June 30th, 2006
Starting with the September 11th attacks in 2001, a noticeable uneasiness and uncertainty has crept into the American zeitgeist. Many have speculated that it stems from geo-political instability from the collapse of the dollar, the rise of China, increasing energy prices, the war in Iraq and global warming, etc. Others have blamed it on a cultural void, filled by the rise of reality shows and celebrities famous mainly for the sake of being famous. Needless to say, it has been a difficult time to be an American.
But as much as I agree with these various factors, I knew there was more to it. Something else was missing from the American dialogue. Something so indispensable that its absence had created a gaping chasm in the American psyche. However, what “it” was remained uncertain. Until yesterday, when in a wild rush of illumination, what “it” was became very clear. What we Americans lack in 2006 is Nate Dogg.
Yes. The one and only Nate D-O-Double-G. Perhaps the greatest singles artist in the history of hip-hop, Nate Dogg has been practically the one constant in almost every great West Coast hip-hop song ever. Yet his appeal stretches far beyond the insular world of hip-hop. If you play any American under 40 a rap song featuring Nate Dogg, made between the years 1992 and 2000, they can’t help but like it.
In fact, as American society increasingly becomes more polarized, Nate Dogg is the one thing that all Americans can agree on. People argue endlessly over the various merits of Jay-Z and Nas, 2Pac and Biggie, 50 Cent and The Game, but who argues over Nate Dogg? No one. From sorority girls to jocks, to gangsters in the hood, to even indie rock snobs, everyone can agree of Nate Dogg’s singular greatness. All one really needs to do is press play on “Regulate,” and watch the endless euphoria and bliss unfurl.
And yet there’s more to Nate Dogg than just the fact that he looks the same in every goddamned picture. A close inspection of his career reveals the fact that he was probably responsible for America’s glorious economic boom during the 1990’s.
1992 was notable for a variety of reasons: the election of Bill Clinton, the Los Angeles riots, the invasion of Somalia. But most importantly, 1992 was notable for the debut of Nate Dogg on the famed Dr. Dre album, The Chronic. On that album, Nate made just one appearance on the unfortunately named song, “Deez Nuuuts,” (needless to say, it’s an existential crisis waiting to happen when you find yourself looking up how many “U’s” are used in the album spelling of the word “nuts.”) But very much like the 1992 American economy that had yet to rev up from the recession of Bush 1’s term, Nate Dogg’s career had barely even begun.
No, it wasn’t until November of 1993, when Nate Dogg’s fabled appearance on Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle album, truly helping foster a sense of security in the American people, ultimately helping to jump-start the red-hot 90’s economy. One can point to Bill Clinton’s sound fiscal management or the Internet tech boom just beginning to crop up in the Silicon Valley. But, I attribute it mainly to Nate’s appearance on “Ain’t No Fun (If the Homies Can’t Have None), a song that brought smiles to millions of young Americans and encouraged them to have promiscuous sex and buy vast quantities of alcohol, two things essential to the twin 90’s boom of latex and liquor.
From 1993 on, Nate Dogg and America were off, engaged in a mutual pact of assistance. Americans would work hard to spur the economy towards never-before-reached heights and Nate Dogg would contribute the singles that would bring smiles to their faces and make life worth living again.
During this fertile period in the mid-90s until the year 2000, Nate Dogg appeared on an incredible list of hit singles and undeniably catchy and fun songs, including 2Pac’s “All About U,”
Dr. Dre’s “The Next Episode,” and “Xxplosive,” Eminem’s “Bitch Please II,” Kurupt’s “Girls All Pause,” Mos Def and Pharoahe Monche’s “Oh No,” (perhaps my favorite rap single of the decade), Snoop Dogg’s “Bitch Please,” and Tha Dogg Pound’s “Let’s Play House.”
But it was his partnership with Warren G that truly helped to spur the American nation to its ten year run of seemingly limitless peace and prosperity. With songs like “Regulate,” “The Game Don’t Wait,” and “Nobody Does It Better,” the team of Warren G and Nate Dogg pretty much had everything figured out.
And yet suddenly, after the attacks of 9/11, as the nation has plunged into an indefinitely lengthy period of uncertainty and existential crisis, Nate Dogg was nowhere to be found, not dropping even one classic single. One can bring up Ludacris’ December ‘01 hit, “Area Codes,” but I believe it to be a mere blip on the radar. Is it any coincidence that the single dropped the same month as our completion with the initial fighting in Afghanistan? A time when we thought we had solved this problem with Islamic fundamentalism with one swift chop of the enemy’s head? I think not.
Oh sure, Nate Dogg has appeared on a few songs during the dark period that followed, but they all have been terrible: Eminem’s inspid “Shake That,” 50 Cent’s ridiculously insincere “21 Questions,” Houston’s atrocious “I Like That,” and L’il Jon’s catastrophic “Bitches Ain’t Shit.” Not one has resonated the same way that his earlier works did. None have managed to slap Americans out of their state of lethargy
It’s obvious that the nation’s fortunes rise and fall with Nate Dogg, leading one to wonder what’s next or as Warren G might say, “What’s N-X-E-T”?
Will Nate Dogg ever drop another classic single? Will we ever escape this malaise? Will we ever smile again? I can’t be sure. The salad days of classic Nate Dogg singles dropping like rain are probably over (and if you don’t believe me listen to “Shake That” a few dozen times).
Yet there is still hope. Now is the time for Nate Dogg to enter a new phase of his career: the world of politics. The man is a natural. The pictures I’ve posted clearly prove his ability to keep a poker face. He has an impressive track record of boosting the economy. He’s a national icon beloved by millions. But most importantly, Nate Dogg posesses the crucial ability to say completely ridiculous things and yet instead of offending people, no one even bats an eyelash.
After all, this is a man who once sang “When I met you last night baby, Before you opened up your gap/I had respect for ya lady/But now I take it all back/Because you gave me all your pussy and you even licked my balls.”
But in spite of these unbelivably filthy lyrics, it never stopped millions of sorority girls across America from singing along every time the song comes on. Or examine his words from “Girls All Pause,” where Nate claimed that “he had ten girls who pay me just so they can lay me.”
Bill Clinton couldn’t even get away with one girl who din’t pay him to lay him. Who better than Nate Dogg to deliver the news and truths that people don’t want to hear? Not only will they accept any unpleasant fact that comes out his soothing baritone voice, but they’ll probably dance to it too. So the next time, you hear some yahoo endorsing John Edwards Hillary Clinton, Al Gore, John McCain, Rudy Giulani, et. al…Look them in the eyes and tell them who you’re supporting. The only man with a proven record of success. Nate Dogg in 08. After all, nobody does it better.
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought?, Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 10 Comments »
June 29th, 2006
Somewhere in my Internet travels, I stumbled across this photo of Matisyahu and his weed carriers. Never before have I seen a picture that needed captioning more.
So faithful readers, please comment and enter my what’s eating Matisyahu caption contest. It’s sort of like What’s Eating Gilbert Grape with way less DiCaprio and way more religious fundamentalism.
The winner will receive a free bowl (no ceramics) and my eternal comedic respect.
To start things off, here’s my entry:
“So the Epic A&R walks into the room, takes one look at me and says, ‘Matisyahu, I like the whole reggae white guy act, but do you really have to wear all these Meshugga clothes? So you know what I did? I looked back at him and I said, “but sir…that’s the entire point.” All he could say back was two words: Mazel and Tov.”
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought? | 13 Comments »
June 27th, 2006
Last week when I opened my Yahoo! mail homepage, I was immediately treated to the above image, one that I immediately saved on my computer for future blogger usage, under the file name “Yahoo douche.”
After all, how could anyone not make fun of Yahoo!’s shamelessly transparent attempt to pander to the youth market. You could take one look at the guy and realize how carefully contrived this marketing campaign must’ve been.
I could almost read the mind of the executive, dreaming up the marketing pitch: “What we need is someone who represents youth and vitality. Someone who can show Generation Y that Yahoo! knows how to party. Fuck Google.”
Inevitably, after the tens of thousands of dollars that were inevitably spent on market research, finally the day of the big photo shoot must’ve come, with a highly-paid stylist instructing the male model pictured above, to “tuck your hair behind your ears. It makes you look cool, confident and edgy. ”
I could practically see her handing him a pair of sunglasses that she’d heard were trendy because all young, hip and cool people were sunglasses, right? Throw in a vintage t-shirt, some sort of tribal bracelet, and just the right amount of facial hair and by jove, she must’ve thought to herself, I’ve created the perfect archetype of the young American male in 2006.
