due to ice. The airport freaks out. It’s like “The Day After” over here. Hilarious site content coming on Monday. Hilarious.
Big thanks to Tom Scharpling for making me watch that last one 34 times in a row.
This is an old, unedited “Where’s The Street Team” as I turned it in to my editors at Magnet Magazine. A far better version appeared in print last year.
This is the one year anniversary of Where’s The Street Team. Frankly, I feel a little under appreciated. I’m no martyr, but a Hawaiian-themed potluck (all low-carb) in my honor might have been nice, or a brand new Pontiac Vibe (Teal), or at the very least, the director’s cut of Daddy Daycare on DVD. Want to know what I got? My editors filled a used padded envelope with CD’s and strapped it to the back of a feral dog. They then pointed in the direction of my home, which happens to be 1006.55 miles from the Magnet offices (that potluck still would have been a nice gesture). Or at least it this my best guess, as I just got the package today and the column is due TOMORROW. No respect. Let it be known that several homeless people rifled through its contents and PUT EVERYTHING BACK.
Unsung: The Best Of Helmet (1991-1997)
The asphyxiating, testosterone-vomiting hate rock of yore has little relevance other than its hand in hatching the nü-metal scene. Sucker-punch bass, grinding or quasi-metal guitars and someone barking lyrics about licking the inside of a vacuum-cleaner bag or abducted children. It was the soundtrack to the early-90s heroin scourge that left an indelible pockmark across the underground music scene as cat litters went unchanged for months on end. Helmet were at the frontline, and even more so than their contemporaries, probably created the most poorly aged music of all time. Though not indicative of Helmet’s overall sound, I challenge you to find a less savory (yet creepily prescient) moment in rock than “Just Another Victim,” the collaboration with Hour Of Pain for the Judgment Night soundtrack. Credit Interscope with some impeccable timing on this one. Uh, I jest. Page Hamilton was always a hoot, with the constant John Coltrane name-dropping and the Glenn Branca ensemble membership. Congrats. My groundskeeper was in a Branca ensemble. Helmet riff equals John Coltrane? No, Helmet riff equals the mental image of being raped in a locker room.
When trying to drum up something disparaging to say about these future
cable-TV installers, I found out Craig Nichols is 27 years old. Whoa.
That’s really old for a guy whose entire career is based around some
chair-tossing and, oh yeah, fronting Silverchair Round Two. Fame is going to chew this little nimrod up into a thousand pieces, and it won’t be pretty. 100% ignorant man-child and none of the mysterious and frustrated genius that the press loves to trump up. Mmmm…I’d be frustrated if I had a 68 IQ and was in a holding pattern of poorly written grunge pop and scripted, night-by-night, Sprite Remix-sponsored destruction. But if I had a 68 IQ, would I even know any of this?
Boy In Da Corner
Not hip because it’s good. Popular because white people are afraid
they’re missing out on something. Oh, and why hasn’t this been called out for sampling almost an entire Billy Squire song?
MELISSA AUF DER MAUR
Auf Der Maur
Yes, we all know she sucks, but has anyone ever sucked for so many different reasons? The pickin’s are far from slim: Her trying to upstage mourners and vie for attention at Joe Strummer’s funeral, the fact that she considers herself a female role model (the message being that it’s ok to be a wildly irritating junkie whore), her unscrupulous hording of the Nirvana back catalog, an entire career of sub-mediocrity written by other people, oh, and she’s more than likely a cold-blooded murderer. Pure evil walks the earth on many levels. You have low-profile evil, which would be a Freon-inhaling animal torturer living in the proto-sprawl of Wichita, Kan.; then you have high-profile evil, which would be Love. This comeback album of fabricated vitriol and slack celebrity statements is the rock and roll equivalent to a 45-year-old divorced dad showing up on casual Friday with highlighted tips and head-to-toe Fubu. America’s Sweetheart will flop like a fish if there is any justice, but you see, the past 10 years would dictate that public common sense and Love aren’t bedfellows.
Melissa Auf Der Maur, bless her soon-to-be forgotten heart, did the
smart thing with Hole: She bit her tongue and waited until the band broke up. Had she jumped ship, she might’ve ended up like her predecessor, Kristin Pfaff, dead in a bathtub of a “heroin overdose.” Auf Der Maur’s solo album sounds like the mid-90s came back and took a big shit all over the place, but it’s a shit that’s nonetheless easily hosed off into obscurity. Bad album? You have one guess.
Back in the Fox Network’s docu-tragedy heyday, I missed “When Wiggers Discover The Thesaurus.” This is easily the worst thing to happen to the backpack since the suicide bomber. Rock might be a young man’s game, but count this as perhaps the least dignifying hobby for someone over 30.
