Found myself unexpectedly home all day friday, as there was no work to be had.

Which just shows how cuckoo bananas my life is, when I want to work but can’t.

And so, in lieu of crying myself to sleep and counting all my remaining pennies, I went and downloaded the worst big-budget movies I could find, and initiated the Day Off Movie Marathon.

First up: The Happening.

Oy vey, such a wonderful film. It has been an age since I saw a film that was, from start to finish, horrible in every single way. The acting…well, it’s not acting. It was people who had memorized lines. No, wait, it Was acting. It was robots acting like people, famous people who are actors. It was delicious, that’s the best way to describe it. It was like rolling around in $240 worth of pudding, watching the tone-deaf performances. They were only surpassed by the actual script, which has people attempting to outrun the film’s villain: The Wind. Yes, the wind. And they do! They beat the wind!! Yay!!!!!!! -40 out of 10.

Next: The Incredible Hulk.

I liked when the Hulk beat things up and yelled. And when the Hulk made a sad face. And when the Hulk used brazilian ju-jitsu breathing to defeat his enemy, The Abomination. The rest was a bit dull. But better than the clusterfuck that was Ang Lee’s HULK.

Next: Wanted.

Is Angelina Jolie still attractive? I think, being the Jewish mother I am, she should eat more. She looks too skinny. Oh, and the movie made very little sense. The action scenes were kind of interesting. But mainly I’m worried for Ms. Jolie’s health.

I capped the day off with Doomsday, which can be summed up thusly: Take two tablespoons of The Road Warrior, three tablespoons of Escape From New York, one teaspoon Robin Hood, a dash of Gladiator, sprinkle some Dawn of the Dead, and place on top actress Rhona Mitra, for garnish. Mix vigorously. Do not watch.

I kept watching bad movies over the weekend, made my way through the Bourne Ultimatum (better than the second, not as good as the first) and half way through Speed Racer, which, literally, is a film made for retarded people. It is dumb and shiny and if you say it’s for children I would ask that you show me these children, that I may kill them, thus ensuring our planet’s future is safe from the criminally stupid.

I had the distinct honor of seeing the one and only Mr. Neil Diamond at Madison Square Garden last night. I’m a big fan of his early work, particularly back in the 60s when his shameless display of emotion was paired with copious tambourine banging and back up singers. He sounded like Jesus F. Christ himself on those tracks. Still young and cocky, he also wasn’t afraid to show his pathetic side with the original classic Red Red Wine. Dear God, a singer has never sounded more pathetic or worthy of suicide than on that song. Neil’s last two albums are a bit of a departure from the classic Forever in Blue Jeans stuff, this time produced by the legendary Rick Rubin. His hardcore fans I sense are skeptical of this stuff, but I think history will judge it well, it’s solid music. Granted maybe those with high waisted pants are more likely to dig it than you or I, but it’s good. I wanted to see what kind of show Neil brought to the fans circa 2008, I was not disappointed.

The venture to MSG for the show was impromptu; my lady also likes her some Diamond and she got the tickets; some nosebleed seats in the very highest possible altitude of the arena. We basically had our own beer vendor and eerily empty, clean bathrooms. The show was direct and to the point; it started on time, the stage was pretty simple, and the band was ALL pro. Three backup singers, a percussionist, a drummer, two guitarists, a keyboardist, and the man himself. They rocked. As Neil put it: “Give it up for the greatest band in the land, MY band!”

The concert was how I imaged heaven to be. All my old relatives that have passed on were there, standing, rocking in their old, slow but very sincere way, waving hands, boogying mildly and singing in unison. It reminded me of one of those Pepsi ads where the whole world was united in a big crowd bouncing a giant beach ball around, having a grand old time. But in this case, the beach ball was the Love of the Diamond. Nobody was excluded from rocking to the classics. A very slouchy, somber looking man sitting by himself had a subtle smirk on his face the whole show as if to say, “Neil, you old devil, I’m with you, I believe in you goddamnit” More powerful than a loud yell, he’d occasionally raise his pretzel in approval, toasting the Diamond in his quiet but completely sincere way.