At first, the whole thing seemed merely laughable, particularly the concept of Yahoo!,’ one of America’s largest corporations, trying to usurp American youth culture for financial profit. But I soon realized that I was being unneccessarily hard on Yahoo! After all, staid and stuffy corporations trying to re-brand themselves as cutting-edge avatars of youth culture, is as old as the concept of the American teenager itself. After all, do I need to really remind everyone of the epic “C’mon Buick Light My Fire,” ad campaign scene from The Doors movie?
In fact, the reason why this advertisement rings so false isn’t even Yahoo!’s fault. After all, Yahoo! probably has a team of relatively young marketing consultants who do their best to stay on top of American culture. The problem and the reason why this ad campaign seems so ridiculous is that for the first time since the 1950’s, Yahoo! and other like-minded corporations don’t even have a proper youth stereotype to exploit.
In the 50’s Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and J.D. Salinger seemed to speak for the youth of America. If there had been such a thing as the Internet, Yahoo! probably would’ve depicted a goateed beatnik smirking for the camera. In the 60’s, it was Tom Wolfe, Ken Kesey, Hunter S. Thompson and a vibrant musical movement that successfully put a voice to the dissatisfaction young people felt. Meaning that Yahoo! inevitably would’ve used photos of tie-died hippies, proudly brandishing flowers and face-paint.
In the 1970’s, American film reached it’s golden age in which young maverick directors tried to express their disenchantment with America in the post-Watergate era. In all likelihood, you’d have seen a guy with a leisure suit and chest hair, looking like a neutered version of Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever. In the 1980’s, it was Bret Easton Ellis and the Brat Pack who seemed to best characterize the new morning in America and the nation’s infatuation with glitz, glamour and success (for better or worse). This advertisement would’ve featured a guy with a flock of seagulls haircut and neon carefully placed somewhere in his undoubtedly retina-searing ensemble.
And if this ad had appeared in the 90’s? Well, it likely would’ve capitalized on the stereotype of Generation X popularized in films like Reality Bites and Slackers. In many ways, the 90’s would’ve been the most liberating time for cynical advertising executives, as not only could they have co-opted the Ethan “I’m bursting with fruit flavor,” Hawke look, but they might’ve also plagiarized the Doc Martens and flannel trend that swept the nation with the rise of grunge music. Maybe they might’ve even thrown in something about extreme sports. After all, didn’t everyone in Generation X dig the bungee, snowboarding and extreme BMX?
Which brings us to the present moment, a time that has left even the best marketing executives clueless as to what America youth culture looks like. Now I’m not the first writer to speculate on this topic, as others have posited the theory that the Internet and other forms of media have splintered “Generation Y” into a series of self-selecting groups based on mutal interests, hobbies, etc. They contend that this trend has led to the destruction of the concept of a unified youth culture, as in their minds, Americans under 30 are nothing more than the lump sum of a variety of sub-groups each with their own identity. On some levels, this makes sense, and it would help to explain the rise of hipsters, scenesters, yupsters and anybody else under 30 who the media can add a -ster onto the end of their name.
However, there’s more to this trend than just the Internet and the fact that you can now get seven different channels of HBO alone. Take a glance at American popular media from 2000 on. You’d be hard-pressed to find any sort of literary, musical or cinematic movement involving young people. And don’t tell me the Brooklyn indie rock music scene counts as a music movement because there are three types of people who like esoteric post-modern rock: people who live in Brooklyn, bloggers, and bloggers who live in Brooklyn. And no, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! doesn’t count as a Brooklyn band either. Not when their lead singer and songwriter lives in Philly.
American mainstream youth culture in the year 2006 has presented nothing of any sort of merit that savvy marketers can steal from and stereotype. The most famous American novelist under 30 years old, Jonathan Saffran Foer, writes books that have nothing to do with youth culture in any sort of way. The best film of last year, The Squid and the Whale, was done by a 35-year old, still relatively young by artistic standards. However, for all of its many merits, the film takes place in the 1980’s, making it more of a reflection of his personal experiences, than a commentary on the present moment. Probably the closest thing to a popular writer who writes about things that people care about is Chuck Klosterman. But as undeniably great as Klosterman is, his writing thus far has been limited to non-fiction, and he generally strays towards topicality rather articulating some sort of movement. In no way is this an attempt to hate on Klosterman, because I regard him as the most important writer in America today.
However, this situation makes it increasingly difficult for anyone trying to pander to the youth of America. Without any popular stereotype to draw from, marketing experts will probably just continue to recycle Generation X-type images like the one above. After all, the man in the photo does sort of look like he could just stepped off the set off of “The Grungies,” the fake sitcom that satirized the grunge movement on the old “Ben Stiller Show.” Until Generation Y produces a crop of artists that can describe life in the year 2006, expect to see a lot more of these awkward Frankenstein’s monster-type creations about what adults think young people look and act like. In the meantime, I’ll be out buying vintage tees, sunglasses and tribal bracelets. Gotta’ fit in you know.
Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 6 Comments »
June 26th, 2006
My central problems with smart people at the present moment are as follows: a whole lot of them like the Fiery Furnaces, many of them think that Al Gore has a decent shot at becoming President in 2008, and they often don’t like movies like Nacho Libre. Now I can fully understand why someone wouldn’t like a movie like Nacho Libre. As Manohla Dargis pointed out in a well-written and very positive NY Times review, “plot is secondary to character,” the gags are often sophomoric and goofy and the movie doesn’t say anything about life or society. I get it.
However, people that don’t like films like Nacho Libre are completely missing the point. There are certain formulas to comedy that will always exist:
Midget wrestlers with furry and bushy beards + the concept of Lucha Libre + Jack Black= Funny. Every Single time. (see also the epic film, “Man Getting Hit in Groin By Football,”)
The excellence of Nacho Libre is a testament to these simple rules of comedy. But more importantly, Nacho Libre’s success is a testament to Jack Black himself. How funny is Jack Black? Pretty damned funny. In fact, in mainstream American comedy, only Will Ferrell can hold a candle to the manic intensity and genius of Black. No one will go as far to get a laugh as and yet no one needs to go as far. He’s one of those rare Bill Murray-esque actors who can get a laugh out of an audience with little more than raise of the eyebrow and a smirk.
And yet after watching Nacho Libre, Murray wasn’t the former SNL cast member who Black reminded me of. Instead, I found myself comparing him to the late John Belushi. Of course, comparing anyone to John Belusi is fraught with peril. You open yourself up to a million rants about the greatness of The Blues Brothers, Animal House, SNL…et al. But after seeing Nacho Libre, I fully believe that Jack Black just might be the second coming of Belushi. Think about the similarities: both of them are/were short and pudgy and able to use their unorthodox looks to great comedic advantage, both are excellent physical comedians, both are outstanding at using strange accents to get cheap but satisfying laughs (Belushi in those old Samurai Deli skits, Black in Nacho), and both are music obsessives known for performing in rock bands (Blues Brothers, Tenacious D.)
But most importantly, the two men never met a scene that they couldn’t steal. Every second that either Belushi or Black was on-screen, they appear/appeared larger than life and never wasted an opportunity to get a laugh. Watching Black mug and dance for the camera in Nacho constantly reminded me of Belushi’s epic cafeteria scene in Animal House, in that both of them pulled out every stop in an all-out-bid to entertain.
But as outstanding as Black’s Nacho performance was, a great deal of praise needs to be lavished upon Jared Hess’ steady-handed direction. It’s a little early to start declaring him a major directorial talent, but Hess’ Nacho work proves that Napoleon Dynamite was no fluke. He isn’t just a guy who happens to be funny, he is very talented and it shows in the little details of the film. From the subtle digs at the Catholic Church (Nacho constantly tries to convert his tag team wrestling partner to the religion, while the partner resists because he claims he only believes in science, it’s funnier on-screen…trust), to the songs Hess uses to score the film (he wanted Beck to do the whole soundtrack but Paramount fought him), to the opening Napoleon Dynamite-esque credits that Hess uses, he manges to stamp his unique style into the DNA of the film. Hess isn’t trying to change your perceptions about the world, he’s mainly trying to make you laugh. And I respect that.
