their son, opting to choose for him what is perhaps one of the more manly names in recent history.

Naturally, this lead us to that age-old debate: what would/should one name their cat in an effort to offset the somewhat wimpy implications of owning a less-than-masculine pet. My vote was for "Buzz Swordkill," while Rocky submitted "Butch Thorhammer" as his manliest of names. In high school, I owned a goldfish named "Uncle Jesse" but karma was watching, and the fish died about a week later. He may or may not have shared the tank with another fish named "Dr. Sex" which could have had something to do with his untimely demise. I'm not pointing fingers. Regardless, I don't want to tempt fate, so it's off the ballot. It should surprise nobody at this point to learn that my dentist, who (or is it whom?) I'm visiting first thing in the morning, was selected by me last year solely because of his name: Dr. Bruce Steele. I have to drive all the way across town to get to his office, but I think it's absolutely worth the trek to have the alter-ego of a super hero working on my teeth.

The writers at Reno 911 have already put forward one of my all-time favorites in "Steed Lankershim," boyfriend/one-time fiancé of Deputy Clemmie Johnson, as have the geniuses at The Simpsons, renaming Homer "Max Power" for one episode.

Presently, I'm struggling to decide which is the manlier name in the category of pop music: Rolf Magnus Joakim Larsson or Joey Tempest. Oddly enough, Rolf and Joey are the same person (lead singer for Europe). In the world of television, Larry David's "Sometimes Credited As" pseudonym, Buck Dancer, is pretty ridiculous itself, but ridiculous usually doesn't equal manly.

So readers, all three of you, if left to your own devises, what would you name your manly house cat?

(or dog?)

(or goldfish?)

Born into Valley Girl

2007-02-19T19:21:00.000-05:00

If you haven't seen THE CAGE's first major picture (not Fast Times), you should rent it immediately so that you can see the full circle of THE CAGE's acting career: from Valley Girl to this to this, and wow am I excited about that last one.

Sick Mullet CAGE. Sick

Ghost Rider does Japan

2007-02-19T19:18:00.001-05:00

THE CAGE STRIKES AGAIN!!!!!!!

Weekend Awesomeness: Presidents' Day Edition

2007-02-15T20:56:00.000-05:00

In honor of America and all of its leaders, past, present and future, this week's edition of Weekend Awesomeness is a very special one. When Terrence Gene Bollea was growing up in Augusta, Georgia, spandex, odd facial hair, and a patriotic Stratocaster were the only tools to success. Let's just be thankful the Hulkster had the foresight to put these together.

Nicolas Cage DOMINATES

2007-02-10T13:30:00.000-05:00

If you weren't excited to see Ghost Rider on its opening weekend, then check out these select scenes from The Wicker Man. Viacom, get out of YouTube's way, because this is pure advertising: we here at Styched had to rent the full film immediately after viewing this, and let me assure you, we were not disappointed. Nick Cage was clearly overlooked this Oscar season because he completely redefined the crime comedy genre by knocking out everything Peter Sellers had ever done for it.

Does anyone know where to get a good bear suit?

Weekend Awesomeness: EMERGENCY INTERVENTION!!! Edition

2007-01-26T18:23:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I've already posted that clip from "Extras" as this week's Weekend Awesomeness, but we have to be flexible here. This is more in tune with what Weekend Awesomeness should be anyway. I'm not sure what this is, but the tag at the beginning reads:

"Losing You"
Losing You
Jan Terri
JT Records (c)1993

It's got a good beat. It's got a dynamic lead singer. It's got the Chicago skyline. It's got a tremendous mullet on a gentleman who thumbs his nose at traffic laws! And it's, well, it's indescribable. See for yourself...

Weekend Awesomeness: "Are you 'avin' a laugh?" Edition

2007-01-26T17:00:00.000-05:00

This week's installment of Weekend Awesomeness is from last Sunday's episode of "Extras," depicting a chance encounter with the one and only David Bowie that doesn't exactly boost Andy's confidence. It's incredibly lame of me to simply post a scene from a television show that isn't even 5 days old, but I haven't been able to get "Pathetic Little Fat Man" out of my head all week, and I've probably watched this six times today alone.

I suppose even the greats need their muses.

Updates: Coming Out of The Dark

2007-01-23T09:55:00.000-05:00

1) Yes, Anonymous, it's true. A little more than one month after my initial posting (back when the Wizards had a losing record), my fair Buffy, as if through ESP (or self-Googling?) heard my cries of pain and reached out to me via email. Her message reads as follows:

A friend of mine showed me your webpage. It is a hilarious story but none of those things are true. Sometimes better opportunities arise, that's all.

So, what better opportunities might she be speaking of? Perhaps Dean Witter finally called. Perhaps her small business loan was approved and she's opened a small stationary store in Silver Spring.

