Friday the $13 Tattoos

I’ve long been a fan of silly, nefarious tattoos. That’s why the Friday the 13th tradition of shops offering $13 tattoos tickles me so damn much.

The concept is simple: most participating shops provide custom 13-themed designs created especially for the limited one-day run—and the tattoos costs only $13. Call it a recession special and a shout at the devil, all in one.

Below are just a few of the tattoo parlors around the world offering the Friday the 13th special. If you do decide to take the plunge, remember to get to your local shop early as lines tend to form quickly.

And while I won’t be queuing up this time around, don’t put it past me in the future ;)


ATLANTA
13 Roses

AUSTIN
Death Or Glory

BOISE
Tilted Halo

CHICAGO
Mastermind Ink

GLASGOW
Forevermore Tattoo

LAS VEGAS
Classic Tattoo

NEWCASTLE, AUSTRALIA
Twenty12 Tattoo

NEW YORK
Daredevil Tattoo

TUCSON
Rogue Parlour

VICTORIA, BC
Tattoo Zoo

To get you in the mood, check out some more 13 tattoos I found on Flickr.

15 Step

If my addiction to DVR wasn't already justified, watching this year's Grammy Awards solidified it. I pretty much fast-forwarded through all the eye-roll inducing Coldplay pomp and circumstance—not to mention all those bloated performance numbers. John Mayer repping guitarists? Bitch, please! Enough with your sex faces.

Still, there was only one highlight that mattered (especially since M.I.A.'s water didn't break on stage all over Kanye's sneakers, as I'd hoped) and that was Radiohead's performance with the USC marching band.

And I don't even LIKE Radiohead. Still, good shit... check it out!

New York Comic Con '09

Normally, I'd be all over New York Comic Con. But with one of my best friend's wedding falling on Saturday, my participation in the con and all the partying associated with it was sadly kept to a minimum. In the end, though, it was all worth it. Dannielle and David's wedding was a lovely affair and went off without a hitch—and it even had a few comics-related moments of its own.

For one thing, the ceremony and reception were held on West 37th Street, a short distance from the convention. As I exited the cab, I had to chuckle when spotting some light saber-weilding Jedi neophytes migrating east. Then during the cocktail hour, I was surprised to see the groom's cousin, comic book artist Judd Winick (yes, that was him on Real World: San Francisco), was also in attendance. What can I say? The nerd cred just materializes.

Though I'm sure I missed the best costumes and attractions on display at the NYCC on Saturday, I was still happy to bask in my comic book and Japanese toy obsessions on Sunday. As usual, it was great to gossip with friends in the business, see the latest movie trailers and people-watch. (For the full photo gallery, click HERE.)

And for those of you who are more word-oriented, here's a detailed recap of the trends and cultural anthropology that caught my eye as I made my way across the Jacob Javitz Center floor.


WATCHMEN FEVER
With the lawsuit settled and a firm March 6 release date in place, the biggest buzz at the convention was the forthcoming Watchmen movie. A panel and preview of the film was held before a capacity crowd, and people lined up for four hours in advance of artist Dave Gibbons' autograph signing. Bright yellow promotional items, deluxe-edition graphic novels, action figures, props and costumed conventioneers were everywhere.

How cool is this giant chalk drawing?



DUDES IN BODYSUITS
This look goes way beyond standard fanboy behavior—especially since most of the guys who dress up in tight, shiny costumes generally don't have the bodies to fit them. Trust me, seeing The Flash coming was a lot more painful than seeing him going. No homo.

As for the ladies, there were many a Baroness in the house... to various degrees of success [see below].




COSPLAY FAMILIES
I suppose the family that dorks out together, stay together—but the least they could do was pick a unifying theme and stick with it.



...Just like these guys! Blue is a theme, right?



FYI: The foam toilet seat cover around the girl's neck is a promo item for the full-length film version of the defunct Showtime series, Dead Like Me. Apparently its an obscure reference to a death scene in the pilot.