In many ways, Hess feels like a throwback to the 1980’s, a time in which comedy films were the probably the only decent things America produced. Sure, Nacho Libre might not be as raunchy as Caddyshack or Stripes or Meatballs, but it shares a similar aesthetic in that like those great films of the past, Nacho never takes itself too seriously. Something all too-lacking in today’s films that feel the compulsive need to teach you some sort of silly moral or force the plot to revolve around some completely forced romantic angle (I’m looking at you Wedding Crashers).
But rather than slavishly imitate those 80’s comedic classics, Hess has a style all to himself. Granted, his technique is clearly creatively indebted to Wes Anderson’s early films but yet it never feels derivative. In both of his first two films, Hess manges to do more than just make funny movies. He manages to create unique worlds. Sort of like alternate 1985’s if you will, in that everything is completely different and yet strangely familiar (did you really think I’d make it an entire blog without a gratuitous Back To the Future reference?)
By now, I’m sure you’ve heard the plot so there’s no real need to re-hash it. It’s simple. Jack Black plays a Mexican friar who dreams of being a champion luchador. But like Napoleon Dynamite, plot is clearly secondary. Which is fine by me. Not every great comedy film needs to be a brilliant satire like Thank You For Smoking. In fact, in many ways, it’s harder to craft a solid and entertaining broad-based comedy film like Nacho or the 40 Year Old Virgin (my favorite pure comedy of last year) that can appeal to people of all ages without being cloying.
So my message to the smart people of the world is this: go see Nacho Libre. Don’t go in with high
expectations. Don’t go in looking for meaning. Don’t go in looking for some sort of deep plot to analyze. Go in to be entertained by a brilliant lead comic and a very interesting director who takes every opportunity to make a point in a film that ultimately doesn’t have one. Nacho Libre is very enjoyable, very unpretentious and more intelligent than you’d think at first glance. If you want to feel, be moved, or learn something about life, you’re better off reading a novel. But if you just want to be entertained for two hours, while sitting in a cool air-conditioned theater, eating popcorn, drinking a coke, and perhaps enjoying the favorite narcotic of your choice, you might not find a more enjoyable film this summer. Plus, I hear the Fiery Furnaces and Al Gore LOVED it.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: A-
Posted in It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 5 Comments »
June 21st, 2006
In April, President Bush watched a documentary on the northwest Hawaiian islands, a documentary that inspired last week’s decision to create the world’s largest marine protected area, a group of remote Hawaiian islands that cover 84 million acres and are home to 7,000 species of birds, fish and marine mammals, at least a quarter of which are unique to Hawaii.
Most interestingly, Bush’s decision to create the protected area came after watching a movie that no one had ever heard of, specifically one made by the man pictured below: Jean-Michel Cousteau.
Once I got over the fact that Jean-Michel’s name isn’t really Steve Zissou, I realized that for once it seemed like the Bush administration had made an extremely intelligent move. Being the hypocritical environmentalist that I am, I’m all in favor of marine reserves and such. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a spending quality time with both flora and fauna? And to think that this wise move came after Bush merely watched a documentary film.
But according to Passion of the Weiss sources buried deep inside the Bush White House, this isn’t the first film that Bush has watched in the oval office. In fact, Bush is reputed to be the quite the film buff.
At first, I was dumbstruck. After all, it was quite the coincidence that both President Bush and I happened to like movies. Hoping this similarity might spark a friendship, I e-mailed 43 (as he now likes me to call him) to ask if there were any other movies that had impacted him recently. And what do you know, he jumped at this opportunity to reveal himself to a blog, compiling an impressive list of films that moved him, yet didn’t make the cut for changing United States law. Huzzah.
What Didn’t Cut The Mustard (I Like Mustard) By George W. Bush
10. Titanic
To me, that DiCaprio fellow seemed like your typical California sissy But I was impressed by that Winslet girl. She knew how to party. Titanic was the kind of film that you can watch with the family. So I did. In fact at times, it reminded me of our family, what with all the drinking and sailing. The twins agreed.
I liked the Billy Zane actor the best. He reminded me of myself as a boy. Young, strong, rich and always willing to shove a person or two or three out of a lifeboat. Every man for himself, heh heh heh.
It made me think quite a bit, not about that tragic wreck of a sinking ship steered by an inept captain, but about what I’d do if I was stranded at sea and had to swim for my life. I told myself that I’d think optimistically, after all pessimism never created a job. That satisfied me. Still, I asked Karl if there was something we could do about all these so-called “ice-bergs.” He told me there wasn’t. I don’t like icebergs. Not one bit. I actually asked some of the generals if they thought it was a good idea to fire a few rockets at the icebergs. Just to give ‘em a good scare. They didn’t think it was a good idea either.
I’ll get them back one day for what they did to Billy Zane. I’ve already started. And when all the ice bergs melt, and by God I’ll see to it that they do, you can tell them that George Bush is responsible for their downfall.
9. Teen Wolf
Now this was a heart-warming tale. A story of a boy a little different than his peers who rises to the top based on agression and favorable genetics. It really hit home. And that song they play throughout the film “Win In the End.” That’s the kind of song I could see putting on my iPod.
But ultimately, I liked that Styles boy the best. He was a perfect example of capitalism working at it’s finest. He was ready in a heartbeat to sell Teen Wolf t-shirts, posters, buttons, you name it. Anything to make a buck. He reminded me of some good friends I had back home. Anything that reminds me of Texas is good. Don’t mess with Texas.
For a while there, I considered a law against the harassment of teenage werewolves. I didn’t like how that principal, Rusty. He gave Teen Wolf a hard time. It was un-American of him. But before I moved, I took a Gallup poll. Turns out that there aren’t all that many teenaged werewolves. Who knew? And I can’t risk, not playing to the base.
8. Easy Rider
Now this is a movie, I couldn’t stand. Hippies running around left and right, taking drugs and talking about freedom. Thank God, they didn’t win. I’m not sure why these men were allowed to roam around the country. They should’ve served their country during a war. I didn’t get that sort of luxury. I spent the war working my butt off in the Guard.
The ended of the film was a downer. I didn’t want to see anyone get hurt. Then again, they did deal drugs, drugs will cause the corruption of the youth. Then again, if someone had to get hurt, I’m glad when it’s a hippy. I’d like to make a law against hippies, but I was advised against it. After all, if Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon couldn’t do it, the odds were against me. Oh well, I’ll just spend a few more billion on fighting the drug war. Bring it on, hippies. Bring it on.
7. Stripes
That Bill Murray is funny. Sure wish we had a couple more of him to whip the Iraqi army into shape. He’d show them some good old American know-how. I wish more Americans could show the ingenuity of Bill Murray and John Candy and Harold Ramis in enlisting in the army. That’d stop those troop shortages, right quick. There’s a possibility, I may make this mandotary showing in public schools. Gonna’ wait and see what my gut tells me.
6. South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut
When I first watched this film, I got upset because it didn’t promote family values. How can young Americans grow up to be sane-minded responsible tax-payers when they’re watching such filth. Being open-minded, I gave it a chance and you know what, I didn’t hate it.
I could tell that the film’s creators, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, understood the true meaning of evil: Sadamn Hussein. And you know how the old saying. the enemy of my enemy is my pal. I The South Park movie sent out a positive message that good will ultimately triumph over evil. Sadamn, Satan and the insurgency can and will be defeated. Praise the lord.
And I’ve got to admit, I laughed pretty hard when Sadamn whipped out that fake penis when he was in bed with Satan. Reminded me of a story, Rummy once told me when he went to Baghdad.
5. Rocky IV
Now this is a movie. Ronald Reagan might’ve gotten credit for ending the Cold War, but Sylvester Stallone and the good people who made Rocky IV deserve just as much credit.
(editor’s note: this is probably true)
This movie got me worked up, but good. After watching the movie, I called Vladimir, or Pootie-Poot as I like to call him, and started screaming a whole lot about how much glasnost turned out to suck for the Russians.
Let’s just say he wasn’t so happy about the phone call. Did you know the Russians still have hundreds of nuclear weapons in their arsenal? I sure as hell didn’t. Needless to say, he and I aren’t speaking right now. Don’t tell the liberal media.
4. Batman
Another movie I liked. Good triumphs over evil. And that Kim Basinger is a fox. Now that she’s left that Commie Alec Baldwin, she’s probably up for grabs. You never know, maybe she’d like to make love to The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,”
Plus, I loved that Prince song, Batdance. Upbeat. I like Prince. He’s a man of faith.