Or perhaps... no. I shouldn't say any more. I should just keep my mouth shut. A gentleman doesn't tell.

(sigh)

Fine. But you didn't hear it from me.

Let's just say that, one week from today, a certain dynamically talented, former Washington Wizards Dance Team member and a certain mustachioed Eastern European gentleman of questionable nobility, dressed in nothing but a Speedo and his faithful smoking jacket, will be lounging by the pool on a private estate in Mustique eating frozen grapes, sipping on Thug Passions. By night, the two will dine by candlelight on lobsters and truffles, and dance to an oft-played Gloria Estefan mix CD. It will be a magical week, and neither will want it to end. But both will know deep down in their hearts that it must end. For the dynamic former dancer will have to return to her struggling stationary store, and this random European noble will have to put his pants back on and start smoking his pipe once again. And the owners of the private estate will arrive for their weekend stay, only to discover two sunburned strangers passed out by their pool with "Y-Tu-Conga" playing on repeat, blasting out of a CVS-purchased boom-box.

A better opportunity indeed.

2) I am pleased to report that, despite earlier reports, Kevin Federline did not eat Rocky in order to gain strength in his quest to defeat John Cena. I may have overreacted on that one. Turns out Rocky was just pulling his yearly mini-Rip Van Winkle/Costanza, sleeping underneath his desk, where I never thought to look.

3) Wizards v. Suns. Tonight. I'll be wearing all seven of my Tough Juice t-shirts as I scream like a 13 year-old girl, trying to get Gilbert's attention in the nosebleeds, though I don't think he can throw his jersey that high. This game is Derek Foreal - it's gonna be awesome. Not only are the WizKids on a tear at home this season, having only lost three, they've already beaten Phoenix once at Phoenix (ending a 15-game win streak). The Suns currently have a 13-game win streak that will have to end at some point, and this is the first game in a five game East Coast road trip. They're ripe for the pickin'! Needless to say, I'm styched.

Update: Ugh. That wasn't very much fun. At least I got upgraded this afternoon to awesome seats, giving me the opportunity witness the glory of Clinton Portis (who was at the game with a lady friend) from up close.

The Return

2007-01-18T12:31:00.000-05:00

I must admit. I underestimated the potential of blogging. Other than Sir Frankencow getting an occasional shout out here and there, I thought that Styched would not yield much for either of us.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

When the Duke first showed me his e-mail from the “lost” Buffy, I was awash with excitement and perplexity.

Perhaps she only contacted him to dispel the (now widespread) rumor that she was pregnant, but Frank T.J. Mackey once told me, “In this life, it's not what you hope for, it's not what you deserve - it's what you take!” Naturally respecting the opinion of any character portrayed by the High Witch Tom Cruise, I have to suspect that Buffy took action here out of her esteemed respect for Styched, Inc.

The fact that your friend and mine Sir Frankencow can pull people out of the woodwork quicker than Robert Stack has changed me.

The Rock is BACK!!!!

WeekDAY Awesomeness: Can't Hardly Wait Edition (aka Blowing My Load)

2007-01-09T11:29:00.000-05:00

Dammit. I've been trying to hold this one in to make it a true installment of Weekend Awesomeness, but like a 15 year-old losing his V-card, I don't think I can hold this one back. So, we're bursting at the seams, bringing it to you prematurely today.

Remember Aleksey Vayner? The Yale Senior who listed all sorts of improbably accomplishments in his resume, only to have it capped by a link to a video "interviewing" him about how he was a superior specimen of the human race? Well Michael Cera, the 17 year-old Canadian actor who played George Michael on Arrested Development, has produced his own homage to Mr. Vayner.

Where Wizards Dare

2007-01-02T18:12:00.000-05:00

... Eddie looked into Gilbert's deep brown eyes, searching for even the slightest hint of forgiveness. But instead of finding what he most yearned for, Eddie's heart broke as he was met with a cold, emotionless stare. There would be no more intimate dinners, lit by the soft light of a single candle. Nor would there be any more horseback rides through Rock Creek Park. Those beautiful afternoons and evenings the two spent together that summer were gone, never to return again, and Eddie would forever yearn for even one more hour, where the two of them might spend the morning sprawled out on one of Gilbert's many Afghan blankets in Logan Circle.

"Please, Gil." Eddie implored, tears welling up in his eyes, knowing deep down that his pleas would go unanswered. "Don't go making the biggest mistake of your life. You know this feels right."

"Wrong Eddie," Gilbert replied with detachment. "It felt right."

Eddie reached out for Gilbert's hand, but could only grasp at air as his fingertips touched Gilbert's flowing, golden jersey. The man they call Agent Zero turned his back on Jordan for one last time, and taking a deep breath, stepped back onto the court. Caron, Antawn and Brendan were waiting for him.

