Pop will blow itself in the Craftmatic adjustable bed

If you were to go back to the conventional timeline of rock history and start with the Sun Records gang [and even Bill Haley and The Comets], you could easily identify the “sunburst” moments in that timeline…

1. Rock Around The Clock
2. Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Little Richard
3. Sun Records—Elvis, Carl Perkins, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash
4. The Beach Boys
5. The Beatles
6. Disco
7. The Clash
8. R.E.M.
9. New Kids On The Block
10. Nirvana

Yes, New Kids On The Block. Why? Urgh! Don’t you get it? Everything I mentioned up to that point had been represented as a moment when pop music changed! And I didn’t have to say it changed for better or worse, just that it changed. And if you can stomach it, check out the pop tunes which have had the most enormous success over the past few years and you see it’s all this product which stems directly from Lou Perlman seeing NKOTB and their effect on teenage girls. I hate it, but it’s true.

Nirvana, of course, is just as guilty of spawning a million pathetic imitators who never could hope to make something as worthy as the guano which fell out of Kirk’s brain. I’d say just about all the shitty bands out there today are Nirvana-knock offs, which makes me ill. When shit like Creed gets serious attention, you know you’re glad Kirk put a shotgun to his dome…

I’m biased about The Clash but the reason I cite them is because they truly made a new path in pop music and they did influence a generation of artists. But don’t worry about that, we’ll take care’a that later…

You knew R.E.M. had to be influential when two things happened:

1. Rickenbacker managed to stay in business thanks to sales after “Murmur” was released.
2. The Gin Blossoms were successful.

The Gin Blossoms, god love ‘em, are blameless for what they did. They are Badfinger to R.E.M.’s Beatles. But how can you not listen to the bollocks they spit out and not feel offended for Peter Buck and his jangly jangly jangly I beat up a British Airways steward jangly jangly? Or the splendid Guadalcanal Diary, or Wire Train, or Indigo Girls, or Mr. Crow’s Garden [whoops! Sorry Christopher!]…just I don’t have anything against Gin Blossoms but hey, man, call a spade a spade you are just ripping off R.E.M.!

Are you not entertained?

Coming this fall from the Fox Network, two new groundbreaking comedy dramas from Aaron Sorkin on mushrooms and David E. Kelly…

MONDAYS AT 8:30

“Dale Chrysler, Bowery Ph.D”

He’s a hard-drinkin’, book-lovin’ perfessor who shares wit, wisdom, and love among the broken down human remains of the mean streets. Newcomer Quesadilla Sinatra stars as an up-and-coming but down-on-his-luck scholar who helps the locals find the meaning of life AND enjoy a little Foucault…if they’re not careful, they just might learn something, and teach Dr. Chrysler a thing or two in the process!

WEDNESDAYS AT 9

“College Student/Homeless Person”

He lives in a box, but he’s on the dean’s list!

More academic hilarity from Sorkin, who must have dreamed this one up while traipsing through cartoon land! Newcomer Trace Bobblehead stars as an up-and-coming but down-on-his-luck honour student who, through a “glitch in the system” ends up with his grant withdrawn at the beginning of his freshman year. Kicked out the dorm, no living relatives, knowing nobody, he makes a courageous go of it under an overpass. With Lonnie Anderson (of TVs “WKRP in Cincinnati” and real life’s abusive Burt Reynolds’ marriage) as kindly social worker Ms. Jennings and Charles Dutton as Chronic Man.

Rude Boy

I’m trying to figure out if my life is fucked up because I’m a bad person, crazy, or in a relationship. I hear this type of thing all the time—there is no perfect relationship, marriages don’t fail because you’re “with the wrong person” and I suppose I could agree with that, but…

I’m not saying that I’m “with the wrong person.” I’m saying that any person, any chick, every chick is the wrong person. I’m saying that I really could be destined to be single for the rest of my life. No kids, nobody to comfort me when I’m dying of a rock-hard liver…got it?

Maybe I’m a nomad.

Maybe I’m just too fucked-up in the brain to make something work. Too selfish? Too rude? Too immoral? Hey, I could be ALL THOSE THINGS.

This is nothing new. I’m trying to broach the subject with my shrink.

Dope, Tara Reid, and you

My new hit song, “Tara Reid is the Devil,” will be available for webcast this Thursday…be sure to log on to stanky.com for all the gritty details.