The most important thing I got from this film is a new nickname for Vice President. I used to call him “big-time,” but know I’ve got a much better nick-name for him: The Joker.
3. Citizen Kane
I don’t know how this one worked it’s way into the rotation, but whoever allowed this slip-up is going to pay for. I don’t read the newspapers. Don’t like them. Too many facts. Not enough time. I check the Texas Rangers’ box score and thar’s it. I turned this film off after 15 minutes. That’s Who needs to waste a night watching a film about the elitist ultra-leftist media.
2. National Lampoon’s Animal House
Speaking of the media, you bloggers have taken a lot of shots at me about how I liked to have a good time when I was a young man who had not seen the light. This film brought me back to the good ol’ days, when we could brand and paddle people them and no one said anything about lawsuits or hazing or anything of that nature, That was a time when men could be men…at all male schools and in all male-fraternities. It made me think about my bid to outlaw to gay marriage.
Animal House is one of my all-time favorite films. I get nostalgic every time I get to the end of the film and it mentions how Bluto Blutarsky went onto become a senator. That’s the kind of free-thinker we could use in the Senate. Just walking past the Senate bores me to tears.
1. An Incovenient Truth
Ha, bet you believed all those reports where I said that I wasn’t planning on watching the new Al Gore film? Well, I lied. Technically. Saturday nights are Laura’s knitting knights and she goes off to one of her friend’s houses in Georgetown. It leaves me at home alone for the evening. Well, there’s only so much work you can do, so pretty often I call up Rummy and the Joker and we put on our pajamas and eat ice cream and watch movies. Last weekend, we watched An Incovenient Truth. Sort of.
Actually, we put the film on mute, then we made up imagined dialogue that Al Gore was supposedly. It was like that Mystery Science Theater show, except there weren’t any robots. I wish.
And when I say that we made up dialogue for the film, I really meant that we just talked about how I’ll be a two-term president and Al Gore will never ever serve to one. The whole thing made me feel pretty good. The Joker and Rummy agreed. We’re gonna’ do it again this weekend. Maybe we’ll even invite that Cousteau fellow, even if he is French.
Posted in Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 13 Comments »
June 15th, 2006
Last week, I was deeply disturbed by a report that I read. Apparently, for the fourth straight year, Cadillac Escalades are the most stolen vehicle in the United States. At first, I thought I must be reading the report wrong. Who would steal an Escalade? Are car thieves unaware who drives Escalades? From all the television I watch, it would appear that the only people who drive Escalades are rappers, athletes, gang/mob members and possibly shot callers (my sources will not verify whether or not shot callers indeed prefer Escalades)
Indeed, I took pity upon the car jackers of America, forced to chase their dreams of owning an Escalade, and willing to risk life and limb to possess it. I wanted to do something to help them. So I did a little research into it and found out that not only did they not have a union, most of them also didn’t drive health insurance. Accordingly, getting hurt in any sort of car-jacking related fracas would not only be of at great cost to carjackers, but it would cost the American taxpayer, forced to foot the bill for uninsured carjackers.
Accordingly, in an effort to help out the car thieves of America, I’ve decided to compile a a handy Passion of the Weiss Guide to Car-Jacking, so that in the future they won’t risk the possibility of being injured at the hands of an angry rapper/mobsters forced to give up their “whips.” Hear that boys? From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.
Sure, you’re probably thinking, what the hell do I know about car-jacking? Fair enough. Of course, the answer is very little. Think of me as more like a general manager. I’m not able to play the game, but certainly able to spot out the strengths and weaknesses of my team and help put them into position to win. Very much like Theo Epstein. But rather than help the Red Sox win a championship, I’m helping car-jackers escape injury. Nobel Peace Prize here I come.
So car-jackers, if you have to steal a car, pay attention.
The Top Five Cars That Car-Jackers Should Steal Instead of Escalades
5. Mitsubishi Eclipse’s
You probably aren’t going to find an easier target than someone in a Mitsubishi Eclipse. Think about it. The owners of Eclipses are either 16-years old guys stoked about their first car, or middle-aged dudes having a mid-life crisis without enough money to do it right. Either way, you’re in the clear.
Chances are your average 16-year old Eclipse driver is probably a) high or b) listens to Fall Out Boy or c) both. At any rate, if he’s stoned he’ll peaceful and mellow and will give up his car without trouble. If by chance he’s listening to Fall Out Boy than you have even less to worry about. Now you know if he puts up a fight, you can beat his ass without any difficulty.
Say he turns out to be a middle-aged man with hair plugs and a Billy Joel album on the stereo, you still need not have fear. The man still drives an Eclipse. Any middle-aged man driving an Eclipse is by nature insecure and anxious to impress people. So much that he opted to purchase a third-rate imitation sports car rather than just get a more sensible ride.
Chances are you’re not even going to need to use any sort of weapon as a scare tactic to force him out of the car. Pretend you are a frat boy trying to seduce a woman and pray on his insecurity. Tell him that no matter how fast his car goes or how far the sun roof opens up, no woman will ever be impressed by a 45-year old man in an Eclipse. Ever. Chances are this will bring him to tears within seconds and he will flee from the car to go call his psychiatrist. Point, carjacker.
#4 Peugeot’s
Peugeot’s are the Maginot Line of automobiles in that they are probably pointless and ultimately anyone involved with them will never be able to put up any sort of defense. Sure, it’s easy and cheap to pick on the French. But it’s also fun. And judging by the performance of France in the last hundred years or so, nothing that has ever emerged from that country has ever put up much of a fight. This includes Tony Parker.
Now, finding someone in a Peugeot will not be easy, but when you do find them, you know the pickings will be good. Peugeot doesn’t even make cars anymore for the US market meaning that the Peugeot driver will inevitably be foreign. Probably French. How many ways are there to say cha-ching?
If he’s French, all you’ll have to do is make some sort of comment about how much you hate French New Wave films and Jean Luc-Godard. This will get him incensed and probably get him out of the automobile and ready to engage in some sort of intellectual debate. Now’s your chance. Give them a shove. They’ll inevitably go flying and give you ample time to hop into the automobile and jet down the autoroute. Word.
3. Toyota Prius’
I’ve been hard on Prius owners in the past. Probably unnecessarily so. The truth is, with gas costing over $3 a gallon, owning a Prius makes a whole lot of sense. This is why it’s perfect for stealing. Not only will prospective car-jackers find themselves in possession of a car with excellent fuel efficiency, but they’ll also find themselves having no problem wresting Prius owners out of the automobile.
Think about your typical Prius owner. They won’t put up much of a fight? After all, I’d be willing to guess that 97.3 percent of all Prius owners consider themselves pacifists. Sure, they might try to bore you to death by telling you how great “An Inconvenient Truth” is, or they might start trying to tell you about some great article on multilateralism that they read on Daily Kos. Either way, they aren’t gonna’ fight you.
Jacking a Prius also offers a double-bonus for car-jackers of color, in that they may be able to prey on Prius owners’ sense of liberal guilt. Make up some story about how you need to do this to feed your growing family and how the only reason why you haven’t been able to do so thus far is, the man. Chances are Prius Owners will probably hand over not just the automobile, but they’ll probably give you the entire contents of their wallets. Score.
2. Dae Woo’s
The only thing that could might’ve even had a shot at being interpreted as being “hard-core” about Dae Woo’s was “Woo,” part of the name, which had the potential to inevitably make people think of the Wu-Tang Clan. However, Dae Woo had to even get the spelling of the name wrong. Why? Because Dae Woo’s aren’t exactly about to strike fear in the hearts of men..
I’m not sure what’s wrong with the nation of Korea. They are incredibly technologically advanced, they have a robust economy, and they have incredible BBQ, and yet it can’t produce a non-lame looking automobile. What gives? And don’t go off pointing fingers about why Israel hasn’t produced a great Jewish automobile. Do you really want to have to haggle with Israeli’s over the price of a car? I thought so.
So carjackers, why carjack a Dae Woo? Why not? I’ve never actually known anyone to drive a Dae Woo, so I can’t indulge in any ridiculous generalizations about who drives them. However, I’m willing to imagine that you, the carjacker, are infinitely tougher than anyone driving a Dae Woo. Plus, chances are that the person in the car will be happy to get rid of it and collect the insurance money. Huzzah!