Along with the content of this column, Buddyhead is proof positive that caustic music writing is creatively bankrupt. Buddyhead employ dockworker’s slang (plenty ‘o references to female genitalia) to make fun of sluggish targets like nu-metal and pop punk. Nothing too close to home is ever breached – home being the indie-rock ghetto – including their flagship band The Icarus Line – and The Icarus Line toured as openers for A Perfect Circle. Being a “confrontational” stage act is the new bisexual, or the new metal or whatnot. No wait, I’m awake. Really, I was just examining the backs of my eyelids while this incoherent, soft, matching-outfit (the one-sheet calls this “their trademark”) rock implosion stumbles through sloppy emo that hey…..just might jump off the stage and swing a guitar at you. Enter GallagherCore. Positive reviews have crowned them the next Drive Like Jehu, I’d like to crown them the next band having to pay back a major label advance by working at Kinkos. There must be an award somewhere for being this loud while your sound goes nowhere.
After one entry, I need a brief intermission from the cruise talk…a brief intermission for:
Earles’ Movie Reviews
In Good Company – starring Dennis Quaid, Topher Grace, Scarlett “My Schedule’s Open” Johansson
YES, FUCK YES!!!!!! QUAID CANNOT BE STOPPED!!! HE CANNOT BE FUCKING STOPPED!!! TOPHER, AGING LIKE A PRO, MY MAN, LIKE A FUCKING PRO!!! IN GOOD COMPANY INDEED!!!! IN-FUCKING-DEED!!!!
Are We There Yet? – starring Ice Cube, Nichelle Nichols -
FIVE-O DOUBLE UP NIGGA!!!
Addendum to review:
Intro: girl, Ice Cube
[Ice Cube, do you think you could give me some money to get
my hair done?] How short’s your hair right now?
[Well you know I get it done every week, and I need my nails
done too] Look, I’ma tell you like this
I ain’t the one, the one to get played like a pooh butt
See I’m from the street, so I know what’s up
On these silly games that’s played by the women
I’m only happy when I’m goin up in em
But you know, I’m a menace to society
But girls in biker shorts are so fly to me
So I step to em, with aggression
Listen to the kid, and learn a lesson today
See they think we narrow minded
Cause they got a cute face, and big-behinded
So I walk over and say “How ya doin?”
See I’m only down for screwin, but you know
ya gotta play it off cool
Cause if they catch you slippin, you’ll get schooled
And they’ll get you for your money, son
Next thing you know you’re gettin their hair and they nails done
Fool, and they’ll let you show em off
But when it comes to sex, they got a bad cough
Or a headache, it’s all give and no take
Run out of money, and watch your heart break
They’ll drop you like a bad habit
cause a brother with money yo, they gotta have it
Messin with me though, they gets none
You can’t juice Ice Cube girl, cause I ain’t the one
[Girrrrrl, you got to get these brothers for all the money
you can honey. Cause if they ain't got no money, they can't
do nothin for me but get out of my face.]
[I know what you mean girl, it ain't nothin right jumpin off
unless he got dollars]
Sometimes I used to wonder
How the hell an ugly dude get a fine girl’s number
He’s gettin juiced for his ducats
I tell a girl in a minute yo, I drive a bucket
And won’t think nuttin of it
She can ride or walk, either leave it or love it
I show her that I’m not the O, the N-E, say
I’m a ruthless N-I double-G A
Cause I’m gamin on a female that’s gamin on me
You know I spell girl with a B
A brother like me is only out for one thing
I think with my ding-a-ling, but I won’t bring no
flowers to your doorstep, when we goin out
Cause you’ll take it for granted, no doubt
And after the date, I’ma want to do the wild thing
You want lobster huh? I’m thinking Burger King
And when I take you, you get frustrated
You can’t juice Ice Cube and you hate it
But you see, I don’t go nuts
Over girls like you with the BIG ol butts
It start comin out the pocket, to knock it
But when the damage is done…
You can only lay me girl, you can’t play me girl
For the simple fact that, I ain’t the one
[I don't care how they look if they got money,
we can hook up but they ain't gettin none.]
[Yeah I just make em think they gonna get some,
play up they mind a lil bit, and get that money.]
[Oh Ice Cube, can I have some money pleeeease?]
