The ultimate bacon flavored spread

The portmanteau has infected food marketing for so long, it has become the food itself.

Soon there will be nothing left on our nation's shelves but Grapple juice and Mozzaroni.

Portmanteauing the line

Yep. Apparently all food marketers are now REQUIRED to use the portmanteau in their copy. It's built into the creative brief under "executional mandatories."

Incidentally, Mad Props to Mad Men for showing us that the portmanteau was crap creative even back in the '60s. "Bacardilicious." "Bacardilightful."Don Draper would've shit a brick if they gave him that crap.

Haiku reviews - random movies #1

Hey, I watched some movies. 

The Happening

All you need to know

Is that this movie should have

Been called Crappening

 

Mr. Brooks

Demi Moore, soooooo bad.

Costner fine, I guess, for him

Dane Cook, what the fuck?

 

TimeCrimes

Spanish time travel

Works just like American

Confused by the end

GET IT?

I wrote this headline and then billed the client 72.5 hours.

Even at Lolla...

Snacklish managed to infiltrate my 3-day music paradise. Boo Snickers. Boo.

Life lessons from Lolla

Considering I spent nearly three entire days without my beautiful baby girl, I thought it would be nice to collect some life lessons while at Lollapalooza. I’ll share these with her down the road, when I’m fairly certain she’ll understand what I mean by “douchebag.”

-----

First of all, you’re going to have to deal with some rain. You’re going to get some mud on you. You’re going to sweat and ache and have to go to the bathroom. You will walk many miles. You’re going to need a shower. 

At times, you will be surrounded by douchebags. This is especially true if Kings of Leon has been spotted in your vicinity. Don’t worry, just shower again.

You should dance. Really, you should. It is an expression of how you process music and how music processes you.

Hand sanitizer is your friend. 

Take lots of pictures along the way. 

Sometimes you just need to lie on the ground and look up at the trees. Just make sure you don’t get stepped on. 

Drink plenty of water. 

A good sense of humor is more important than a good sense of direction. 

You will have a lot of choices to make. Some will turn out to be mistakes. Some will turn out perfect. Don’t waste time regretting the former. Enjoy the hell out of the latter. 

Two words: comfortable shoes. 

At times you will be alone. At times you will be surrounded by people you care about. At times you will be both. 

Fun and comfort don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but sometimes you'll want to sacrifice one for the other. 

Try to catch Dan Deacon if he hasn't keeled over from an infarction or been committed, but please bring earplugs. 

People move at all different paces. Don’t let the slow ones get in your way. 

Fun is fun and done is done. Also, sometimes done is fun. 

Lollapalooza Sunday, or I'm getting too old for this shit

Dan Deacon and his mad marching band: Click the pic to feel the love. 

Friendly Fires – We start Sunday off like we did Saturday: Dance Party. Only this morning we trade the petite firecracker DJ A-Cup flouncing around in her skivvies for this outstanding Brit-pop band’s insatiable hooks. They rip through pretty much every track off their debut album, the lead singer popping to the music like he’s getting defibbed. At one point he says “I hate this wind. I hate you, wind. Fuck off.” This is sort of confusing as it’s already getting muggy as hell. Ah well, I guess the English like tea and hate wind. Who knew? Regardless, I move my butt as hard as I can without the requisite amount of inhibition-deflating alcohol in my system.

Bat for Lashes – We march all the way across the park to see Bat for Lashes, the weekend's winner for Artist Most Unfairly Maligned By My Companions. Where I see a burgeoning Kate Bush, they see a retread Tori Amos. Where I see an exciting new Björk, they see a boring old Björk. Their unhappiness is catching. Oh, and it doesn’t help that three days of heat and feet have turned the field into an olfactory nightmare. It smells like someone shat into a box of movie popcorn. I try gamely to enjoy BFL’s quieter moments, but the stench is making me antsy. Damn it people, it’s time for lunch.

Lunch – I eat a jalapeño cheddar sausage, while listening to The Airborne Toxic Event. I wonder which one makes me want to shit more. Side note: Shouldn’t a band purportedly inspired by Don Delillo come up with better lyrics than “Standing on a bus stop, feeling your head pop?” Hey, that’s just my valuable opinion.