1. Saab’s
People should only be allowed to drive Saabs for two reasons: 1) You are Jerry Seinfeld. 2) It’s the year 1986, your name is Hans and you’re rolling around Los Angeles searching for the location of the Sunset Strip.
Why? Because not only are Saab’s an expensive automobile, there is nothing cool about them. Seriously, there’s nothing other than the fact that they’re Swedish which generally reminds people of two things: attractive women and vodka. Both of which are objectively good things.
It’s mind-blowing that anyone would actually opt to purchase a Saab. This company is so clueless that its motto is “Born From Jets.” What the fuck does “Born from Jets” mean? I’m not sure. Perhaps it’s Swedish slang for “pulling one over on brain-dead Americans.”
Either way, if you try to car-jack someone in a Saab, chances are they’ll be so clueless that they won’t even know what’s going on. Just make up some sort of excuse, like “Look, it’s the good year blimp!” (this seemed to work just fine in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure). Next thing you know they’ll turn around and run down the street chasing after the aforementioned imaginary blimp. And you, my carjacker friend, will find yourself in possession of a brand-new Saab. Whatever you choose to do with it is your problem. This isn’t The Passion of the Weiss Guide to Fencing Stolen Goods, but if it were, I’d recommend selling your Saab as fast as possible. No good can come from owning a Saab.
The Top Five Cars You Should Not Try to Car-Jack (Excluding Escalades)
#5 Chrysler’s
There’s something a bit too old-school about a dude in a Chrysler. As though you know that anyone in a Chrysler is down to “ride for theirs.” This is bad. Sure, the average person rolling in a Chrysler is probably a senior citizen, but I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that they’re a rough and rugged senior citizen. The type to smack you across their head with their cane.
But the worst part about getting foiled in your attempt to jack a senior citizen in a Chrysler will be the inevitable lecture that will follow you about the “good ol’ days,” and about WWII or something. Then they’ll probably call your parents for good measure. My advice: don’t fuck with people in Chrysler. Respek.
4. Lamborghini’s
Oh, you might be thinking to yourself, what kind of a defense could a Lamborghini owner put up. After all, they’re inevitably rich and well-insured. You’re thinking anyone who drives a Lamborghini is probably pretty happy with their life and in no mood to risk it to fight off a car-jacker.
That is until you meet this man.
Yes. That’s right. Cam’ron. Sure, chances are that you won’t be car-jacking Cam’ron, but how can you ever be sure? It is never a wise idea to mess with a man who is inevitably so repressed and angry that he may take it out on you. And if anyone strikes me as repressed and angry, it’s none other than Killa’ Cam. Plus, he’s fought off carjackers before. The man is clearly mentally unbalanced. You don’t know if he’s going to just give up the goods, fight you off, or kidnap you and try to get you to give up the goods. So to speak.
Plus, there’s always the offhand chance that after he makes you give up the aforementioned goods, he may take you to his top-secret 100% evil, 100 % purple colored lair, where he will allow Jim Jones and Duke Da God to have their way with you. And that my friends is something that we can all agree that no one wants to have happen to them.
3. The So-Called “Rice Rocket.”
Have you seen the film, “Better Luck Tomorrow?” If not, here’s the moral. Don’t fuck with guys driving rice rockets. They are no joke. Seriously, any man who has spent that much time and money on his vehicle will be down to die to protect it. Guaranteed.
Not only do you have to worry about someone willing to die for their automobile, which should be every carjacker’s worst fear, but you have to worry about the possibility that the owner of the car might know martial arts. Obviously, not every Asian person knows martial arts but a whole lot of them do. Chances are not only will you not succeed in carjacking them, but you probably will get your ass kicked too. Not a smart move. Stick to the Dae Woo’s.
2. Mazda MPV
I see you wrinkling your face. A Mazda MPV? That’s a mom-mobile. A Mazda MPV would seem to be the archetypal suburban station wagon designed to ferry the kids off to soccer practice? Right? Wrong.
Need I refer you to a little called “Enter the 36 Chambers,” a little song called “C.R.E.A.M, a not-so-little rapper named Raekwon the Chef.
The quote:
“Rollin in MPV’s, every week we made forty G’s
Yo respect mine, or anger the tech nine
Ch-chick-POW ! Move from the gate now”
That’s right, move from the gate now and don’t car-jack anyone in a Mazda MPV. Never doubt anyone to whom Cash Rules Everything Around Them. Angering the tech nine=Not Good.
1. Crazy White Guys In Pick-Up Trucks
Okay, so not everyone that drives a pick-up truck is nuts. However, chances are that if somebody is nuts than they probably drive a pick-up truck. C’mon, how much do you wanna’ bet that the Unabomber drove a pick-up truck? How else could he have taken his bomb-making chemicals to and fro (yes, I did just use the phrase to and fro…thank you for asking).
Thankfully, it’s not often that you see a Confederate Flag, but when you do see a Confederate Flag it’s almost 100 percent guaranteed that it will be on the back of a pick-up truck. Also pick-up trucks also are often filled with various tools. The last thing you need is to be smashed by a rake in the middle of a carjacking. Because, unless you are an indie rock fan, rakes can never be a good thing.
But you know what is a good thing? Staying far away from crazy white guys in pick-up trucks. Lest you end up hanging around this man.
The End
Disclaimer: This blog does not actively endorse car-jacking under any circumstances. In fact, it condemns car-jackings. Unless said car-jackings involve people with Saab’s. In that case, it will selectively endorse on a case-by-case basis.
Posted in Uncategorized | 9 Comments »
June 13th, 2006
Most journalists aren’t all that creative. Obviously. I’m not out to hate on journalists per se, but let’s be real with ourselves. Every time Adam Morrison takes a shot for the rest of his life, some journalist somewhere will rush to compare him to Larry Bird, mainly because he’s white and wears a mustache. This same lack of creativity manifested itself four years ago when Mike Skinner released his debut album, “Original Pirate Material,” and the only thing that could be heard stateside was the collective sound of every American music journalist immediately tagging him, “The British Eminem.”
Of course such a pronouncement was rushed and ill-advised, especially considered a careful analysis of both men at that point yielded few similarities other than a lack of melanin. Think about it. While Eminem did rise from the world of underground hip-hop, by the time his debut, The Slim Shady LP dropped, he was well-positioned to be the “golden boy” of rap. Dr. Dre beats, major label promotion, an incredibly dense syllabic flow that could hold its own with any rapper in the world. Plus, there was Eminem’s genius in building a cult of personality around himself. People weren’t necessarily as interesting in Eminem’s songs as much as they were interested in Eminem himself, his troubles with Kim, his mother, growing up white in an all black neighborhood and getting thrashed for it, and generally being a poor gutter kid from the streets made good.
The Streets was anything but. If Eminem was “the class clown freshman dressed like Les Nesman,” Mike Skinner was the quiet kid in the back of the class, who didn’t say much and spent most class periods drawing in his notebook. Then one day, you’d ask him about his weekend and he’ll tell you some crazy story about he’d taken E and gone raving. A week later you’d ask him again and he’d tell you how he and a bunch of friends spent the weekend, taking bong rips and playing video games. After a while you’d start to think to yourself: “maybe I should be hanging out with this kid after all.”
Indeed they seemed to be markedly different personalities. Eminem, the joker with all the technical skill in the world, writing direct, blunt lyrics. The Streets was the poetically inclined introvert content to study girls twirling their hair. C’mon, do you really think Eminem would’ve ever written anything like “Turn the Page,” from the Streets first album, a song that featured lines like:
All stare, eyes glazed/Garage burnt down, the fire raged/For 40 days and in 40 ways
But through the blaze they see it fade/The sea of black, the beaming heat on their faces
Then a figure emerges from the wastage/Eyes transfixed with a piercing gaze
One hand clutching a sword raised to the sky/They wonder how, they wonder why
The sky turns white, it all becomes clear/They felt lifted from their fears
They shed tears in the light
Doubtful. By 2004, the divide between the two men seemed to be even larger, as that year, The Streets dropped his second album, A Grand Don’t Come For Free, a very solid follow-up to OPM. While it might not have been as arresting as his debut, A Grand, was very much an artistic step forward. A concept album centered around a day in Mike Skinner’s life, the album only seemed to make the Streets more likable, as he seemed to spend each day pondering the minutiae of life, just like the rest of us: forgetting to charge his cell phone, meeting girls in bars, deciding whether or not it was worth it to smoke that roach lying in the ashtray. As Ian said, “it seemed like Mike Skinner was one of the few musicians you’d actually want to hang out with.” In America, Streets-mania was primarily the province of music critics, bloggers, hipsters and music critic blogger hipsters (Mr. Jones…insert joke here), but in England, the Streets became the biggest pop star in the nation. Sort of like…..