-An excerpt from the forthcoming novel from Danielle Steel, The Secret Lives of Wizards

The Lerners' New Houseguests

2007-01-02T14:02:00.000-05:00

I'm breathlessly awaiting Bowden's next press conference announcing the Nationals' acquisition of star catcher Vern Troyer and an untested, but highly coveted outfield prospect in Vigo the Carpathian from the Cincinnati Reds in exchange for Cristian Guzman, a third round draft pick, and a case of BluBlocker shades.

MAKE IT HAPPEN, JIMBO!

Cue 1,200 Blog Posts Containing The Word "Crapitals"

2007-01-02T10:36:00.000-05:00

Lord knows I've referred to my beloved local NHL team by a few nicknames in my lifetime, my favorite being the Washington "Crapitals" (or the "Craps" for short), but it was always in a good natured sort of sense during the team's rebuilding years. But, in a stunning and hilarious turn of events, the term has taken on a whole new (and quite literal) meaning. Over the weekend, a rogue stomach virus tore its way through the locker room, afflicting eight players on the team, hurting an already injury-depleted Capitals squad. The victims: Matt Pettinger, Steve Eminger and Brian Sutherby all of whom sat out Friday's game, as well as Mike Green, Brian Pothier, team captain Chris Clark and backup goaltender Brent Johnson. Note that that's three defensemen on a team with an already weak blue line. Symptoms included nausea and diarrhea. Ugh. I'm sure all of them appreciate the fact that we all have images of them running to the toilet. As someone who played hockey for ten years of my life, I know a thing or two about smelly locker rooms, but this must have taken things to a whole new level.

It's unconfirmed right now, but sources tell me that Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin were spotted Wednesday evening in a dark corner of Rosa Mexicana, giggling wickedly and high-fiving each other. This is no coincidence, but rather a stomach churning conspiracy: their confidence has clearly been boosted by their successful campaign to shut Alex Ovechkin out of the All-Star game, and now they're taking on an even more diabolical plot in their attempts to dominate the Eastern Conference.

Let's just hope that this was only a 24-hour type of thing. The team's in the middle of a horrible losing streak, dropping below .500 for the first time in several weeks after yesterday afternoon's loss to the Phoenix Coyotes, and with four players on IR, including Richard Zednick, the fewer players that need to be called up from Hershey, the better.

Weekend Awesomeness: New Year's Edition

2006-12-29T10:29:00.000-05:00

A new year requires a new, dynamic talent. 2006 was all about coke-rap, and clearly 2007 will be all about white, suburban, middle-class rap.

I'm Losing Everything, Including My Mind

2006-12-28T11:39:00.000-05:00

In my frantic attempt to locate my one true love, I've managed to lose track of my co-worker and this blog's co-founder. Where are you, Rocky? It's been over a month since your last post, and we're getting worried.

Here are the facts as we know them. My last contact with the 'Coon was right before he left the Styched offices to attend the epic WWE RAW! event at the Phonebooth on the evening of December 18th. I was following along throughout the night via the USA network's live coverage of the event and through a furious text messaging session with our roving reporter. Our final correspondence came into my cell phone at 10:37 PM:

K fed just walked in

That was it. Those were Rocky's final words to me.

I've put in calls to the DCPD, WWE, and Kevin Federline's publicist. Apparently, a band of rogue double-parkers had trapped the police in their squad cars, and the WWE provided only a recorded message from Vince McMahon, thanking me for my support, which was appreciated, but not quite what I was looking for. As for Kevin Federline, it seems that things have gotten even more desperate than anyone could have ever imagined. His publicist initially denied any knowledge of KFed or his whereabouts, but when prodded further, she grew quiet, and in a frightened tone, warned me, "do whatever you have to do. Lock your doors and your windows, and just know that he's grown immune to conventional weapons and methods of self-defense. Guns don't work anymore. Bullets don't work. I even tried stabbing him in his sleep." Then, in a panic, she hurriedly signed off: "good luck, and Godspeed."

I think it's clear what's happened: without money to purchase Cool Ranch Doritos, Federline has turned to human flesh to satisfy his hunger, which has in turn given him the supernatural strength he will need to take the Champion's belt from John Cena. Rocky was clearly one of his first victims. By the time the authorities take action, it will be too late: KFed will roam the streets wearing his WWE RAW! United States Championship Belt, and we'll all be doomed.

Eavesdropping

2006-12-18T16:09:00.000-05:00

BREAKING NEWS!

Minutes ago at the Barnes and Noble near Metro Center:

Girl: "This is a huge one."

Dude (under his breath): "That's what she said."

Wow.

You sneak out of work for a few minutes to take care of some Christmas shopping, and fortune rewards you in the most unexpected of ways.

Weekend Awesomeness: Benny Hinn Edition

2006-12-15T17:47:00.000-05:00

In college, I used to find myself occasionally tuning into the Trinity Broadcasting Network just to catch a glimpse of the Rev. Benny Hinn and his breathtaking comb-over, along with Jan Crouch and her purple wigs. Maybe I shouldn't have been so cynical...