CELEBS LOVE COMICS
All weekend, the talk of the NYCC was about which NY-based celebs were seen perusing the aisles and making unlikely appearances. Everyone from Jon Stewart to Method Man were reported to be in the building. Shit, even the Mastodon dudes were spotted taking light saber lessons on Friday.

The only celeb I spotted was 30 Rock's Scott Adsit. Not too shabby!




SWAG & GIMMICKS RULE
Though I was too antsy to stand on line for a 15-minute demo of the Wolverine video game to get the bonus giant foam clawed hand that came with it, I made sure to get my hands on a Wonder Woman tiara from the DC booth (thanks, Vince!). Exhibitors resorted to all sorts of interactive stunts to grab the attention of the sold-out crowd, including Cinemax, who provided hyperbaric chambers in which anyone 18 or older could watch scenes from their softcore porn/medical series, Forbidden Science.



KID ROBOT STILL MAKES MY NIPPLES HARD
Though I'm balling on a budget these days, I couldn't resist picking up a mini blind-pack Kid Robot toy from their line with Portland artist Ryan Bubnis, Heroes and Heartbreakers. Appropriately enough, I got Lil Franky. I also picked up a Things That Hurt zipper pull (and got a money bag! Hopefully a good omen).



That's the wrap for '09. According to Reed, the company that runs the New York Comic Con, next year's festivities will be pushed back until October 2010. Will we be buzzing about the Preacher flick?

Boy Toucher In The 'Hood (Who's Not Me)

OK, this really isn't THAT funny of a story... but I admit that the proximity of this story to my home—as well as my own reputation as a Cougar Cub—made me chuckle.

What is true: provided that they're not psychologically scarred, these boys will be PAYING strippers to behave this way in a few short years.

My Superfluous New Year's Resolutions

As Angel and I were indulging in Chinese food before heading to a matinee of Milk on New Year’s Day (aka Jewish X-Mas II: Electric Boogaloo), we discussed our resolutions. Every year, my boo says the same thing: “[I’m going] to be less tolerant of others and be more hateful.” And although I gave it some thought and do have some serious goals I’d like to achieve, I’m throwing these bonus resolutions out there. Enjoy.


1. Become An NHL Player Trophy Wife:
I know this is incredibly fucking lofty. For one thing, I’ve never been a very good groupie. Then the obvious: I’m pretty much the antithesis of an actual trophy wife. I’m neither tall, blonde nor drop-dead stunning. And I’m mouthy. Very, very mouthy. This is all detrimental to my career as a gold digger.

But let’s think about it for a minute: Most hockey players are of Scandinavian, Eastern European or Canadian descent, they love beer, and the overwhelming majority of them are metalheads. I think I might stand a chance yet… especially if I aim for a minor leaguer (I’m looking at you, Brooklyn Aces). Even if they’re young and divorce me for some vapid bimbo after they goes pro, I can still get the starter marriage/alimony package out of the way.

2. Punch Someone In The Face Really Hard:
This is actually Angel’s second favorite resolution to make, but I’m jacking it. Don’t say something stupid, or it might apply to you.

3. Talk More Shit:
This might not even be possible, as even a French Canadian hook-up with a minimal grasp of English figured out I was a world-class shit-talker within 24 hours of meeting me. But fuck it, if you’re good, why quit?

4. Read More Comic Books:
Everyone knows I wear my nerd cred on my sleeve, but I’ve really fallen off on my comic book reading. Sure I got through Y: The Last Man, Buffy The Vampire Slayer: Season 8 and Jonah Hex in 2008, but that’s not nearly enough. In ’09, I’m starting a graphic novel club. You're welcome, Jonah B.

5. Stay Away From The Arrow:
Happy hour can be such a mixed blessing. Sure, the drinks are cheap, but it starts so early that by the time the clock hits 10 pm, I’m drunk-texting manifestos to half my contact list. So what makes The Arrow the scapegoat for this? Half the people I know in the music industry DJ here weekly, so between July and October, I think I spent at least one night there each week. That’s too much commitment for me, Rodeo was starting to get jealous.

Watch: I’ll be spinning there by March. Khia into John Cafferty & The Beaver Brown Band, anyone?