His new songs are as good live as they are on the album, I think they’ll find a home in his classics files someday. Neil is still a very hammy performer; lots of outstretched arms and near-tears facial expressions, but you just can’t help to buy into it. Whether it’s the mass Diamond hysteria going on all around you, or his emotional, balls-out optimism, or his face superimposed over a flying bald eagle and American flag; it’s surprisingly not easy to laugh off. He’s good. No, he’s a genius. A goddamn genius.

I can’t write reviews, not really. I’ve tried, done an admirable job, but really, I’m no music critic. Can’t play any instruments (unfortunately, being an amazing whistler apparently does not count), can’t read music, don’t know from music theory. All I know is that some records, most records, sound like crap, and a rare few don’t.

But I listen to a shit ton of music, more than is legally allowed, definitely. And hey, since you’re here, and I’m here, let’s talk about a few albums I’ve had in rotation of late. No judgments (BOLD-FACED LIE), just talk. No big whoop.

NINE INCH NAILS | Ghosts I-IV
I haven’t much liked Trent Reznor’s music the last few years. Sounds like he’s basically recycling old songs and ideas, nothing new in the mix. And the last thing I want to do is pretend it’s 1996 again. That year sucked balls.

But I’ve always kind of dug his instrumental work, less pretentious, let Important, just interesting music. So this new 4 album set of solely instrumental work? Fresh. Nothing earth-shattering, but enjoyable. Good on the plane on the way to NYC, big island o’ steel that it is. Even better after that first seven n’ seven, mm hm.

THE BLACK KEYS | Attack & Release
Big fan of these guys, but their last album was stuck in the mud. These dudes had me locked in after their live set at Coachella few years back, and then they go and get all boring. That show wasn’t cheap, dudes.

Fortunately, their new disc is far better, lot more like a blues album, which is a-okay. It’s produced by Danger Mouse, and you gotta be racist not to like his stuff. Yeah, I said it. The album isn’t a huge leap, isn’t a huge diversion, but is just plain old more interesting. Definitely straying from radio-friendly songs, more dynamic, good stuff.

PANIC AT THE DISCO | Pretty. Odd.
Don’t look at me like that. Elitist. I already know what you’re going to say, just hear me out.

The single, Nine in the Afternoon, grabbed me. It was just plain strange, and not what I was expecting from an emo-pop pretty boy band. So I got the album. And damned if it isn’t horrible. Shit, just thought about that, I wonder if it IS damning. Does listening to Panic at the Disco mean I’m going to hell? Entirely possible.

But shit, it’s actually quite pleasant. Easy description: emo meets Sgt. Pepper. Seriously. Much like Cobra Commander stole the DNA of the world’s worst dictators to create Serpentor, these kids have dug up the Hearts Club Band, boiled it, then shot themselves up with the Beatles juice.

And it works. It’s not gonna save anyone’s life, or cure syphilis, but it’s fun, and interesting.

But don’t ask about the lyrics. Even I can’t be expected to listen that close to these guys.

THE RACONTEURS | Consolers of the Lonely
Funny story about this one: It’s supposed to come out tuesday, both digitally and on hard vinyl/cd/tape. If there’s still tapes.

Anyway, it was accidentally released onto iTunes. Three days early. Heh. And though it was quickly removed, it took less time than it takes the Russians to shut down the Estonian government’s website for the album to makes its way to file-sharing networks. Good or bad, the industry’s fucked.

But the album’s not! Hey-o, it rocks! RAWKS.

Not really, but it’s good. It’s more blues/rock/white stripes magic. Like the last album, it’s got Jack White sharing the lead with Brendan Benson. Unlike the last album, it’s got more than two white-hot singles and a bunch of too experimental filler. It’s a lot more even in quality, and actually far more interesting by being more conventional in the song-writing.

That almost sounded like something a smart person would say.

They got some bluesier jams, bunch of songs got some fresh horns in the background. I got this one on “repeat,” heard it about six times since Saturday.

That’s all for now. Go “acquire” these, let us know what YOU think.

Everything I’ve read about M.I.A.’s music is that it draws on all sorts of styles and cultures, which sounds to me like some “world music” mixture crap, played by one guy with a rain stick, another guy with a electric-bongo-theremin and a multi-lingual singer who happens to know both Swahili and French.