Dan Deacon - The most memorable set of the weekend. We sit right in front of the sound booth. Before the show starts, I hear the sound guy say “He wants to mic everything separately. We can’t do that.” I shudder to myself. Deacon does not want to hear the word “can’t.” He is an insane perfectionist. However, he amiably shrugs off his issues, and dives headfirst into his set, which features approximately 30 people on stage at different times. Tubas, trumpets, keys, vibes, drums, glockenspiel, more drums, etc, etc, etc. We give up our spot against the sound booth and get drawn into the maelstrom of the pit. Shit goes crazy. The heat index hits 105. I feel myself baking off the heat from other people’s flesh. I watch younger, skinnier people surf the crowd on all sides. I allow Mr. Deacon to take me on a guided imagery tour in his ramp-up to Snookered. I picture my baby’s face. I absolve myself of sin. This is what it is like to see the man perform. Near the end, I pull away from the crowd to watch a mass game of Simon Says, Deacon slowly building a song like a metaphysical sandwich, crescendo after crescendo, topping after topping, the crowd heaving hundreds of plastic water bottles into the air as each wave of music crashes over us like a tidal wave of aural condiments. The experience is communal, awe-encompassing and all-inspiring, utterly, phenomenally, ear-bleedingly wonderful. And when it’s over, I sort of want to go home.

Passion Pit – We make a game attempt at being enthusiastic for this superhuman sugarpop group. The crowd is like cat piss, seeping into every nook and cranny. I lie on the ground and try not to focus on the parade of dirty feet that whiz by my face. Man, there’s a lot of dirty feet at Lollapalooza. They should call it Footapalooza. Anyway, we leave halfway through. I feel like a traitor to music. It’s not you, Passion Pit. It’s me. Well, and Dan Deacon.

The end - After a languid march to Buckingham Fountain, my wife and I decide to cut our losses. Chances are, we won’t see another act as monumental as DD, and we’re butt-tired. Even though I would love to see Snoop, Deerhunter, Lou, Band of Horses, Janes, The Killers, I just can’t muster the get-up-and-go. Tradition holds and I drag my tired carcass home before the fest is officially over. I feel lame, so I head over to Lollapalooza.com to see if there are any rumors about next year’s headliners. Only 360 or so more days!

Next: All I ever needed to know I learned at Lolla.

Lollapalooza Saturday, or Hey! The weekend isn't ruined!

Moneypenny – Well rested and full of pancake, we stop off at Perry’s stage to catch a little Moneypenny. DJ Mother Hubbard and DJ A-Cup melt my face immediately. And then DJ A-Cup, who is scorching hot in 1980s, Ratt-inspired hair and black t-shirt/undies ensemble, prances to the front of the stage with four girls in silver face paint, black shrouds and silver gym shoes. The ladies proceed to jeté around the tiny stage while DJ A-Cup has several orgasms into the microphone. I am in love.

Federico Aubele – We leave the heat of the Moneypenny set to roast in the heat of the sun. Thankfully, much of the slop from yesterday has turned back into a ground-like substance. Federico, who looks like a cross between Andy Samberg and Bob Dylan, plucks at his guitarra in a completely inoffensive fashion. My wife refers to it as “dinner music.” It kind of is, but it’s still a nice companion for a Bud Light.

Animal Collective DJ set – What Animal Collective DJ set? Oh, you mean they are having a DJ set? While I'm standing here? I don’t think so. Really? But I just see two guys talking to each other and twiddling the occasional knob while a few strains of music quietly leak out of a speaker somewhere in the vicinity. Are you sure they're playing?

Arctic Monkeys – I expect snot rock. I expect bouncy, jangly attitude from pub brawlers. I expect to bop up and down. I get Rush. I get confused. I get up and go to the portapotty.

Santigold – The evening starts to pick up here, and it doesn’t let up, thankfully. Santigold sounds outstanding. Every song that she plays, I’m like, “Oh yeah, I love this song.” Except for Unstoppable. That song should be stopped. A portly white man in dire need of a shampoo gyrates wildly close to my blanket. I watch him since I can’t see the stage. He is a serviceable dancer. Santigold plays a cover of Killing an Arab, which absolutely kills. I find myself wishing The Cure would play Lolla.

TV on the Radio – My favorite act of the fest. These guys suck the everlovin’ marrow out of every single song and spit it all over the audience. Love Dog turns into an epic opener once the sound gets tweaked. Young Liars into a surprising yowler. Wolf Like Me into an unsurprising headbanger. Dancing Choose into 4 cans of Red Bull. Staring at the Sun is a beautiful close to a beautiful set. Can’t wait to see them in a proper venue.