Where Art Thou, Fairest Buffy?

2006-12-12T16:33:00.000-05:00

There's something missing from my life
Cuts me open like a knife
It leaves me vulnerable
I have this disease
I shake like an incurable
God help me, please

There's a hole
in my life
There's a hole
in my life

One of the great joys of attending the WizShow the last two seasons was without a doubt having the opportunity to witness the glory that is Buffy. Sonnets have been written, wars have been waged, and bar brawls have broken out over women who, for lack of a better word, are heffers by comparison. The young lady you see above is probably the most gorgeous member of any NBA Dance Team to grace the hardcourt. I was always so enamored of her that I would spend about half the game watching Agent Zero sew the seeds that would blossom into "The Takeover," and the other half gazing upon the pint-sized voluptuous and talented Buffy shaking her, ehm, pom-poms. I'll admit, I have a well documented obsession with cheerleaders, but this is different. Long before CMT even considered sending a camera crew to Texas Stadium, Buffy held my heart in her hand. Besides, she wasn't technically a cheerleader anyway. So you can only imagine my excitement when I saw that Buffy was to be the Dance Team captain for the 2006-2007 season. This could only mean 33% more Buffy, right?

Wrong. Without any warning or explanation, Buffy was yanked from the Wizards' Dance Team page, and in turn, yanked from my heart. Those who say that it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all clearly have never felt what I'm going through right now. Instead of my heartbreak weakening a little each day, it merely grows stronger. Each morning, I rise from bed, grasping my chest, tearing my shirt and screaming to the heavens, "WHY, GOD! WHY, DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE HER FROM THE WASHINGTON WIZARDS DANCE TEAM!? SHE WOULD HAVE LOOKED GREAT IN BLACK AND GOLD!" Let me reiterate: every morning. My roommates can attest to this.

"... and this is only 60% of my sass potential."

Rumors have been flying. One states that Susan O'Malley, jealous of her beauty, disguised herself as a Chipotle cashier and fed her a poisoned burrito. Another one had her cutting up potatoes at the Gallery Place 5 Guys by day, dancing at Camelot by night, but I investigated this one thoroughly, only to find that it was sadly false. Perhaps the most common, and least plausible one said that she was "knocked up" by her boyfriend (husband? - is it still "getting knocked up" if you're married to the knocker?), but I find that really hard to believe. A delicate flower like Buffy would be saving herself for the Duke and all of the glorious velvet-smoking-jacket-cloaked riches that accompany him. Besides, "knocked up" is such a vulgar term, and it should never be used around my belle.

So where art thou, Buffy? We miss you. I miss you. And the Wizards have a losing record without you. Coincidence?

I may have to employ the bacon-fueled powers of the Wizznutzz and maybe even the journalistic prowess of future Pulitzer winner Agent Steinz to help in this quest.

(Not So) Breaking News!

2006-11-29T12:24:00.000-05:00

It's a good thing a certain someone doesn't mumble in his emails in the same, almost-unintelligible manner as he does when speaking, because otherwise this little bit of news wouldn't have registered.

Tomorrow night, at the absolute worst bar in all of Washington, the one and only Rob Van Winkle, aka Vanilla Ice will be appearing (performing?). You can all thank me later.

Two nights of My Morning Jacket, and now this? Oh, man. This week is turning into a fantastic shit show. I'd better hunker down and get my beauty sleep tonight. In the meantime, I'm going to study up on the man's Wikipedia entry. It's almost as entertaining as the insanely thorough one dedicated to Darkwing Duck. I leave you today with Phife's prophetic lyrics in the excellent "What's the Scenerio (Remix)" from Tribe's otherwise shit-tacular final album, The Love Movement:

Pull out the red carpet cuz I'm kickin this/Vanilla Ice platinum? That shit's ridiculous/Excuse my French, but profanity is all I knew/And to you other sellouts, oh yeah, 'F' you too

Bumped

2006-11-29T12:04:00.000-05:00

Fuck it.

Darkness? You're getting bumped. When your founder/lead singer/front man quits the band, you exit the top 3. This is a list reserved for current, active bands, and there's no room for flakiness. Only the strong survive, my friends. The Most Awesomest Live Band list now stands as follows:

1) Pearl Jam
2) Drive-by Truckers
3) My Morning Jacket
4) The Darkness

I have to say that, personally, Monday night's show was just slightly better than last night's, but only because of the setlist. I thought the band might have blown their load(s) a little early by coming out big with "One Big Holiday," though it was pretty killer when the curtain dropped on cue during the opening guitar solo. On second thought, I don't know what I'm talking about. Those first 30 seconds were unbelievably awesome, and I think I've officially converted Rocky into a diehard fan. Earlier in the evening, we'd been discussing Built to Spill's stage presence (or lack thereof); ten minutes into last night's show, as Jim James pinballed around the stage, Rocky leans to a friend and said, "now that's what I call stage presence."