This is what I hear from M.I.A.: nuclear dancehall, hip hop and all manner of percussion and samples, crashing and rumbling, ultra catchy and simultaneously not at all radio friendly. She collaborates with a handful of recognized producers, including Timbaland (which is actually my least favorite song on the album). The album’s biggest strength is its variety; the songs span a lot of tempos and styles. “Paper Planes” is kinda low key and mellow while dropping samples of gunfire and cash registers, I think my pal Ally calls that “street but sweet”. “Mango Pickle Down River” creates a mental picture of sitting in the Australian outback with aborigine kids rapping and playing the didge, and sucking on balloons of helium.

I will break my eardrums listening to this. It should only be experienced super loud, over some solid speakers or some proper Howard Stern-style headphones. It’s solid. The video for “Boyz” alone makes we want to learn some exotic Jamaican dance moves and spray paint my everything in my apartment fluorescent orange and green.

Moments into listening to the first track of the Black Lips’ new album, Good Bad Not Evil, I found myself, without any conscious thought, standing up and doing what i can only call my True 60s hippie dance. No shame. That’s what the Black Lips do to me, they make me wanna dance all slow and free, occasionally shaking my booty, paying special attention to the fact that my booty shaking is much smoother than a white man’s booty shaking.

But I digress. (more…)

Yes, yes I can. My pal Ally used to speak of the “summer banger”, the one all-reigning supreme party jam, the hip hop equivalent of the summer blockbuster. Every summer’s got one. You’d only have a few months to enjoy it before it blasted on ring tones, commercials, and finally at half time of sporting events everywhere, then you never admit to ever liking it in the first place. Remember how genius “Hey Ya” was? I want to punch myself in the face when I hear that song now. Good news is this hit hasn’t got the airplay it rightly deserves even 4 months after its release: The Fixxers, Can You Work With That?

So help me God if I had a car, I would bang this so loud. I’d smash my head through the roof and drive down the street with the wind blasting my face. My speakers would suck and people would be embarrassed for me. But who cares cause this is the fun stuff, “let me do my job, girl don’t make it easy for me, tomorrow morning make my eggs with onions cheesy for me…” Not convinced yet? I present to you a few of the topics covered:

Apple-bottomed freaks, lame dudes (talking bout they rims and their damn tennis shoes), calamari, resorts by the sea, tippy toes, bubble bath, blue tooth, Double Tree Suites, Waffle House, Alizé

The Fixxers are West coast rap vets AMG and DJ Quik. The video is proof that hip hop has gone completely back in time, Robert Palmer-style with hot tube topped girls mindlessly swaying to the beat. I can’t call this a garbage jam because it’s genius. Get a hold of this, I cannot stress this enough, and then in two months forget I ever said anything. Deal?

I’m halfway through reading Crooked Little Vein, by Warren Ellis, for the second time. Ran out of library books, due to my reading too fast and not anticipating that there wouldn’t be anymore at the library waiting for me, so here I am, reading Crooked Little Vein again, a mere two weeks after I finished it for the first time.

Which means two things: One, i need to keep better track of the books on my library Hold list and Two, Crooked Little Vein is a great book.

Oh, and Three, I really need to pay the $10 in library fees. Okay, so that’s the real reason. I don’t wanna pay the $10, not yet. Maybe next paycheck.

In any event, second time around on CLV is really just as good. It’s that kind of book. Not Great in the sense that kids’ll be studying it at UCLA, or great in the sense that there’ll be conventions around it with folks dressed up as peripheral characters.

Rather, it’s great like a great record(sorry, album, no, cd, shit, what the fuck do you call a collection of mp3s released as a whole by an artist these days?), one that you put on, soak up, then immediately set back to the beginning, so you can do it all again. The surprises in CLV read different but equally as entertaining the second time around, and now that I know the ending there’s a comfort in not being horribly disappointed by a plot turn or the possible clusterfuck of a bad ending.

It reads like much of Ellis’ other work, synthesizing genre fiction with his love of the sheer horror that is our global culture, all the things that at first glance exist only on the outskirts, but upon greater reflection, sit right next to each and every one of us. There is a freak everywhere, he insists, and as such, can anyone really be considered a freak anymore?

Also, it’s damn funny. Funny gross evil funny. Funny like a unicorn vampire. But better.

Go get it. It’s a li’l hardcover, cute and adorable with a black cover and then you read some and there’s some wrong in that book. Some wonderful wonderful wrong.