Diplo – With the fail at Animal Collective’s DJ set, it is a difficult decision to not run over to the southside to catch their “regular” set. From everything I hear, they put on a disappointing show, and I am not left with Fleet Foxes levels of regret. Instead I catch Diplo, a blonde beanstalk in a black suit serving up big meaty beats in a spicy red sauce. I am amazed at how skillfully he works the crowd, playing us more than he does the music itself. And even though the every-2-minute climax is predictable, it never fails to get my hands in the air. The fest’s biggest surprise for me.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs –Karen O is a force to be reckoned with. She comes out in full peacock regalia, and owns the night the second she hits the stage. No one in the crowd is thinking about the Beastie Boys until the guitarist throws a Whatcha Want riff at the end of Phenomena. One thing I can say for Karen O, she definitely treats the microphone like a penis. Another thing I can say, wait, I'm distracted, she has that microphone in her mouth.

Planxa de la Mercat – We hit the hotel bar for a quick drink and cheese nibble and then head over to this trendy little Barcelona-market-inspired hot spot. Morsel after morsel of edible food at a fraction of the cost of other restaurants (the fraction has a higher numerator than denominator, FYI).

Next up, we wrap up the Lolla report with a truncated Sunday and a few observations on life in general.

Lollapalooza Friday, or The Best Laid Plans

First off, a huge thank you to Gramma and Papa for taking Mazlin for the weekend. We might have brought her with us one day, but she expressed interest in seeing Asher Roth, so I had to send her to reeducation camp.

The morning – The sun goes into hibernation. A fine mist fills the air. The taxi driver chooses to take LSD. Not the drug, the jammed up thoroughfare. By the time we check into headquarters (ie, the Hilton), we’ve missed the baroque stylings of Other Lives and the electronic jolts of Hey Champ. No problem, right? I’ll at least get to see The Knux and get Lolla started with a little raptastic goodness, right?

The lines – Lolla gets it right, right away. An expanded main entrance, plus a new side entrance make lines non-existent. Security issues apparently close down the side entrance after one day, but that doesn’t seem to create any more of a problem. A bright, shining Polaris compared to the sucking black hole of the ’08 lines for Radiohead.

Zap Mama – Lolla gets it wrong, wrong away. I forgo The Knux to create a more seamless meetup with companions at Zap Mama. Bad Idea Jeans. I observe the band and the sound crew fiddle with faulty equipment for 25 minutes. This does not bode well. I was supposed to start rocking an hour and a freaking half ago. Might as well go get a beer.

The beer – Lolla halves their landfill load by eliminating plastic cups and serving beer in the can. For some odd reason this seems to make the beer get warm sooner, despite the fact that it feels like it’s 52 degrees out. Warm Bud Light in the cold rain of a gray August day while a band you don't even want to see can’t even conjure sound from their gear. Who could ask for more?

Builders and the Butchers – Ah. Now we’re talking. A small-time band with a big-time sound. These guys tell rocking dusty Old-West epics with electronic banjos and mandolins and ukuleles and such. The two drummers wail on toms not one foot apart from each other. They sing two songs about the rain and the rain starts to fall harder.

The rain – The rain sucks, by the way.

Crystal Castles –This weather makes me feel like I need to rock, not sway, so I see Crystal Castles instead of Fleet Foxes. And Crystal Castles DO rock. A rising, rollicking set that sounds like you tossed a Nintendo Entertainment System and a drum machine into a blender and hit frappe. But when I leave the set early to trek over to the other side of the park*, I realize my grave mistake. Fleet Foxes sound positively otherworldly. I get two songs of crystal clear harmonies to crystallize my regret over seeing crystal castles.

*The walk across the park – When I’m alone, unfettered by my wife’s faulty flip-flops, I dart around dullards like Frogger. I love Frogger. My sister once tried to break my arm because I reset the game after she got to the twelfth level on one life. I deserved it.

The mud – The rain has kind of sort of almost maybe stopped for a bit, possibly. But great googly moogly, the mud it has left in its wake is horrid. The southside looks positively Sahara-like compared to the north, where huge swaths of grass have been torn up and transformed into heaping hills of muck. The proceedings start to look and feel like Lord of the Flies, and, as I am seemingly the oldest person at Lollapalooza, I feel I am in grave danger.

The Decemberists – A few years ago, I started to tire of The Decemberists. Everything seemed too lilting, too literate. And then they unleashed the power of prog. And made an epic story-album called The Hazards of Love. At Lolla, they play the album through, start to finish. And it is good. And when they fire into The Rake’s Song, with three players wailing on toms and snares, it is great. A guy next to me remarks to his friend, “This song would only work if it had more drummers. Like four or five.” I have no idea if he’s being ironic.