Eminem, who by 2004, had completely alienated himself from most of his original fan base with his atrocious and disheartening fourth album, Encore which featured him basically recycling the same themes that everyone had heard on previous albums, but also featured a newer and even more crass and stupid Eminem. Not only did he know think he was a gangsta’ who could stomp you with his Air Force Ones, but he was so bereft of ideas that he actually had album tracks entitled: “Big Weenie,” “Puke,” and “Ass Like That.” The Eminem that had been a creative force in the first half of the decade was finished. Nothing more than a pop star for 13-year old girls and boys to fawn over and for music critics to pretend that he still mattered (or are you forgetting the gallons and gallons of ink wasted for critical essays arguing that “Mosh” just might propel John Kerry to the presidency?).
But we still had the Streets. He was an artist. A poet even. There was no way that he would let fame and fortune go to his head. Right? Wrong. His latest album, The Hardest Way to Make An Easy Living, is an embarrassment. It’s not that it’s so bad. After all, it does have a few good songs. But ultimately, repeated listenings bear it to out to be a shallow and vapid exercise in self-indulgence . Disagree with me? Then go listen to “Momento Mori,” and it’s lyrics like “Am I shallow/ Am I hung up on such wrong ways/Yes I am shallow and loving every wrong play,” or it’s chorus, “Memento mori, memento mori/ It’s latin and it says we must all die/I tried it for a while but it’s a load of boring shit/So I buy buy buy buy buy buy.”
All in all The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living should be the best anti-cocaine advertisement for aspiring artists since the entire decade of the 1980’s. Judging from the content of the album: it’s disdain for women, his fans, and anyone deemed “dumber” than him, Skinner had gotten rich, egomaniacal, and ultimately the most damning thing for any artist: creatively lazy. By 2006, both Eminem and Mike Skinner seemed to have become the same thing. To loosely paraphrase 50 Cent, they got rich and stopped trying.
But in spite of my disappointment with his latest album, I anxiously looked forward to catching The Streets when he swung through LA last Saturday night. It meant my second trip to the Henry Fonda Theatre in one week, and while I knew that there was no shot that Skinner would bring it like Jack White had three days previous, I had hopes. From the articles I’d read about the tour, he’d claimed to have cleaned up his act and was focusing a lot better on the road this time.
What I saw at the Henry Fonda was nothing short of profoundly depressing. The Streets who you’d always rooted for, was nowhere to be found. In his place was a guy looking like a washed-up extra from an old episode of Miami Vice, wearing an expensive-looking grey blazer with the sleeves rolling up, a yellow t-shirt, and a pair of oversized sunglasses. He seemed as though he had gotten dressed up to go clubbing, rather than to actually perform. He sort of looked like he was doing a bad Justin Timberlake impersonation. Set against a garish backdrop of palm trees and a sunset, the whole thing just looked even more ridiculous.
And yet the only thing that was consistent about his show was that it kept on getting more ridiculous. Not only did he come out with a live band, which is fast becoming more clichéd than original (dear rappers: you can’t be trend-setters when everyone else does the same thing), but he came out with a hype man/R&B singer/weed carrier/R. Kelly impersonator, who for better or worse stole the show from Mike Skinner. Not only did the ersatz R. Kelly believe he was the star, he kept on talking to the crowd doing interludes, doing all sorts of come-ons to the crowd, including pelvic thrusts and at one point he even did lengthy a capella to a girl (attending the concert with her boyfriend), repeating “don’t you wish your boyfriend was hot like me” ad nauseum. All I can say about this imposter is that he better do a great job of rolling blunts because he’s certainly a terrible performer.
Meanwhile, between songs Mike Skinner kept on trying to perfect some sort of asinine “loverman” persona, talking about how hot the girls in the crowd were, and at least two different points he referenced how great the book “The Game” was. Cool, Mikey. It’s really great how you can get girls now. I’m really proud of you. Now, maybe you can focus on the music again.
But the music itself was atrocious. The Streets has never been the most verbally dexterous rapper in the world, but on-stage, he looked flat and dazed, full of empty braggadocio and hollow eyes. When he would deliver a verse that should’ve been fraught with meaning (think that same verse from “Turn the Page), he seemed to have no emotional commitment to any of his lyrics, as though a different person had written them in the first place. But it wasn’t just the lack of emotion in his voice, he was wildly and painfully off-beat, as though the album tracks had been auto-tuned. And when he stopped rapping, things only got worse, as at various junctures he kept on trying to sing. Let’s just say that his attempt at singing made Eminem’s “Song For Hallie,” sound like Jeff Buckley.
His stage presence itself was flat-out terrible, all hands in pockets, shoulders slouched, and an “I’m better than all of you” smirk. It didn’t make you want to be his friend; it made you want to stage an intervention. Whether he knows it or not, the man is lost and sinking fast. It seemed clear to anyone who was paying attention.
Sure, The Streets played all of his old songs, but after about 45 minutes of this gibberish, I didn’t even care anymore. No longer able to handle this madness, I walked out, missing the last 20 minutes of the concert. It was all too depressing. Chalk another one up to the perils of fame and fortune because for better or worse, The Streets has finally become the British Eminem. Calling all 13-year old girls and boys…
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 4 Crucifixes Out of 10
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June 12th, 2006
After nearly a week in heaven, former Al-Queda in Iraq leader, Abu Musab Zarqawi is irate with the sexual performance, or lack thereof, of the 72 virgins he received upon his arrival in Heaven, Wednesday morning.
“I guess I didn’t think it out as well as I probably should have,” Zarqawi said in a rare moment of candor. “I mean it’s great and all that God didn’t just give me 72 skanks, but at the same time, I haven’t exactly been treated to orgy after orgy either. What gives? After all this is Heaven. How many times do you have to hear a girl say, I’m not ready yet. How about a nice hand job instead?”
Indeed Zarqawi admitted that he may have been misled by the Imams on Earth who prophesized that wild times lay ahead.
“Martyrdom, shmartydrom…,” Zarqaqi chuckled (yes, he chuckles). “The problem is that I’d never actually been with a virgin on earth and had no idea what being a virgin actually entailed. Do you know how many times we’ve just made out all night with me begging to at least see one breast, and yet nothing? And then when I do get somewhere with one of my virgins, they always mess up. Let’s just say that these girls did not watch the oral sex tutorial scene in Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Quite frankly, I’m in a whole lot of pain. I think the great prophet Eric “Eazy-E” Wright best described my plight when he said, “Quit biting it and shit.”
But hip hop allusions aside, Zarqawi said that the worst part about the 72 virgins isn’t even the fact that after five days in heaven, all 72 remain virgins. Rather Zarqawi claims that Mohammed included Jews in the much vaunted “72 Virgin Premium Package.” When asked for his reasons behind the inclusion of Jews, Mohammed only laughed heartily.
“I just did it to mess with Abu. He’s so serious and all, so I said to myself, how can I best screw with his head?” Mohammed said. “Then it hit me… Jews. Specifically, Jewish women. You know it might not get mentioned in the ‘elitist western press’ but I have a pretty damned good sense of humor. Did you hear the one about the insane dictator, the weapons of mass destruction and the village idiot? That one gets me every time?”
Yet while Mohammed seems to be quite giddy with the matchmaking that he has done, Zarqawi is not the only one dissastisfied with the situation. Rachel Goldberg, one of Zarqawi’s 72 virgins has been unimpressed with her new husband.
“Um…he might’ve been a big deal down on earth, but if he thinks I’m just gonna’ put out when and where he wants, he’s got another thing coming,” Goldberg said. “First of all, he refuseses to as much as take me out to a nice dinner first. I don’t want to stay in and cook for him. I want to be both wined and dined. And have I gotten any jewelry yet? No! What’s in it for me? It’s bad enough to have to tell my parents that he’s a goyim, but a poor goyim?? He both refuses to convert and to support my lifestyle. If you wanna’ know the truth, something tells me that this so-called Al-Queda in Iraq job isn’t such a high-paying gig.”