Random Notes

2006-11-28T11:02:00.000-05:00

In no particular order...

1) Thanksgiving in Beaufort, SC w/ the extended Fam was surprisingly non-confrontational. Maybe I'm just getting used to everyone talking over each other. Cousin #1 is just as fried and hippified as ever, but she's eating meat now thanks to her newest boyfriend who is an avid bow-hunter. She even joined him on an elk hunt a few weeks ago. This is also the same cousin who toured with the Grateful Dead for five years and joined a cult ("family" - her words), so let's just say she's easily swayed. Cousin #2's 20 mo. old son was in tow, and the cute little bastard (not actually a bastard) brought much joy and distraction from awkward silences to the group. The Big Chill (set in Beaufort) wasn't mentioned until the last night, when my uncle said something to the effect of, "I never understood why everyone liked that Goddamn movie so much. They're always saying it's the definitive children of the 60's movie, but I never liked it much." This is coming from one of the stuffier, WASPier members of an already shockingly stuffy, WASPy family. Inevitably, the great soundtrack was brought up, to which my uncle grunted some bit of approval. The second night of Charades (a huge Frankencow family game) wasn't as boisterous as the first, but it at least provided some entertainment. On both nights, Facelift Aunt and Cousin #2 took the "obscure-is-better-because-it-allows-me-to-show-off-my-intellect" route to the clues, leaving the opposing team to act out things like "Yellow Rose of Texas" and "The Westerkerk." My suggestions, usually focusing on the Redskins and The Macho Man Randy Savage, were promptly shot down, though I did manage to sneak in "The Ambiguously Gay Duo" for my soon-to-be brother in-law. He tried his hardest, but nobody on his team knew the cartoon, thus making all of his miming for naught. Cousin #2's husband, on the other hand, did a terrific job with "The Kama Sutra" and Cousin #1 was quite quick to recognize his actions.

2) My Morning Jacket last night at the 9:30 Club were predictably excellent, as always. Hair, smoke, and guitar strings were flying everywhere, and when they finally wrapped up their 1 hour, 45 minute set, I was spent. I'm looking forward to seeing them again tonight, and introducing Rocky to them. He doesn't listen to MMJ much, and has never seen them live, so he's not sold on the band, but I think that will all have changed by 11:30 tonight. I'm almost prepared to put them at #4 in my list of favorite live bands (#s 1-3 being Pearl Jam, DBT, and The Darkness - single tear - I need to see the Twilight Singers more than once for them to earn a spot in the Top 5... Jamiroquai, whom I've only seen once, as they never come to the US anymore, is also high on the list; shocking, I know, but true).

3) Currently, I am wearing my trusty 33-30 pants at work and have received no comments of floods or high water. I do not like having a 31 inch inseam. 33-32 trousers are a little too long, but 33-30 pants are far too short. And sadly, I am too cheap, despite my nobility, to spend money on tailored pants. So my options are either to Urkel it up, or middle school band recital it up. Soon-to-be brother in-law sympathizes with me, as he's in the same predicament with his body. He makes, literally, about 10x as much money as I do, so he is not cheap, and can afford to tailor his trousers. Bastard (again, not actually a bastard).

4) The 7-Eleven on 12th and U might possibly have the friendliest staff of any convenience store I've ever visited in Washington. I always look for an excuse to drop in to buy something (anything) because they're all just so pleasant. And it rubs off on the patrons as well. Maybe they're pumping nitrous into the air over there.

The Twilight Singers at The Cat

2006-11-16T15:18:00.000-05:00

I've got a bone to pick with all of the music lovers and listeners out there. Over the last few years, since I first heard Blackberry Belle and began trying in vain to convert my friends into fans of the Twilight Singers, nobody has once mentioned just how damn good they are live. Maybe we were treated to a rare performance at the Black Cat, but something tells me that last night's show was par for the course with Dulli, et al.

When the band came through town last June, playing at the bigger, more established 9:30 Club, I had a ticket, yet opted to stay in for the night. I'm not sure why, but I think I was tired and skeptical that the Twilight Singers would be any good in a live setting. I think I may regret that decision for a long time to come. From the moment they stepped onto the candelabra-lit stage and the opening notes of "Teenage Wristband" twinkled out of Jeff Klein's keyboard, I knew I was going to see an amazing show. Songs were played from all incarnations of the band, focusing on their two better known and more recent albums, Blackberry Belle and Powder Burns, including "Papillon," "Fat City," snippets of "Amazing Grace" and "Shine One You Crazy Diamond," and a killer "Underneath the Waves" to close the show. I kept waiting for a kickass live version of "Decatur Street" but it looks like the band hasn't played that song for some time, so beggars can't be choosers.