Watching the news before work stresses me out. I hear traffic reports on roads I don’t take and stock reports on stocks I don’t own. I watch stories about bad stuff happening to nice people and stuff exploding. And it bugs me out.

Now CHiPs re-runs, that was more my speed, before it went of the air. This Old House doesn’t play before work anymore, so now I’m forced to watch some garbage low-budget Civil War crap on the History Channel. What’s weird is, almost without thinking, I started cultivating bushy sideburns which grow into a mustache. I only wear wool jackets with brass buttons and the cops at West 4th street took my saber away. Fuck those guys, DON’T TREAD ON ME!

Anywho, I used to drink Irish whiskey, that is until I discovered some stuff they refer to as “Frontier Gold”. It’s real name is Bulleit, they call it whiskey on the bottle but it’s bourbon. What the shit is the difference? One is made below the Mason Dixon by shotgun-toting hillbillies, the other is made by wooly Irishman. And there’s some rules about what kind of barrels are used to age it and some other boring technical distinctions which will mean nothing to you after your third glass. Got it?

Bulleit looks like something you’d buy at a trading post in the 1850s with a little orange label askew on a clear old-timey clear glass bottle. I sort of half expected to see a snake preserved inside. (more…)

I hadn’t even left New York before my first LA celebrity sighting. Having given up my claim to the aisle seat so my lady could feel less claustrophobic (read: avoid inevitable fat guy who would crowd up the armrest) I wondered what luck I’d have in filling the free seat to my right.

As a sunglasses clad Alan Ruck walked down the aisle, my girlfriend started tugging my shirt, “I think that guy is famous!” “Shh honey, that’s Crispin Glover, play it cool.” Alan Ruck, (perhaps best known for playing Cameron on Ferris Beuller’s Day Off) smiled and said hello. As calmly as possible, we made room for him.

I have to admit I was kinda buggin’ out. Ferris Beuller’s Day Off, aside from being the most classic of all 80s films had become hard wired into my brain. I often find myself sitting half dressed before work repeating, “I’ll go… I’ll go… I’ll go…” I quote it to the point that it’s almost a separate personal loser dialect. HE pushed the Ferrari out the window!! This was the guy! In the flesh, sitting next to me!

I reminded myself that while I knew him intimately, he didn’t know me at all. I would have to just relax and pretend he was a normal person. Which as he drank his Dunkin Donuts coffee and busted out a script for something, seemed to be the case. I would be the normal non-celebrity guy who was actually cool and low-key enough to be friends with a celebrity. In order to earn his trust and respect I tried not to be creepy and get all up in his grill. I started by ignoring him. (more…)

There once was I time when I cared what music sounded like. But in my mellowing age, I’ve decided that’s gonna get in the way of enjoying some of those tasty sweet garbage jams that I should just let worm their way into my heart. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for you to follow me to the dark side of garbage hip hop and embrace…Rich Boy, Throw Some D’s.

This is a song about the American dream, Mobile, Alabama style. Rich Boy is a confident young dude, rapping about hair cuts, cars and girls and for some reason it’s not annoying. Maybe it’s because he calls himself a “new money motherf*cker” or because he describes the color of his car as “cherry lollipop.” His chin is way up, rhyming hard about awesome shit; the song is about loving life. You would too if you “just bought a Cadalick.” He reminds us by repeating this 40 times. And…he shows a time-lapse video of his Cadilick getting worked on. My pal Kath put it best:

“Best line of the song: ‘gonna show you how to ball, middle finger to the law’. He knows the elements: cars, ladies, chains and a fresh haircut. He is 21, I bet he had a GREAT 21st birthday.”

Dude has a car parade in his video, in his own honor. I like Rich Boy, how could you not? I wish he’d come by the Tabernacle. The song, worth your dollar. The video worth your 3 mintues.

What do people like us do when they travel? Buy shit! We eat well and party; that’s the sum of the city visit. And for that reason, Time Out came up with The Other Side DVD series for various visit-worthy cities. The angle is that they’ll show you the not-so-obvious places to stay, shop, and party and provide a host who’s qualified to do that. For the LA edition, that host is the simultaneously awkward and cool Peanut Butter Wolf. Most of the video is spent following him into various cool sneaker and record shops chatting up the owners and patrons. Not a bad day right? The effect is kinda like watching the Food Network when you’re hungry; great sneakers, records, and food just out of reach. Luckily they wrap up each segment with the helpful information about the spots, addresses, websites, etc. (One of which this writer visited and promptly ordered three pairs of sneakers.) (more…)

Tuffy and I were, until 4.9.07, until Jonathan Lethem (Left), on a roll. We’d attended two library events, both of which had been surprisingly fun, listening to authors whose books we hadn’t read, hearing them talk about themes and monkeys and child soldiers and teaching seventh graders about genocide. Good times.