Of Montreal – After another pinball-like journey across the grounds, I hear some Of Montreal. I wish I could see their antics on stage, but they are swamped, literally, with a huge crowd ankle-deep in mud. I want no part of this. I retire to the outskirts with a group of friends to wait for Depeche Mode.

The portapotty – While I wait, I go to the portapotty. No line. No tower of Crapylon. Pitchfork, take note.

Depeche Mode – My nostalgic and geeky love for this band helps me weather the many songs off their new album. I’m here for the old stuff. Dave Gahan sounds great, and the band rips through a lot of extended versions of songs, which lends a more organic feel to what could easily come across as a cold set. Enjoy the Silence gets the best treatment here, with Stripped coming a close second. For a brief period, I am back in high school, opening my newest CD from DM, praying there are lyrics included so I can sing along. For a brief period, I am seated at the old piano, playing Pimpf over and over and over. And then, Personal Jesus starts. That’s our cue to beat the crowds back to the Hilton bar.

The Hilton bar – Our traditional post-Lolla hangout. We get there in time for a window seat. We eat extremely overpriced and underrepresented food as various and sundry Lolla fans march past. A young man presses his bare bottom up against the glass. Appetizing. Time for sleep and hopefully better weather tomorrow. Although I fear the mud will ruin the rest of the weekend.

Coming up next: Saturday, or Hey! The Weekend Isn't Ruined!

And so it has come to this

I used to really love the playfulness of a portmanteau.

Smog

Galumph

Spork

Good innocent, clean fun. But then society had to go and put the man in portmanteau, and things got a bit precious.

Murse

Metrosexual

Bromance

And then Snickers came and gang raped the portmanteau in its eye socket. Ahem. Sorry for the visual there. But, I mean, look at these.  

Patrick Chewing

Nougatocity

Master P-Nut

Chewmute

Seriously?

"Hey dude, why you eating a snickers on the bus?" "Cuz, man. This is my chewmute."

Fuuuuuuck.

And now it has come to this. Beans. Yes, beans, ladies and gentleman, have taken on the yoke of portmanteauification. Here are some more suggestions for their campaign.

Crappetizing

Scramptious

Shityourpantilizing

Do you have any good suggestions? Share them in comments! 

Factose intolerant part deux

So, I’m flipping through another cooking magazine, and lo and behold, there’s another ad teaching me about the relative non-dangers of high fructose corn syrup.

Thank you, Corn Refiners Association, thank you.

Let’s take a look at the facts clinging to the side of that pudding cup, shall we?

Fact: Your dry cleaner doesn’t know shit about shit.

Fact: Kevin totally caught a typo in that last fact, sew eye fixed it.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup is simply a kind of corn sugar.

Fact: Corn sugar is harvested from the teat of a virgin unicorn.

Fact: Virgin unicorns are more common than you might think.

Fact: Did your dry cleaner even go to school?

Fact: High fructose corn syrup has no artificial ingredients.

Fact: AI: Artificial Ingredients was a movie starring Haley Joel Osmont.

Fact: Haley Joel Osmont is a virgin unicorn.

Fact: All sugars should be enjoyed in moderation.

Fact: That does not include the sugars contained in this blog.

Fact: Or in cocaine. Go nuts with that stuff.

Fact: “You’re in for a sweet surprise” was not the tagline of Ginger Dead Man.

Fact: Ginger Dead Man did not star Haley Joel Osmont. 

Fact: That would have been sweet if it did.

Fact: By sweet, I mean, a totally natural, low-cal sweet.

Fact: Your dry cleaner’s a dick.

Your cleft sentence is showing

In 1989, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. They promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Las Vegas underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as strippers of fortune. If you have a wad of cash, if no one else can help get you off, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the A-Team. To show you their boobies.

But whatever you do, don’t hire them to copyedit your term paper.

“…for find out we’re up to”

Are you serious? I expect my strippers to at least have a minor grasp of grammar. Otherwise, how will they know when they have their period? How will they know what to do with a dangling participle? Will they even be able to master top-down language learning?

I bet if you actually text ATEAM to 89074, your follow-up text would be:

“I want for find out your up to.  Let know. You dollar on skirt and panty.”

Mmmm...banality

Scientifically formulated for advanced platitude hydration and hackneyed osmolality, Gatorade X-Factor, Rain, and Fierce will quench your thirst for bromides.

Also available in Old Chestnut flavor.