As for the band itself? They were phenomenal. Bobby MacIntyre did his best Keith Moon impression on drums: sitting in the dark at the back of the stage, all I could make out was a flurry of hair, sweat, and drumsticks whirling around. And who knew Dave Rosser could hit those high harmonies meant for Apollonia, all while dominating on lead guitar? Also trotted out for a few songs in the middle of the first set, as well as for the encore was baritone-singing extraordinaire Mark Lanegan, formerly of Screaming Trees, giving Dulli a much-needed periodic rest. Scott Ford's bass was steady and, thankfully, cranked up pretty loud, announcing to the crowd that the band wasn't messing around, and as his first note rumbled out of the speakers and through my core, a huge smile crept upon my face. Jeff Klein spent most of the evening behind the keys, occasionally trading rhythm guitar duties w/ Dulli. And the brawn and the brains behind the Afghan Whigs and the Twilight Singers, Greg Dulli, was in top form. His voice sounded strong, despite a recent vocal strain which caused the band's Athens, GA show to be canceled. And by the end of the evening, he looked like he could still play for another two hours.

I think what surprised me most was how much energy the five-piece band brought to the stage. Their albums are so heavily produced that I had a hard time imagining how that sound would translate into a live setting. But witnessing the Twilight Singers in person made me realize that all of the horns, strings, backup singers and effects heard on the albums are really not necessary. I'm not trying to imply that the albums are worse because of the production, far from it, but I am trying to say that the live experience is so much more energetic. The band that plays on Blackberry Belle and, to a lesser extent, Powder Burns is extremely sensual and moody, recording albums that should be heard in their entirety. The live band, on the other hand, is fun, boozey, and slightly surly, temporarily transporting all witnesses from whatever dreary day-jobs they might have to the moldy, throbbing basement in New Orleans where Greg Dulli pounds his guitar, keyboards, and scotch with equal force.

After finally getting the opportunity to see the Twilight Singers live, I think I now know what Greg Dulli's mindset must be going into every recording session with his ever-rotating band of musicians. He's clearly trying to bottle that magic that can get an entire room of Washington D.C. hill staffers, lawyers, and consultants moving to his drums, his guitars, and his screaming voice. What I do know for sure is that I'll never, ever let a little thing like exhaustion get in the way of attending one of their concerts again.

Turn That Page, You Sick Trucker

2006-11-13T12:14:00.000-05:00

So it was on a recent road trip that I remembered a bit of hearsay from a while back. Apparently, there is some outrageous statistic that 25% of the time you see a trucker looking down at you on the highway, he is masturbating. Now, some of you will say that it’s just not true, but whatever proof you may have, I’m convinced that 60% of the time, this statistic works every time.

It was after a while of discussing this and feeling very American due to both the acquirement of this new knowledge (because road-jerking could only happen in America) and the fact that we were listening to Bob Seger. And Bob Seger is about as American as it gets. Chevy could benefit from going back to Bob and staying away from John Cougar.

I’ve got news for you Seger fans: Bob knows all about truckers and their dirty habits. “Turn the Page” is undeniably about masturbating truckers; it’s just a fact. Turn the Page of that magazine you chicken hauler, feel the eyes upon you from all that guilt, then turn the page again.

Check out the lyrics

Relief (in a completely self-absorbed kind of way)

2006-11-10T14:55:00.000-05:00

Oh man, am I glad I didn't end up getting tickets to Panic! At the Disco's show at the Patriot Center just to see Bloc Party play an abreviated set. It appears their drummer, Matt Tong, has been hospitalized and the band has cancelled three performances, including Saturday night's here in town. Get well soon, Matt, and we all hope that you make it back to our neck of the woods in the near future (preferably without Panic! At the Disco).

Special thanks to DCist for bringing this to our attention.

Losing Faith

2006-11-07T12:22:00.000-05:00

Rocky and I don't really listen to country music all that much (unless you count Steve Earle), but we did absolutely agree on one point: Carrie Underwood is HAWT. Randy Jackson, you've done a service to America, my friend. And when we saw this footage of Faith Hill freaking out about the hottie from Oklahoma beating her out for some paperweight at some country music awards show last night, we didn't get too upset about her loss.

Ladies! Please, I have a windowless basement and a bathtub filled with body chocolate and whipped cream where we can work this out. Please, girls. Don't hate.

(call me)

Ms. Hill issued a statement today saying she was just joking around, but we're calling bullshit over here in the Styched offices.