And yet down on earth, Zarqawi’s inability to score has not deterred any of his Al-Queda in Iraq partners from pursuing their dreams of martyrdom. Shaheed Rahim Abdul, one of Zarquawi’s top lieutenenants claims that he’s just as ready to die today as he was yesterday.
“First of all, you’ve got to understand Abu,” Abdul smirked. “The man might be a terrorist mastermind, but he has no game. None. Seriously, I’ve seen it. The man couldn’t get laid in a Babylonian whorehouse, and if you know Babylonian whorehouses the way that I know Babylonian whorehouses, it’s really tough not to get laid. I’m sure he’s doing something wrong. When I finally am martyred, God willing, those virgins won’t be virgins for very long. Know what I’m saying?”
Zarqawi dismissed Abdul’s claims, calling them “ridiculous lies” and hinting that Abdul may in fact be on the side of the “infidels.” But while Zarqawi’s lack of consummation may be constantly mocked by his former brethren, he insists that all in all, things are looking up.
“I’m pretty sure that I’ve been able to convince one of the of the girls to get drunk tonight. The Koran says that I’m not allowed to get drunk, but it doesn’t say anything about one of my 72 virgins, heh heh heh,” Zarquawi said. “And if that doesn’t work out, well there’s 71 others. I’m not worried. I’m a numbers man. I’ve got myself a sizable bedroom, some Barry White albums, and a bottle of Corvoirsier. One of these days, something’s gotta’ give.”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of | 4 Comments »
June 9th, 2006
There was a palpable buzz crackling in the air during the Raconteur’s concert Wednesday night. The promise of seeing Jack White at the small art-deco venue, the Henry Fonda Theatre, had brought out all of LA’s clueless. Record company executives, Hollywood, agents, wealthy fans with a casual appreciation for music, and those people with enough free time on their hands to have scooped up tickets in the first four minutes that they went on-sale back in March (i.e. me, Webster’s definition of “Too Much Time on His Hands”).
By the time the concert rolled around, they were going for nearly $200 a pop on EBAY, as people had obviously learned The Passion of the Weiss First Rule of Concert Going: When Jack White Comes to Your Town Make Sure To Be There.
I know I can a tad pretentious at times (uh…did you read the Sunset Rubdown review?) but when it comes down to it, I’m a classic rock man. And that’s why I like Jack White so much. Out of anyone that this generation has produced, he is the most worthy heir to the classic rock tradition of Led Zep, The Stooges and Hendrix. As one of the network executives on the Simpsons might’ve said about Poochie, when they’re on stage they get biz-ay…consistently and thoroughly.
I’d caught White thrice previous. The first time at Coachella 2003 (when his performance was powerful enough to make me re-evaluate my attitude towards current rock music), the second time that same summer at a mid-sized arena in New Orleans, and the third time last summer at the Greek Theater when he was touring Get Behind Me Satan. All three times had been nothing short of staggeringly brilliant. Jack White doesn’t just do concerts, he puts on a full-fledged show. All dazzling guitar pyrotechnics, searing molten riffs and rhythm. Plus, you aren’t just going to hear the latest single of the album. You’re just as likely to hear an old B-Side off the first album as you are to hear “My Doorbell.” That’s why he is awesome. He doesn’t care about selling records. He cares about making great music.
But other people seem to think Jack White deeply cares about selling records and can’t get down with the fact that his sound resembles something….well mainstream [insert collective gasp here].
Just check out Pitchfork’s last three ratings of Jack White projects. Elephant got a 6.9. Get Behind Me Satan received a 7.3, as did the Raconteur’s Broken Boy Soldiers Album. The first three White Stripes albums received an 8.3., 9.0., 9.0.
So what is it? Is Jack White slipping? Has he all of a sudden lost any sort of talent and slipped into a coma of mediocrity and self-indulgence? No. He hasn’t. Not at all. Elephant is a certifiable classic and if Get Behind Me Satan were a debut album, critics would hailing it as a “bold and striking statement of genius.” Look, I like the Band of Horses album quite a bit, but anyone who tells me that it’s better than Get Behind Me Satan is only deluding themselves.
And the Raconteurs album? Mr. White’s vaunted side project? Well, naturally almost every critic was quick to savage it as 1970s FM-lite. Kate Sullivan in the LA Weekly was quick to point out how suddenly Jack seems so mean-spirited now that Meg isn’t around to balance him out.
Pitchfork said “tie on the celebrity blindfold, and Broken Boy Soldiers no longer seems like that much of an achievement– just another case of men recreating their favorite vinyl deep cuts, if a bit more skillfully than most FM scrapbookers.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Allow me a brief translation: Jack White is popular. He’s not ours anymore. Please pass me the new Liars record. Now that Jack White has become a “rock star,” he’s no longer as original. Suddenly, something that was once fresh and innovative has become tired rock star posturing. After all, how could anyone make music that could be liked by both rock critics and the “common folk.” Impossible.
I’m not the first one to point out the fairly obvious divide between critics and listeners. After all, it’s practically household knowledge that Led Zep and the Grateful Dead were critically reviled for most of their careers. But other than Robert Hilburn, the now retired music for the LA Times, almost every big-shot critic in America has missed the boat on Jack White. And that’s too bad. Because after watching the Raconteurs play live, it left me no doubt that Jack White is the number one rock star in the world today (sorry Jim James and Spencer Krug, you guys will just have to settle for the Silver and Bronze).
On-stage, White radiates a sense of energy so strong that it’s almost impossible to take your eyes off of him. Bursting with charisma and emotion, he seems to consume every bit of light in the room and harness it towards wherever he’s standing. Live, his voice carries a mix of power and raw emotion rarely heard. A lot of critics have rightfully compared it to Robert Plant. And like Plant, the true genesis of White lies in the Blues. People get confused. The guy from Wolfmother is trying to sound like Robert Plant. But not Jack White. He’s channeling pure Son House, Howlin Wolf, Robert Johnson, with maybe a little bit of Iggy Pop thrown in. And if White’s music happens to sound a little like his classic rock forebears, you think the critics could’ve pieced together the fact that they’re drawing from the same shared touchstones.
But this review isn’t about critics. Or at least it shouldn’t be. It should be about the show and it’s a mix of primal psychadelic guitar riffs and pop mastery. It should be about the rest of the band, very worthy in their own right. Brandon Benson
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June 9th, 2006
There was a palpable buzz crackling in the air during the Raconteur’s concert Wednesday night. The promise of seeing Jack White at the small art-deco venue, the Henry Fonda Theatre, had brought out the typical Los Angeles “big show” hybrid of clueless record company executives, Hollywood agents, wealthy fans with a casual appreciation for music and those people with enough free time on their hands to have scooped up tickets in the first four minutes that they went on-sale back in March (i.e. myself, a.k.a. Webster’s definition of “Too Much Time on His Hands”).
By the time the concert rolled around, the tickets themselves were going for nearly $200 a pop on EBAY, and I managed to prove to myself that once and for all that music mattered to me more than money (and if you don’t think my angel and devil at least had a discussion between whether or not to make $300 in profit by selling the tickets, than you probably haven’t been reading this blog for very long).
But it was Jack White, playing one of his first shows ever with his new band. Damned if I was going to miss this one. I might be a tad musically pretentious at times (uh…did you read the Sunset Rubdown review?) but when it comes down to it, I’m a classic rock man. And that’s why I like Jack White so much. Out of anyone that this generation has produced, he is the most worthy heir to the classic rock tradition of Led Zep, The Stooges and Hendrix. As one of the network executives on the Simpsons might’ve said about Poochie, when Jack White is on stage he gets biz-ay…consistently and thoroughly.
I’d caught White thrice previous. The first time at Coachella 2003 (when his performance was powerful enough to make me re-evaluate my attitude towards current rock music), the second time that same summer at a mid-sized arena in New Orleans, and the third time last summer at the Greek Theater when he was touring Get Behind Me Satan. All three times had been nothing short of staggeringly brilliant. Jack White doesn’t just do concerts, he puts on a full-fledged show thick with dazzling guitar pyrotechnics, searing molten riffs and rhythm. Plus, you aren’t just going to hear the latest single of the album. You’re just as likely to hear an old B-Side or an archaic blues cover as you are to hear “My Doorbell.” That’s why he is awesome. He doesn’t care about selling records. He cares about making great music.