Fuck You, 2008

It's true, I am quite the passionate cynic. But it's not just me this time. Most people I know had a shit existence during these past 364 days and can't wait for 2008 to be over with either.

What was not to love? Recession and a crap job market. Check. A seemingly never-ending presidential election season that got dumber by the month. Check plus! Bush kept making us look retarded, and our idols wouldn't stop dying. Seriously, if I thought it would have helped, I would have created an "End Death In '08" group on Facebook long ago.

The old saying goes that the four most traumatic experiences someone can go through are job loss, divorce, death and moving. Well, I did three out of four in '08... and considering that no one got an email heads-up about my starter marriage, you can figure out which one I was spared. If it weren't for my close friends and family, I don't think I would've gotten through the second half of this year. Thank you, all.

So for all of the above reasons: Fuck you and fuck off, 2008. My best wishes to everyone for a happy, prosperous and safe 2009. Oh, and holler if you know of a good New Year's Eve party in NYC. Or know anyone that's hiring.

Lastly, I wanted to give one final shout-out to some of the people we lost this year. Their inspiration and contributions to our foolish world are already missed.


Erlene Zierke




Paul Newman





Heath Ledger





George Carlin




Bettie Page




Eartha Kitt




Brad Renfro




Plus: Jerry Finn, Michael Turner, Bernie Mac, Tim Russert, Sydney Pollack, Roy Scheider, Charlton Heston, David Foster Wallace, Isaac Hayes, Harvey Korman, Estelle Getty, Jeff Healey, Don LaFontaine, Jerry Reed, Yves Saint Laurent, Jerry Wexler, Stan Winston, Richard Wright, Bo Diddley, Mark Felt and countless others.

7 Day Weekend, Pt. I

Here's a quick by-the-numbers breakdown of what I've been up to this week.



Words Written: 2,500 (not including the 500 words I still owe Decibel)

Projects I'm Working On: 4

All-Nighters Pulled: 1

Parties/Events I Hit This Week: 3

Parties I RSVP'd to: 7

Jack & Gingers I Drank: 8-10 + at least 2 beers.

Guys From Kentucky I Met: 2

Episodes of Lost: Season 4 Viewed: 9, but the night's still young.

Visits To The Gym: 2

Hats I Lost: 1

Snowstorms: 1

Friends Venting About Travel-Related Issues & Airport Delays: 6

Albums I Can't Stop Listening To: 2. Tie between Yeasayer's All Hour Cymbals and the Gods and Queens record.

Awesome Christmas Presents Received: 2. Thank you, Kevin for the yummy chocolates and Angel for the year full of movies.

Present That I'm Not Holding My Breathe Waiting For: A Wii via a strange man from Mississippi.

Favorite Memory Recounted: The beer salesman at Philips Arena who reminded us that it was the "last call for alco-hole" during third period of Thrasher games.

Line Of The Week: "Six Degrees of My Vagina."

Terminator: Salvation = Iron Maiden's Eddie?

Check out this amazing animated poster for the next Terminator flick. Looks a bit like Somewhere In Time-era Eddie, no?

TERMINATOR: SALVATION POSTER



PS: I know a real blog entry is overdue... Texas is the reason. More on that shortly.

"Get Thrashed" Back To A Simpler Time

The past has been coming back to haunt me as of late.

It started when my mom found a batch of old photos, awards and report cards that captured my youth—plus some pretty wack hairstyles—and made me think about a simpler time when I was one of only maybe three metal kids at Seth Low Junior High, located in the bucolic cultural mecca known as Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

Soon after, some of my middle school classmates started finding me on Facebook and reminding me of just how notorious I had been for choosing to rock skin-tight acid-washed jeans instead of rolled-up parachute pants with two pairs of pastel socks back in 7th Grade. To this day, I feel vindicated whenever I see four different shades of black nail polish at the Chanel counter—even teachers gave me shit for making this my consistent choice at the time.