What would you rather watch while stoned: “Space Jam” or “The Fish that Saved Pittsburgh?”

Come on, that’s easy. If you were to define the greatness of the players who typified their eras, you could define Jordan by the Looney Tunes garbage and Jumpin’ Julie by the groovy groovy late 70s movie. Meadowlark Lemon for the block, Peter.

“Josie and the Pussycats” is a really, really amazing movie. Yeah, I said it.

Peter Pan's bitch

Ahh…nothing happened yesterday?

The music was loud and I laughed a lot.

I had so many things to say today. What were they?

My ex-whatsit stole my entire CD collection during our divorce proceedings. This was in 1992. I had a nice odd little library until that moment. So I’m slowly building it back up including things which disappeared in that untimely event.

Wendy was her name—her given name—and she was what I termed a “crazy art major girl.” Oh, and she was. That certainly fits the pattern, doesn’t it? Crazy, wounded emotionally; in fact she was somewhat of an emotional cripple when we met. This was before I became self-aware and I just thought her black lipstick was endearing.

If my history with women were a grain combine, I would have hurled myself into it about 23 times already. Trailer park girls…yeah…

Lads, if you meet a girl who has to invent an entirely new identity for herself, leave her to Seth Green. You don’t want any of that. Trust me. Especially if she, as part of this invention, ritualistically burned all her party girl clothes in some kind of demented backyard ceremony. Hey, I would have loved to have met the version of Wendy who snuck out of the house and performed on table tops at frat parties while she was still in high school. How come I don’t meet those girls, anyway? You know the kind—pants slung so low in the front that you can see the goody trail and almost where it leads you…where are you, party slut?

Always a good choice!

I’m not so much a “sexual predator” as a scavenger. If my friend John Barleycorn (all names are changed to protect the guilty, the suspected, and the acquitted) is a lion roaming the great Kenyan wildlife preserve of romance/doin’ it, then I’m a hyena or a jackal…I look for the rotting remains of a girl’s psyche and devour what’s left. Or if the lion is merely napping, I’ll take a bite if he’s too sated to rise. So that’s how I get them—they have low self-esteem, empty bank accounts, bad marriages, poor command of the language, a driver’s license with that annoying “Under 21” stamp on it…you get the idea. Teenagers, single moms, six-foot tall amazons…some of them might lay on a veneer of being well-adjusted, but if they wind up with me, well…

Hey, I’m not proud of that. Don’t go judging me, maaaaan…or, wait, maybe you should judge me. I deserve to be judged. Yes, what I do is wrong on many levels and it always has been, no matter the form it took. When I went from a state of self-deception to self-awareness, my guilt became unavoidable.

Special thanks to Dr. Feelgood, my Cambodian chef buddy, for “the hook up.”

Should we let the Israelis and the Palestinians kill each other off? No, we shouldn’t. Imagine all that hot Semite beaver we’d be sacrificing. Get on the ball, Bush Administration, and save our trim!!!

The preceding was brought to you by Samuel Adams Boston Ale—the ale to drink when you’re filled with self-loathing!

In the beginning, Dog

(Before there were blogs, there was Fred Primus' Groin Jazz. I will repost those original musings here, because I love you and you are important and I want you to be happy.)

I have had my job taken from me by Tygroin International. You may have heard of them. They were founded by some Danish vampyres a long time ago in order to make bloodsucking and debauchery that much easier.

I know, that sounds pretty cool. And it is, until it happens to you. I am not one of them. I save my vampyric tendencies for teenaged girls and unsuspecting gamblers.

I’m not quite drunk yet, although I’m working on beer #6 and it’s 16:10 by my atomic clock.

Look, I’m getting paid for the next 8 months either way, so can you tell me what you would do? I’m not exactly overwhelmed with plans.

My alleged woman is killing me. She is not cool. Do you understand that, like saying “You used to be cool, man.” You see what I mean? She doesn’t booze. She doesn’t eat oregano. Heh heh. I am getting paid for the next 8 months and she is going to have a massive freak out when she perceives my desire to get on the road and “see the world.” Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen a lot of it already, but not in the way I’d like to see it (i.e., the “mental state” in which I’d like to see it has not been fully explored yet) and not exactly the proper locations to match my new desires. Take that as you will.