Styched Fieldtrip: Redskins Victorious Edition

2006-11-07T09:51:00.000-05:00

This is a little late, thanks to a massive amount of beer imbibed over the course of Sunday afternoon. Starting around 11 in the morning upon our arrival in the Purple Lot, until around 6 in the evening, hours after the bizarre finish, the celebration maintained the fame. But, of course, there was reason to celebrate! The Cowgirls were in town, the Redskins were (are) struggling, and we had amazing seats to the game, thanks to a friend with a strong sense of decency and a mother with insanely good season tickets:

These stupid advertisements for The Dan's threesome of static that soothes the Washington area awaited us when we got to our awesome seats. Front row, suckah! Someone in the Skins' marketing department came up with this clever slogan, written on the sign with a Sharpee. Get it? We're in DC! Politics! Big election coming up! Alliteration! Perhaps the Snyder-Cruise marriage has also resulted in the acquisition of a troup of rejected Jimmy Kimmel Live writers. On the plus side, no surface is left untouched when it comes to the marketing machine that is the Washington Redskins under Mr. Snyder's leadership. The back of this sign? How would you like a little Easterns Motors with your Redskins radio? Ah, yes... Easterns - just what Washingtonians living below the poverty line with no credit need.

Note the score:

Note the cheerleader:

Oh yeah, and some football was played too.

The Duke was quite distracted for all of the 4th quarter, despite the intense football game going on in the background. Rocky thinks this might be becoming a problem, noting that a bit of a pattern is emerging.

Ah, Señor Novak. How we hated ye back when ye played for the Maryland Turtles. Times do change, eh, Nick? Keep warming up, my man, because I have a feeling we'll need you again, despite the fact that you just missed that field goal that would have given us a 4th quarter lead.

Moments before von Vincent's miraculous block.

Uhm, 0:00 on the clock, score tied at 19 all, hot cheerleaders standing in the foreground, action occurring at the opposite end of the field, and six straight hours of boozing... needless to say, we have no idea what's going on right now.

Ah, victory is sweet.

Eh, the stats? Not so much. Let's just say that Tony Romo, despite the loss (and our repeated chants of "ROOOOOO-MOOOOOOOO! ROOOOOOO-MOOOOOO!") still has some job security.

You mess with the bull, you get the horns. And you rush the field after everyone has exited the stadium, you look like a jackass, and you get carried off in a headlock. Actually, this guy's buddy gave the FedEx field security a run for their money.

The final score:

What? This was next to our tailgate all along?

Howie Long is a large man.

Curt Menefee is a VERY large man.

Ah, Howie. We really do think you're actually a pretty good guy, despite Firestorm. Give us a smile. That's the spirit.

Who is that balding, bloated, pale woman who's just taken the set? Oh, dear God. Tom Brady, is this really what you have to look forward to?

Aaaaaand... ACTION! Terry pulls out the ol' half-lens reading glasses and gets to work reading through the day's highlights...

... and the Duke suspects that his ride back to DC has left without him. He must leave the Fox NFL Sunday Visa Halftime Report, along with the ecstatic Washington crowd and the stunned Dallas fans.

Post-Borat: Quivering in Ecstasy

2006-11-03T16:56:00.000-05:00

Considering I was expecting to be let down, Borat pushed the limits of satisfaction. If you’ve been busy putting together a collage or knitting in your closet, you may have missed the countless TV appearances that Sacha Baron Cohen has made in the past few weeks. Hype for this film has been just as much or more ridiculous than that of Snakes on a Plane earlier this summer. Cohen, of course, never appears as himself, but instead remains in character at all times, apparently even after the camera shuts off. Instead, he’s used the same lines on every show on every channel. I didn’t laugh when I saw him on the Daily Show last night, and I didn’t laugh when he was on Fox News this morning when I walked into the office and passed by a co-worker’s TV. Same jokes. I wasn’t expecting much after all the hype and all these carbon-copy appearances.

I was absolutely wrong. This is by far the funniest movie I’ve seen since Dudley Moore starred in 10. Pure genius. I can’t tell you the scenarios or describe any of the sometimes painful situations because I don’t want to give anything away and ruin your movie experience. In all honesty, I’m pretty sure I could go see this again tonight and laugh just as much. Just as the media has been reporting, there are a lot of people in the film that are most likely very embarrassed right now. The guy at the rodeo won’t respond to phone calls from reporters, and I’m pretty sure that there’re a few South Carolina fraternity boys that are currently being expelled. Other than that, the only backlash from this movie will be the urine stain on your pants and the subsequent dry cleaning bill. As my good friend the Duke just told me, “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in a movie theater.” I completely agree. The last time I remember coming close was when Jeff Daniels was taking a very audible poo in Dumb and Dumber—I laughed a lot then, but not this much.

Sprint to the theaters and give Sacha Baron Cohen your money immediately! He deserves it and he needs it to make another movie. And damnit we need that movie (maybe this one or maybe this one will live up to the same glory). My life will forever be haunted by the image of Borat lying in bed in the dark clutching an axe-hammer in one hand and a wad of cash in the other. Thank God for that, or should I say Jesus?