Sure, it sucked sometimes being stuck in that guido hell, but it almost didn't matter. I knew the truth: Metallica were the unequivocal kings of all music, heavy metal was the Alpha and Omega of my existence, and it was obvious that Death Angel were by far better than Dark Angel ever could be (sorry, Gene!).



Maybe it's appropriate, then, that I recently took in the documentary, Get Thrashed, which pretty much summed up my musical soundtrack from the ages of 13 to 17 perfectly. Not only did the film touch upon local haunt L'Amour, the Bay Area scene (Ron Quintana still rules!), crossover (Go Sick Of It All, D.R.I. and Leeway!), it also served up super-size helpings of the so-called Big Four and a segment devoted to Suicidal Tendencies—all before wrapping things up nicely by introducing thrash's forbearers: Pantera, Shadows Fall and In Flames.



Better still, since the documentarians are also based in New York City, I attended many of the shows they highlighted in the film—albeit in an underage Kamikaze haze. They even displayed a ticket stub from the Madison Square Garden date of The Clash of the Titans tour that I went to on June 28, 1991. I'd postponed my Sweet Sixteen until the following night, opting instead to see Anthrax, Slayer, Megadeth, plus openers Alice In Chains (and a brief appearance by Public Enemy).



The movie even helped me remember why I worshipped Metallica so much as a 'tween, instead of blurting, "I want my money back," when I saw a photo of my room from back then—covered floor to ceiling in their posters. What's even crazier is that a lot of the people interviewed in Get Thrashed are my Facebook and Myspace friends now, too.

Get Thrashed far and away surpasses Sam Dunn's Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, which struggled to ensure each sub-genre was included and over-explained, yet offered no conclusion to the metal phenomenon's resilient vitality. So, wholeheartedly, I recommend Netflixing this bitch instead.

And since I'm a nitpicking asshole, below are some wise-ass observations:
* I really enjoyed the extended band coverage in the international, region-based Bonus featurette, which focused on lesser-known acts like Testament, S.O.D., Death Angel, Overkill, Sacred Reich and Carnivore. But Forbidden? Heathen? Atrophy? Razor? Really?
* Gary Holt is the Norm MacDonald of metal.
* I think I heard Brian Fair call the band "Nuke-lee-er" Assault.
* Cliff Burton still fucking rules.
* Dear Lord Satan, please help me un-see those spandex enormity pix of Billy Milano's balls.
* Why wasn't any footage of Dave Ellefson used during the Megadeth segment?
* Municipal Waste must be interviewed for any metal-related documentary in current or pre-production. Period.

Thank You, America...

...For not fucking this one up, too!



Outside my window right now are people exhibiting behavior I've only witnessed after the Yankees win a World Series. Literally, all I hear is hooting, hollering and neighbors screaming out their windows over CNN predictions that Barack Obama has surpassed the 270 electoral votes needed to overtake John McCain in order to become the next President of the United States.

But now the real battle begins. For all his rock-star status, Obama must now facilitate the change he's been so earnestly speaking of. And it won't be easy. Our country, simply put, is fucked. Hell, when German magazines start criticizing us for our divisiveness and marginalization, you know we've dug ourselves into a deep, black hole.

Good luck, President Elect Obama.

Now Sarah Palin can go back to rearing her children and grandchild, Tina Fey can focus on the brilliant 30 Rock and maybe I can have a full-time job. Oh, and thank you, Texas, for doing my tattoo proud... NOT!

New Slayer!!

Just in time for Halloween, here's a streaming version of Slayer's "Psychopathy Red." Opinions? Holler.

CMJ: Days 4 & 5

Holy crap, my ears are still ringing.

Instead of launching on a Wednesday as it usually does, CMJ started on a Tuesday this year (thereby shifting the annual Conflict of Interest party to Monday) and the total amount of party nights topped off at six. Oy! Seriously, unless it's shopping with someone else's money, I don't think I want to do anything for six days straight. That said, here are the highlights from the last two days of CMJ Music Marathon 2008.