Give you money why bother
Cause you know I’m lookin nothin like your father
Girl, I can’t be played or ganked
Ganked means getting took for your bank
Or your gold or your money or something
Nine times outta ten, she’s giving up nothing
They get mad when I put it in perspective
But let’s see if my knowledge is effective
To the brothas man they robbing you blind
Cause they fine with a big behind, but pay it no mind
Keep your money to yourself homie
and if you got enough game
You’ll get her name and her number
Without going under
You can’t leave em and love and stay above em
I used to get no play now she stay behind me
Cause I said I had a Benz 190
But I lied and played the one
Just to get some now she feels dumb
To my homies it’s funny
But that’s what you get trying to play me for my money
Now don’t you feel used
But I don’t give hoot, huh, because I knock boots
You shouldn’t be, so damn material
And try to milk Ice Cube like cereal
Now how many times do I have to say it
Cause if I have to go get a gun
You girls will learn I don’t burn
You think I’m a sucka, but I ain’t the one
[But you said you love me!]
I don’t see no rings on this finger
[Why you doin me like this? I love you!]
Yeah you love my money, I got what I wanted — beat it
Coach Carter – starring Samuel L. Jackson, uh…. -
THERE’S A MOUNTAIN OF ASS AND SAMUEL L. JACKSON IS GONNA KICK IT!!! TALK BACK, I DARE YOU, TALK BACK AND SAMUEL L. JACKSON’LL MAKE YOU EAT A TACKLE BOX!!!! DO YOU WANNA FIGHT A BACKHOE?!?!?!?!
(The Cruise Confusicles)
I’m not really in the mood nor position to poke fun at people (1), and as such, will start to pop the lid on these cruise thoughts. David Foster Wallace wrote the last word on cruises. That last word is called “A Supposedly Fun Thing That I’ll Never Do Again,” and it appears in the collection of the same name. The shorter version, titled “Shipping Out,” was published by Harper’s in 1996. He was 33 years old. You, reader, should read this essay. It’s great, and more or less, dead on. Harper’s paid for his seven day vacation aboard Celebrity Cruises, Inc ship – an estimated $3000.00 – instructing that they wanted “an extended postcard.”
My mom paid for my five-day vacation aboard a Carnival Cruise Lines ship, what DFW terms “The Wal-Mart Of Cruise Lines.” It cost an estimated $600.00. Though an economy package, it was nonetheless the best Christmas gift I’ve received in years (2). Years. I had a wonderful time and wouldn’t dare let any of my dissections belie this fact.
Six hundred dollars buys the following:
*Entry onto the ship.
*My own cabin on the very back (aft) of the boat. My view was sometimes breathtaking (3), as I looked straight down the wake. The cabin was tremendously comfortable. Two terrycloth bathrobes were provided, each with a colorful Carnival Cruise Lines logo sewn into the breast area. One night, as I tore half-drunk down the hall looking for my room steward and wearing only the bathrobe, another guest whimpered “oooh lord…..”, and promptly shut her cabin door. Occasionally, after my daily hangover-reducing nap, I would bathrobe-it three decks up to “The Wharf” for a coffee to go. “The Wharf” was the perpetually open buffet/bar that adjoined the pool area.
*Tea, coffee, juice, and water.
After putting a Visa/Debit card on file, I was provided a “Sail and Sign” card. Unless it falls under one of the above categories, every move made depends on this card. Outside of the casino (“The Gaming Room” “No Minors”), cash is useless.
$600.00 does not cover the following:
*Soft drinks and any form of booze.
*Any item in the “duty free” shop.
*Excursions off of the ship.
One morning, after being blasted from sleep by a mind-altering hangover (4), I took no time in cracking open the 20 oz. Sprite sitting on my desk. Cokes, Sprites, and a bucket of ice. My impulsiveness was rewarded with a $5.00 entry on my Sail and Sign Statement.
Though bottles of booze were dirt cheap ($11.00 for a liter of Absolut), they were not delivered to your cabin until the final morning (or “Fun Day At Sea”) of the cruise. The Wharf’s orange juice machine was not lonely on this day, and I suspect there was rampant filching of the restaurant’s criminally small plastic cups.
Wanting to better fit in, I paid the cover price ($7.99) for Robin Cook’s Seizure, which was so fucking boring that I stopped around page 40 (5), but paid a whopping $7.00 for a much-needed 24-count bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. Sunscreen was priced astronomically at $10.00 a bottle for an off-brand (6).
That’s it for the first scrambled take, I’ll be back in a day or two with more cruise notes, including my embarrassing and insane bar tab for the whole cruise. And for interested parties, I have a gently worn copy of Robin Cook’s Seizure cluttering up my life.
1. Though, at the moment, I do have some ammunition
2. Not to mention the monetary coverage of motel rooms there and back, plus most of the road food and gas
3. Especially on a moonlit night, and most were moonlit nights.
4. Truth be told, this was every morning.
5. And I’ll read some crap.
6. Let’s be optimistic and hope that I’ll deplete this bottle over the next decade.