Pre-Borat: Quivering with Anticipation

2006-11-03T10:53:00.000-05:00

This is part one of a two-part segment. Duke Frankencow is your author for Part One, and Rocky Racoon will be your author for the follow-up.

Since Rocky and I are our own bosses, we can adjust our schedules to conform to cultural events here in Washington. The Million Man March was just such an event, as were the inaugurations of President Bush. Earlier this year when thousands of immigrants marched on the Mall to gain rights as guest workers and to further their efforts in becoming naturalized citizens, Rocky and I closed down the Styched offices to bear witness. And today, another of those events is taking place, the kind of event that defines a generation. Rocky and I will be putting our computers on "sleep" mode, turning the lights off, and locking the doors behind us for two hours. Why, you might ask? To paraphrase David Byrne, "The answer is obvious. [Borat] has come to town."

That's right. Sometime around noon today, in a dark movie theater somewhere in downtown Washington, Rocky Raccoon and yours truly will be experiencing - what we anticipate will be - comedic brilliance: the first public showing of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. Male nudity, rampant anti-semitism, a grizzled Pamela Anderson-Rock, and ignorant Americans - does it get any better? Sure, there's been a bit of over-exposure for Borat. When I was returning from lunch one day last week and found the Kazakh reporter being interviewed on CNN, I suspected that the joke might be getting old before it had even been told to most of America. But, in the words of my 7th grade English teacher, that's neither here nor there. I have a feeling that after the whirl-wind of promotion surrounding this film's release dies down, we'll never see or hear from Mr. Sagdiyev again. So my advice is to cram in as many laughs as possible while you can.

On Golden Pond: MD Election Edition

2006-11-02T09:26:00.000-05:00

This photo was what greeted me when I logged onto WaPo.com this morning. Never have so few pixels summed up so much about my grandparents' generation. But, it's true what they say: Senior citizens, although slow and dangerous behind the wheel, can still serve a purpose.

Is It Time For New Brake Pads?*

2006-11-01T21:36:00.000-05:00

Well, I finally made it over to Brakes' MySpace page to listen to some tracks off their forthcoming album, The Beatific Visions, and I was sadly underwhelmed.

Sure, their debut, Give Blood, was sort of silly and adolescent at points, but pretty much any song that clocked in at over 40 seconds was great pop/punk/garage rock. It opens with "Ring A Ding Ding," a song with lyrics that unabashedly make absolutely no sense whatsoever, but a tune that brings to mind visions of four teenagers banging on guitars, drums, and a bass, making up the music on the fly while Mom feverishly stamps her feet in the kitchen above them. "NY Pie" brings a pretty honky-tonk ditty to the streets of New York, while "The Most Fun" starts with a simple two-string guitar part and a dissonant harmony that, over a minute and a half, builds to one glorious climax incorporating the whole band (and all six guitar strings!). "Heard About Your Band" and "What's In It For Me" are the fast, fist-pumping bar-band songs that we all secretly yearn for. The band's take on "Jackson," the classic song by Jimmy Leiber and Billy Edd Wheeler, made famous by Johnny Cash and June Carter, is recorded without any frills or "artistic interpretations," filled with tons of slide-guitar and plinking pianos - exactly how the song should always be played. And "All Night Disco Party" is just the type of song that was written to be remixed into a ten minute dance-party number.

But the three songs available on Brakes' MySpace page really don't live up to anything on Give Blood. "Porcupine or Pineapple" tries to replicate some of the brilliant stupidity of "Pick Up the Phone," but leans a little too far to the idiotic side of things. "Cease and Desist" sounds a little bit too much like a Foo Fighters or a Stone Temple Pilots song (I don't mean that in a good way). "Margarita," the third and last song available on the page most closely captures some of the fun of "What's In It For Me," but singer Eamon Hamilton's voice begins to grate on me as the chorus rolls around, which basically ruins whatever momentum the song had.

My only hope is that these three tunes are not representative of the rest of the album. Brakes is a genuinely fun and endearing band that deserves more than a mediocre sophmore album.

*We appologize in advance for the groan-inducing title.

DC Freaks - A $12 Beck Extravaganza

2006-10-31T13:03:00.000-05:00

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?!

2006-10-27T19:14:00.000-04:00

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!"

2006-10-27T09:37:00.000-04:00

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

Behind the Times

2006-10-24T09:57:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-10-20T10:33:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-19T12:19:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-18T19:37:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-18T12:08:00.001-04:00

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

2006-10-16T18:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-16T09:57:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-14T15:13:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-14T09:01:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-13T09:23:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-10-12T10:36:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-11T14:42:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-08T11:34:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-10-05T23:50:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-10-05T12:13:00.002-04:00

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

2006-10-04T20:41:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-04T14:27:00.000-04:00

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