On Friday, I decided to start the night off with some decidedly non-CMJ activities. Specifically, I attended The Happy Corp's Oval Office Happy Hour at Niagra, which offered $1 Dewars specials and a chance to pose for a "presidential portrait." I was strapped into a straightjacket-like contraption that suddenly dressed me in a blazer, dress shirt and tie, and I did my best "Metal President" pose. Look forward to seeing that up here soon.

After that, I walked over to the Heavy Hitter showcase to see Arsonists Get All The Girls and their big draw, I Wrestled A Bear Once. The former provided some stellar math rock and gave my ATL indie-rock homeboy, Aaron "B-Man" Byrd, his first mosh pit encounter. For someone who almost got kicked in the face with a kung-fu roundhouse, he seemed pretty into it. Which is more than either of us could say for ...Bear. In fact, I think the name may have actually referred to the group's singer. She looked pretty tough.

From there, it was off to see Dungen, the Swedish psychedelic lounge band—who perform entirely in Swedish—at the Music Hall of Williamburg. For some, hearing non-English singing may seem distracting, but to my humble, worn-out ears, the mellow vocals served as just another instrument keeping time with the electric piano, guitars, tambourine and occasional flute (yes, really). For all I know, they could have been singing "Kill the Jews" (I doubt they were), but I'd still be into it. And I wasn't alone, the packed house did their best Deadhead dance-offs in response to melodic tracks from Ta Det Lugnt and Tio Bitar, but went completely apeshit when Dungen started playing "Panda." Though I thought about staying for Cheeseburger, the show ran late and I wanted to get back to money-makin' Manhattan (can we still call it that now that the economy is fucked?).



As much as I wanted to sleep in on rainy Saturday, I had to will myself into putting on makeup in time for The Syndicate's metal happy hour at Fontana's, which started at 3 pm. It's a good thing the V2 vodka sponsoring the event contained taurine and caffeine (not to mention sweet, sweet alcohol), otherwise I wouldn't have been able to last the day. The musical entertainment started off with ex-Life of Agony drummer Sal Abruscato's new band, My Mortality. Pretty decent hard rock that could easily be the opening act for Daughtry—and I don't mean that as a diss. I regrettably missed Warship and all the subsequent acts to catch Made Out of Babies and Wetnurse at Crash Mansion.



I have no idea what was up with MOOB's singer, Julie Christmas... maybe she was cycling, or pissed off that she had to play the douche mecca—or even that her openers, Patent Pending, sounded like a shitty version of old Murder 1 (or Mucky Pup, holler!), but punctuating their intense, short set were rants like "I was really hoping you'd all leave by now," and the set closer "Go fuck yourselves... no really!" Damn, girl.



I only stayed a little while longer to see Wetnurse before heading uptown to what I thought would be the perfect climax to CMJ: my beloved Duke Spirit at Irving Plaza. Unfortunately, because headliners Scars on Broadway managed to break up already, the show was cancelled and we were left uninformed. Imagine my dismay when arriving at the venue only to see the place shuttered: EPIC FAIL! Sure, I had enough time to cab it back to Fontana's to see God Forbid and Darkest Hour, but hunger and exhaustion took over and eventually led me on autopilot to my apartment.

Somehow, I managed to get though the entire week without seeing any bands with the word "Crystal" in their moniker, nor did I attend any gifting suites. Oh well... there's always next year. Thank you, and goodnight.

CMJ: Days 2 & 3

Considering how late I'm posting this, I think you can tell I'm getting tired. For a hermit motherfucker like myself, being out every night since Monday is quite an anomaly, and I find myself losing track of time. Remember that Bon Jovi line where he can tell the day by the bottle that he drinks? I know Wednesday has come and gone because a new Village Voice has appeared, and it still must be a weekday since all my Facebook friends' statuses complain of working through their hangovers. TGIF, people!

On Wednesday, despite a deficit of hot shows, I made it out to see Deerhoof at Irving Plaza. Though I can't say I'd ever sit down and listen to the San Francisco indie-pop darlings on record, it was a joy to watch drummer Greg Saunier bash away at his minimal kit. Seriously, this guy went off like Animal with a hummingbird's speed.