But other people seem to think Jack White deeply cares about selling records and can’t get down with the fact that his sound resembles something….well mainstream [insert collective gasp here].
Just check out Pitchfork’s last three ratings of Jack White projects. Elephant got a 6.9. Get Behind Me Satan received a 7.3, as did the Raconteur’s Broken Boy Soldiers Album. The first three White Stripes albums received an 8.3., 9.0., 9.0.
So what is it? Is Jack White slipping? Has he all of a sudden lost any sort of talent and slipped into a coma of mediocrity and self-indulgence? No. He hasn’t. Not at all. Elephant is a certifiable classic and if Get Behind Me Satan were a debut album, critics would hailing it as a “bold and striking statement of genius.” Look, I like the Band of Horses album quite a bit, but anyone who tells me that it’s better than Get Behind Me Satan is only deluding themselves. Give Get Behind Me another another chance, free of all the weighty expectations that accompanied it’s release, and it will reveal itself an outstanding, well-crafted album. Perhaps not the Stripes’ masterpiece, but not very far off either.
And the Raconteurs album? Mr. White’s vaunted side project? Well, naturally almost every critic was quick to savage it as 1970s FM-lite. Kate Sullivan in the LA Weekly was more than ready to point out how suddenly Jack seems so mean-spirited now that Meg isn’t around to balance him out.
Pitchfork said “tie on the celebrity blindfold, and Broken Boy Soldiers no longer seems like that much of an achievement– just another case of men recreating their favorite vinyl deep cuts, if a bit more skillfully than most FM scrapbookers.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Allow me a brief translation: Jack White is popular. He’s not ours anymore. Please pass me the new Liars record. Now that Jack White has become a “rock star,” he’s no longer as original. Suddenly, something that was once fresh and innovative has become tired rock star posturing. After all, how could anyone make music that could be liked by both rock critics and the “common folk.” Impossible.
I’m not the first one to point out the fairly obvious divide between critics and listeners. After all, it’s practically household knowledge that Led Zep and the Grateful Dead were critically reviled for most of their careers. But other than Robert Hilburn, the now retired music for the LA Times and an increasingly irrelevant Rolling Stone, a lot of preeminent rock critics have unfairly criticized Jack White post-Elephant. And that’s too bad. Because after watching the Raconteurs play live, it left me no doubt that Jack White is the number one rock star in the world today (sorry Jim James and Spencer Krug, you guys will just have to settle for the Silver and Bronze).
On-stage, White radiates a sense of energy so strong that it’s almost impossible to take your eyes off of him. Bursting with charisma and emotion, he seems to consume every bit of light in the room and harness it towards wherever he’s standing. Live, his voice carries a mix of power and raw emotion rarely heard outside of the classic rock generation, as every new indie singer seems to be channeling the spirit of Frank Black or Isaac Brock. I like Modest Mouse and the Pixies as much as the next dude, but let’s get real, neither of those singers can hold a candle to the Hendrix/Roger Daltrey/Robert Plant et. al pantheon of great rock voices.
Rightfully so, a lot of people have compared White’s voice to Robert Plant. After all, like Plant, the true genesis of White’s sound lies in the Blues. And yet people seem to get it twisted. It’s guys like the lead singer of Wolfmother who are just doing Robert Plant impressions. Not Jack White. If anything, Jack White channels pure Son House, Howlin Wolf, Robert Johnson, and maybe a little bit of Iggy Pop thrown in. And it’s not derivative either. When you see him on-stage, you can clearly feel his atavistic connection to the music.
But this review isn’t about critics. Or at least it shouldn’t be. It should be about the show and its a mix of primal psychadelic guitar riffs and pop mastery. It should be about the rest of the band, very worthy in their own right. First off, the stories you have read about the Raconteurs are right. This isn’t a side project. They’re a very good band. First off, Brandon Benson deserved praise for his performance, displaying a great singing voice live and playing an extremely competent rhythm guitar.
While he sounded quite good on his own Raconteurs songs (they played all 10 album tracks in the hour-long set), surprisingly he stood out the most on a bluesy snarling cover of David Bowie’s “Ain’t No Easy”.
Patrick Keeler, the Raconteurs drummer also impressed me with his ability. And I wasn’t the only one who seemed to appreciate Keeler’s facility, as all-world NBA blogger/Fred 62 connisseur Nate Jones On the NBA declared after the show: “Damn it’s nice to see him up there with someone who can really drum.”
But c’mon, everyone knew who the star was. There’s a reason why the White Stripes packed the Greek for four straight nights last summer and Brandon Benson and The Greenhornes play Spaceland or the Troubadour. I don’t mean to disrespect either of them, as they are obviously very talented musicians in their own right, let’s be honest: Jack White is the Star. And he more than proved it Wednesday night, stretching out the tight poppy arrangements of the album tracks and turning them into blistering, awe-inspiring guitar solos and singing in a plaintive howlin’ haunted brimestone and fire wail.
The high point for me came when the band played a cover of Love’s “A House Is Not a Motel,” one of my favorite songs off of one of my favorite albums of all time, Forever Changes. You Set The Scene also was there and delivered basically the same words I was going to write. To paraphrase: Love is probably the quintessential LA band and Jack White strolls into town and played a very passionate and touching version of the song, which made it particularly poignant considering that Arthur Lee is gravely ill with cancer and no big-time LA bands even bothered to step up to play a tribute to help him pay for his med bills. You couldn’t help but get a tad emotional and think that in a way, White was doing his own tribute. One that seemed to mean a lot.
This all sounds a bit much, but if there is any musician that needs to be seen in the world today, it’s Jack White. The other three people that I attended the show with all declared that it was one of the best concerts they’d ever seen. I’m not sure if I’d go that far, only because I’ve seen the White Stripes live. I guess my only critique of the show is that it seems a bit unnatural for Jack White to have to cede some of the limelight to Benson and the rest of the band. It’s not that they aren’t good. It’s just more like watching Michael Jordan in his prime settling for 20 shots rather than 30. You knew that his team was still going to win, but a part of you wanted to see him drop 50 on the other team. Just because.
In concluding Trying Not to Be Evil Week, I’d like to say that I’ve learned a lot about myself (not true), but at least, I’ve proved to myself that I can be positive for one week. However, the Raconteurs concert proved something different to me. For a long time, I have lived my life by a set of rules laid down in the epic film “Teen Wolf,” a set of rules engraved in stone by Michael J. Fox/Scott Howard’s Coach, the legendary Bobby Finstock. So the Finstock spoke:
“Never get less than 12 hours sleep; never play cards with someone who has the same first name as a city, and never go near a lady with a tatoo of a dagger on her body. If you follow those three things everything else will be cream cheese.”
These are good rules. Rules I continually try to honor. But after seeing the Raconteurs live, I can safely add a fourth rule to that list: Never Miss Jack White when he comes to play a concert in your town.
Passion of the Weiss Rating: 8.7 crucifixes
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Starting with the September 11th attacks in 2001, a noticeable uneasiness and uncertainty has crept into the American zeitgeist. Many have speculated that it stems from geo-political instability from the collapse of the dollar, the rise of China, increasing energy prices, the war in Iraq and global warming, etc. Others have blamed it on a cultural void, filled by the rise of reality shows and celebrities famous mainly for the sake of being famous. Needless to say, it has been a difficult time to be an American.
Yes. The one and only Nate D-O-Double-G. Perhaps the greatest singles artist in the history of hip-hop, Nate Dogg has been practically the one constant in almost every great West Coast hip-hop song ever. Yet his appeal stretches far beyond the insular world of hip-hop. If you play any American under 40 a rap song featuring Nate Dogg, made between the years 1992 and 2000, they can’t help but like it.
And yet there’s more to Nate Dogg than just the fact that he looks the same in every goddamned picture. A close inspection of his career reveals the fact that he was probably responsible for America’s glorious economic boom during the 1990’s.
From 1993 on, Nate Dogg and America were off, engaged in a mutual pact of assistance. Americans would work hard to spur the economy towards never-before-reached heights and Nate Dogg would contribute the singles that would bring smiles to their faces and make life worth living again.
It’s obvious that the nation’s fortunes rise and fall with Nate Dogg, leading one to wonder what’s next or as Warren G might say, “What’s N-X-E-T”?