Haiku reviews - '80s horror

I caught a couple of '80s horror movies recently thanks to Netflix and beer. Here are my concise and tranquil reviews.

Ghoulies 2

I liked it better
When you popped out the toilet
The first time around

Sleepaway Camp

There is a tiny
Spoiler that I could mention
But I'm not a dick

Lifestyles of the rich and constipated

Apologies for the crappy photo. Teehee.

Anyways, I've put together a brief questionnaire to help you determine your place on the poopability meter.

Ahem. Which of the following applies to you?

1. I can’t poop because cheese is a big part of my lifestyle.

2. I can’t poop because of some pills I’m taking.

3. I can’t poop and it really frickin’ hurts.

4. I can’t poop because I have a medical condition beyond my inability to poop.

5. I can’t poop because I have a medical condition that requires me to take pills wrapped in cheese and it really frickin’ hurts.

6. I can poop.

Stick some pork in me, I'm done.

I am a big fan of all-copy ads that feature nothing more than a quick headline alongside a logo, or a product, or simply the brand colors. Like the Tide campaign from several years ago (eg, Escape from Thousand Island).

Of course, if the line isn’t terribly inspired or clever or short, then you wind up with the Snickers campaign. Oops, wrong crappy ads. I meant the Snickers campaign. Shit, dammit. I mean, it’s really bad. But now I’m actually talking about… Lloyd’s Barbeque.

Before I get to the rather tepid headlines, I just first have to point out the body copy, which, to Lloyd’s credit, is nice and concise. Bravo. Too bad the sentence is:

“Ready to heat and eat right out of your grocer’s refrigerated meat case.”

Aside from the vaguely Dahmeresque aura surrounding that sentence, it seems like they’re omitting an important step: bringing the meat home and putting it in your refrigerator. Did they want us to just pocket-nuke the meat on the spot and eat it at the store? Were they afraid we wouldn’t know to look for it at our grocer’s? Did they just really want to say “meat case?”

Anyway, to the headline. “Feeds five. Unless we’re talking teenagers.”

Methinks they forgot to add “nyuk nyuk nyuk.” In fact, if they could do an insert, with an elbow that pops out of the magazine and pokes you in the ribs, that’d be even better. It’s a good joke though, because of the truth at its essence: Everybody knows teenagers eat tons of bucket meat.

Other lines in the campaign include:

“Makes five hearty sandwiches. That’s four for you, one for someone else."

Get it? Cuz after you’re done chugging your third helping of high fructose corn syrup, you’ll still be peckish. So you’ll cram four chubby fistfuls of freshly disinterred meat into your piehole, and your wife and kids can fight to the death for that last sandwich.

“My recipe for perfect BBQ: First heat, then eat.”

Delicious sounding, right? I mean, Lloyd knows it’s hard to resist thrusting some gelatinized pork byproduct directly from a plastic tub into your slavering maw. But if you’d just be patient for, say, 45 seconds of microwavey goodness, then that meat will glisten with sweat like Richard Simmons’ dayglo orange cankles.

In retrospect, Lloyd has definitely covered gluttony and sloth. I’m looking forward to his fresh take on lust and wrath.

Bonus joke: If you eat a bunch of this stuff, and then at night, when you’re trying to sleep, but you can’t, because you’re lying in your own bucket-pork-induced flop sweat, you can sing to yourself softly, in your best Phil Collins voice: “I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh Lloyd, oh Lloyd. And I’ve been waiting for this moment since haaaalf past fiiive, oh Lloyd, oh Lloyd…”

Hey-o! How’s your bucket pork this evening?!

Factose intolerant

Think high fructose corn syrup is bad for you? No, you being a fat pig is bad for you! 

See, I was flipping through this magazine, and I found this wonderful PSA paid for by the…um…Corn Refiners Association. Well okay! I mean, the corn is refined, right? Let’s see what kind of facts we can dredge up from the bottom of the cereal bowl.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup is natural.

Fact: So is staphylococcus aureus.

Fact: Staphylococcus aureus can cause bumblefoot in birds of prey.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup has not yet been proven to cause bumblefoot.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup is nutritionally the same as table sugar.

Fact: Table sugar has never been linked to diabetes, acne, insomnia, cavities, or AIDS.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup has the same number of calories as table sugar.

Fact: Obesity just means there’s more of you to love.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup should be enjoyed in moderation.

Fact: It is impossible to truly enjoy anything in moderation.

Fact: There is high fructose corn syrup in almost everything, including this blog.