Thursday was truly a marathon. Upon lots of buzz that Metal Blade's Bison B.C. were "the Canadian Mastodon," I made a point of seeing them at Knitting Factory. They were pretty good, but definitely not anywhere in the same league at my Atlanta neighbors. Soon after, metalcore stalwarts Left To Vanish hit the stage. The fat dude-friendly group (seriously, are they sponsored by KFC? Their fans are HUGE) put on an intense show anchored by their very own drum prodigy. This kid looked like he was 100 lbs. soaking wet and got carded every day of his life, but he knocked out blast beats as good as Nick Barker's.



I only caught bits and pieces of Envy On The Coast, Tombs and Psyopus before tagging along with some new friends to the Bowery Poetry Club, which was hosting a night of Irish bands; and where I caught the fledgling power-pop/emo act, Fighting With Wire. Better live than on record, the band rocked out through a fun set highlighted by the single, "Everyone Needs A Nemesis" while their fans proved once again that white people can't dance (or jump, unless they're being hoisted arrhythmically by bigger Irish people).



From there it was off to the Photo Finish after-party at Beauty Bar to watch more white people dance to Lil' Wayne's "Lollipop" and Rihanna's "Umbrella." Will I ever get sick of her song? Nah.

That's it for now. It's almost time for Happy Corp's presidential happy hour. Two more nights of this; pray for Mojo.



PS: That's me with the beer @ COIX. Hi, Dawn!

CMJ: Day One + TMI

I'll admit it: I refuse to get on Twitter because I'm a habitual, unabashed drunk texter and the last thing in the world I need to do is put it on blast. Also, who gives a fuck what you're having for lunch? Because of this, those precious moments and serendipitous events I experience daily running around NYC go unpublished. Imagine that, fellow narcissists!

Since yesterday was one of those fun, active ones, I figure I'd let y'all in on a day of my dumb life:

8:00 am: Wake up groggy, post-Conflict of Interest to the sound of jackhammers and my kitten, Ava, meowing for a playmate.

9:30 am - 11 am: Email folks in Milan about the Cut&Paste/55DSL project I'm working on. Wonder what the time difference is with Hong Kong so I can avoid panic attack.

11:30: Reviewing Young Widows questions for Decibel interview later. Listening to catalog helps.

2:30 pm: Print out CMJ itinerary, interview questions, grab recorder and head to a friend's office. Since I don't have a land line and haven't figured out how to record calls on Skype, I rely on some Shady friends.

2:50: Walk out of Canal St. station to spot Chris March, the heavy-set drag-queen friendly designer from Project Runway, Season 4. Try to make eye contact so I can give acknowledging nod. Refuse to say hello, I am a real New Yorker.

2:55: Arrive at Shady Records; Good thing I've been here before so I know the drill. Knock on metal door and await the giant bodyguard inside to slide open the built-in eye-level slit to see who's there. Speakeasy style, all the way.

3:00: Thank my accommodating pal for letting me use space; set up residence in their vast conference room, surrounded by tons of multi-platinum awards from Eminem, 50 Cent, Dido and G-Unit. It's almost like Lloyd Banks' eyes are following me from his giant framed plaque.

3:00 - 3:25: Interview Evan from Young Widows. Seems more mellow than I expected. I threaten to see Yngwie Malmsteen on Sunday instead of them if they don't play my favorite song of theirs, "Bruised Knees" from their debut, Settle Down City. He remains undeterred.

3:45: Head out, free Vitamin Water in hand, to pick up CMJ badge at a church adjacent to Washington Square Park. Text with Tessa about parties and shows to hit.

4:10: Pass by a homeless woman on 14th Street holding a sign that says "Live Politely." Wish I had a camera; more so, wish people would follow her suggestion.

4:15: See a ton of star trailers and a Panavision truck parked on 3rd Ave. Thank you for helping NY's economy!

5:00-7:30: Pore over invites, materials, emails and determine I'm only going to go the 1000 Knives showcase at Fontana's.