So we assumed our third outing, would be much the same. This time we’d actually read the author’s books. He’d actually written one of my favorite novels, Motherless Brooklyn. Sure, his last two books were dull, but everybody goes through a dry patch. He’s in his “using fiction to write autobiographical work” phase. I can dig that. And the interviewer, Michael Tolkin (Right), was himself marginally famous, having written The Player (book AND movie).

Right off the bat, things smelled rotten. (more…)

I do better when things are planned for me. Like if someone else plans to make me dinner, or lay out my outfit for the following day, or buys gifts for me to give to other people on important but forgettable dates. Lucky for me, my pal Jason rented an Impala and drove 5 hours from Boston directly to the Bowery Ballroom with 4 unclaimed tickets for the sold out El-P show. All I had to do was show up. Just the way I like it.

I have to admit, while El-P, and his former group Company Flow was emerging on and drastically changing the hip hop scene, I was pretty much oblivious. It kinda didn’t make sense to me. The beats were not the typical jazz and soul sample influenced recognizable beats of the day. They were more like beats made in a machine shop. A machine shop in the year 2050. Jason played it over and over and it eventually leaked its way onto my iPod and onto mixes and finally become part of my musical vocabulary. But I was seriously a late-comer. (more…)

I’ve never heard RjD2 before. No idea who the guy is. All I knew is that he has a new album out, and everyone who’s reviewed it has been disappointed.

Of course, I didn’t read those reviews until I’d already downloaded the album, so I figure, might as well give it a listen.

Apparently, this album is a departure from his earlier, more hip-hop oriented work. He doesn’t usually sing on his albums, or craft whimsical pop tunes.

But, I haven’t heard any of that other stuff, so what do I care that his voice isn’t as good as some of the other folks he’s had on previous albums? His voice ain’t bad, and the songs ain’t, neither.

This is a pop album, a soft cross between the later Ween albums and Unkle. And there’s nothing wrong with that. None of it rocks that hard, none of it is gonna make Top of the Pops, but it’s all rather pleasant and enjoyable. I’ve found myself singing along several times to the tracks, and once noticing I was singing along, didn’t feel at all ashamed.

I would rather not talk about that time with me singing along to Toxic in the car, in full view of everyone else on the road.

This is a good album. Which is a shame, because if it was a bad album, then I wouldn’t feel so bad about all the static it’s getting from the online reviewers. If it sucked, then they’d be right to compare it to the previous albums, but it’s decent. Which means that the reviewers are basically comparing great hip-hop albums to a good pop album, which insists of a cry of Shenanigans.

So somebody thinks he’s found Jesus’ tomb, complete with bones. I know you’re sayin, Dan, cut the crap, JC rolled away the stone and flew up into the heavenly kingdom on a golden aerobed! I hear ya brother, we’re obviously concerned about this here at The Tabernacle. We’ll get to that, but the long of the short is that one man claims to have found the entire “Jesus Family Tomb.” And, it’s underneath an apartment complex. Yeah that’s what I said, apartment complex.

The filmaker is not an archeologist. He’s not a religious scholar. He is not a deacon at the ‘Nacle. As a result, his claim looks shakey at best, compelling, but shakey. Needless to say, he’s caused multiple fuss bombs to go off in various academic, journalistic, and nerd circles.

I’m no biblical scholar either. Nor am I particularly religious. I did youth group in Jr. High and did a guided mediation once where I walked in a wheat field with Jesus. It was pretty cool. Lacking expert knowlege on the subject and anything other than a glass of whiskey, I watched the documentary and immediately had my mind blown. It’s pretty fuckin’ nuts.

Can we start with the whole Jesus tomb under apartment building thing please? Thank you. It reminded me of my childhood friend Josh Legere who told me there was an ancient burial cave underneith his 70s ranch house. I’ll be honest with ya, I think he was full of shit. Good guy though. (more…)