10 pm: Arrive at Fontana's and debate drinking. Start with water before heading to Whiskey town. Soon after, the show "sells out" almost immediately while we queue up to get bracelets. Luckily, my CMJ badge gets me in moments before Seattle's Akimbo take the stage. Not surprisingly, their sound and stage show is reminiscent of their former tour mates, Young Widows. Wonder who did it first? Either way, they play a tight set of rumbling post-hardcore and impress the packed crowd.



12:45 am (?): How do I know Trash Talk are on? I literally feel them rumbling beneath my feet as I stand upstairs getting some air. Head downstairs to find a giant mosh pit has pushed the crowd back. Considering this is their third show of the night, they pack a ton of energy into their short but sweet hardcore set.



1:30-ish: The much-anticipated Bronx are about to take the stage and the place is packed. I always wondered if this LA-based band named themselves after New York's second-worst borough or the eponymous gay sex shop in Amsterdam. Either way, I've always been a fan of their records, but found them boring live both times I've seen them play. Hate to say it, but this raucous gig is changing my mind. Starting out with "White Tar" before launching into "Knifeman" from their forthcoming third album, singer Matt Caughthran acts like the white drugs enthusiast he claims to be, jumping into the audience, falling to the floor and delivering the goods to the rabid audience with his intense performance. Finally, a gritty trash rock band is here to reclaim the throne for LA.



2:30: Find a cab and head home. Note that this truck is probably bigger than my kitchen and I can almost stand up straight in here. Damn, I'm short.

3:15 am: Pass out and wonders what tomorrow will bring.

Iwwww

The Obama Dildo? I'm not ready for all this.

Fall Into The Rabbit Hole

First off, a shout-out to all the friends, acquaintances and random folk who commented (formally or otherwise) on my last post. I received phone calls, suggestions, links for the male Real Dolls—even an invitation to visit our boys serving in Iraq by someone currently stationed there. I'm glad to know that I can write about music and pop culture 'til my fingers fall off, but I'll only elicit a response by admitting that I can't get laid.

Now, to something cool and very important (like Trick Daddy and ODB, this one's for the kids). Friday night is the opening reception of The Grind 2.0 at Atlanta's Rabbit Hole Gallery, and if you're anywhere in the vicinity, I highly suggest you check it out. The Grind 2.0 is an exhibit and live auction of custom, one-of-a-kind, hand-painted and/or laser-etched skateboards by artists ranging from local legends like Charlie Owens to international superstars like Tara McPherson, and a ton of others in between. And all of it goes to benefit the completion of the Swift-Cantrell Skate Park in Kennesaw, GA—the only free park of its kind in the area.

If you don't live in the A (people, please stop asking me how I enjoyed "Hotlanta," no one calls it that down there), you can still join in on the action by bidding online before the reception starts. Last year, I absorbed plenty of free PBRs while admiring work from Bethany Marchman (an amazing Atlanta artist everyone should know), Todd McFarlane and Tim Biskup, and eventually picked up this exquisite Scott Campbell etched board.



This year's showing looks even better. I will definitely not be mad if someone decided to buy one for me.

The Hunger

Like PJ Harvey sang on "Maniac," I need a man. It's getting bad, too. I think I realized things were getting desperate when I dubbed the now-familiar Hare Krishna guy I constantly see at the Union Sq. station, "the cute one." I might've actually blown him a kiss the other day. There he was, passively trying to sell books on karma and vegetarian living, all the while getting sadly shown up by those damn Scientologists and their bullshit free stress tests.

Then there are those times I catch myself browsing at craigslist's "Casual Encounters" section. Though I don't think I could ever go through with meeting a total stranger for the express purpose of extracting orgasm, it's nice to catalog shop through the various peen photos. Incidentally, I think all social-networking sites should adapt this policy of showing dudes' cocks because there are few things more frustrating than groping some guy's package on a third date only to realize the situation down below is shrimpy at best.

How did it get to this point? Good question. Besides the fact that grieving, unemployment and moving probably aren't aphrodisiacs, I am one picky motherfucker. And I scare boys easily. I guess I can't do shit about the latter. Hell, even Candace Bushnell wound up marrying a goddamn ballet dancer. Seriously, I can't hide my ability to out-curse, out-reference obscure metal bands and outnumber the amount of vintage Voltron sets the average Joe Six-Pack owns (and for the record, I own three complete Voltrons, including one that came with mini action figures of all five pilots). All at my own detriment.

So what's a girl to do? Fuck, if I knew, I'd probably be getting some sexy time right now instead of staring at html on a laptop screen. Got suggestions? Holler... Or send pics.

Which Is Gayer? Resolves It All

Republicans or Democrats?

Coke or Pepsi?

Boxers or Briefs?

These are the debates that have kept proletariats busy infighting while The Man snuck off and fucked up our financial institutions (only to walk away with a million-dollar bonus). Luckily, I've discovered a Web site that seems to handle all of these trivial arguments for us, so we can all quickly get past our differences and go back to watching Dancing With The Stars.

Behold: Which Is Gayer? This little pink engine that could quickly evaluates two opposing items, and based on some kind of Google-fueled algorithm, let's you know, well... which is gayer. That said, let's put this little baby to use:

Death Angel or Dark Angel?

Hmm... well, that was kind of a gimme... let's see how this works with...

Dragonforce or Liberace?

Well, duh! We might need one more tricky warm-up before I bust out the important questions.

How about... Metallica's Load vs. their Death Magnetic?


OK, enough foreplay: Christianity vs. Judaism?

I guess I did suspect that...

Now, the big question: The Left Wing or the Right?


Cool. Now that that's all settled, how about we work on this damn economy? Will Work For Food.

At Least This One Is Taking Pre-Orders...

According to Blabbermouth (my favorite source for minor power-metal band info), seminal New York rehashers Warrior Soul are calling their forthcoming album Chinese Democracy. Yeah, like the Guns N Roses record that'll allegedly come out sometime in the near future.

And, much like the GNR version, rerecording was apparently a must. "We came to the conclusion that our new album didn't sound 100% like we wanted it to," said vocalist Kory Clarke of the process. "It sounded too much like an ass-licking whore... It was too polished, too 'produced.'" Luckily, this process hasn't stopped the group from making Chinese Democracy available for pre-order. Just hit their MySpace page, yo.

From what I understand, this current incarnation of Warrior Soul is basically "legendary" singer Clarke plus a bunch of dudes from Belgium who were once a WS cover band. (Also of note: Clarke is also singing for Trouble—yes, the same Trouble we all promptly forgot about sometime around 1993).

While you have to give it up for Kory and co. for the Gene Simmons-like shrewdness, you gotta admit he's pretty lucky he'll probably *only* catch the wrath of a lawyered-up Axl Rose rather than volatile rock star we came to know early '90s. Just ask Vince Neil.

Where Are All The Protest Songs?

Here we are in the homestretch of one of the most important presidential elections in American history and one thing I find very odd is the lack of any meaningful protest songs. I remember seeing an interview with Lamb of God's Randy Blythe in which he predicted this year would be akin to the late Reagan era—a time when punk rock bands flourished with displeasure at the direction the country was going in. Remember Black Flag? The Dead Kennedys?

And what have we had the last couple of years? Green Day? The much-maligned Dixie Chicks? Old standbys like Steve Earle and Neil Young? Good thing they're still willing to express themselves, but I must say I'm very disappointed in the majority of this nation's troubadours and rabble-rousers. Sure there are other exceptions, like Against Me! and Anti-Flag, but why aren't this nation's more well-known artists getting in on the act? Yes, there are plenty of celebs running around in Obama T-shirts, but does that seep into our consciousness in the same way? You definitely can't dance to it.

Ironically enough, I blame blogging for all this. Maybe in this day and age, it's simply easier to sign into one's Blogger account and type away, or record an "Obama Girl" response video for YouTube. And then there's my Rock Band theory: no one is learning to play real music anymore because they're too busy figuring out how to play Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" on those dumb-ass color-coded Fisher-Price-looking Les Pauls.

Whatever the reason, the result is the same. Our country is in crisis, and no one wants to sing about it.