Fact: High fructose corn syrup can’t be all that bad.

Fact: That last fact was paid for by the Corn Refiners Association.

Fact: Bumblefoot.

Jewel is here to help

It's good to know that in these trying times, we can always rely on a surfeit of shelf talkers to help guide the way.

Missed opportunity: a Big Relief sticker on the metamucil.

Pitchfork Music Fest - Sunday (Mazlin Edition)

Okay, so basically I’m doing this review as a favor for my Dad because he can’t shut up about his blog. I’m like, ‘Dad, I could count the number of your readers on my fingers and toes’ and he’s like ‘Not true. You can’t count.’ So, that kind of put an end to that argument. Anyway, here’s my review, if you even care what a baby thinks about indie rock.

The afternoon – Apparently Blitzen Trapper is supposed to be great and all. Whatevs. Anyway, I have a nap fail early in the day, so we miss them. Am I supposed to care or something?

The ride over –I have my Elmo close by and I’m ready to rock out with my blocks out.

The Walkmen – Everyone around me appears to be enjoying this band, but I can’t hear because of the apple hat that I got from Miss Amanda and the giant pink headphones I got from Miss Nanette. I play with some of my blocks and eat some crunchy-melty things, so I guess I have what qualifies as an okay time. I’ll probably check out The Walkmen if they’re still together when I’m five.

My gear – Stylish, so stylish. I think I’m out-hipstering most of the hipsters here. God, now that I think about it, everyone here is so old.

M83 – This band is awesome. They sound just like the kind of music that you’d hear soundtracking the Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, etc. It’s the sound of a freshman crush, awkward and off limits, like butterflies in the chest of a fourteen-year-old. Can’t say I know what any of that means, but it sure sounds good, just like M83.

My feedbag – During M83, I eat strawberries through a mesh bag like my parents think I’m some kind of farm animal. Whatever, strawberries are good, I’ll act like a horse if that’s what it takes.

Grizzly Bear – The first song sounds AWESOME. And then my Dad drags me off into the car. My number one anticipated band, and I’m whisked away like I’m an enemy of the state. I wanted to hear Easier. I wanted to hear Cheerleader. I wanted to hear more people talk about how cute I am. But noooooo...

Flaming Lips – I’m in my crib long before they go on. But if you listen closely, you might still hear me singing something off the Soft Bulletin. What a great album.

Pitchfork Music Fest - Saturday

The bus – Long ride, crowded as hell, but a guy recognizes my Enfield Tennis Academy t-shirt and we have a nice long conversation about DFW. I feel sufficiently hipsterish. Also, he’s friends with the dude from Pains of Being Pure at Heart.

The gate – We go to the lesser known back gate, get right in. With no wait. Security barely looks at bags. I could’ve snuck in an 8-ball of cocaine and several semi-automatic weapons if I’d wanted to.

Cymbals Eat Guitars – A short set by an up and coming band. They yowl, which I like. Not a bad way to start the day.

Ticket tent/beer tent -  It’s early. There’s almost no line. I buy tickets so that I can then go buy beer. Seems redundant and unnecessary. I am told I can only buy two beers at a time.  This is not a bad thing, considering the portapotty situation.

The beer – 312 or IPA. Not a lot of choice. I choose to drink beer.

Plants and Animals – Highly anticipated. The closest band to Phish I’ve ever liked, and I really don’t like Phish. Songs are very different than the album. Highly-skilled musicians. The singer is wearing RayBans with moocow spots.

The weather – We get a sliver of sun for about 45 minutes. People insist it's July, but I don't think they're paying attention.

Fucked Up – Rawk, apparently. Lead singer looks like guy from Les Savy Fav in that he’s bald, hairy, morbidly obese and has a propensity for taking off his clothes. He compares Animal Collective to Phish. I really don’t like Phish. I really don’t like Fucked Up.

Pains of Being Pure at Heart – Jangly guitar pop. Sound issues in beginning, but maybe it’s the fact that my party has sequestered itself back in the trees. Lead singer dedicates song to “everyone.” I feel included.

The food – Star of Siam pad thai, potstickers and chicken satay with spicy peanut sauce. I have officially Thaied one on.

Final Fantasy – Lone violinist awash in loops. An interesting change of direction from earlier acts. Weak tea sound, tree sanctuary and fact that lone violinist is very bashful add up to about 2 decibels.

The portapotties – Oh hell. Lines are 45 minutes long, and by the time you get in, there’s a pile of toilet paper, tampons, and last night’s burritos nearly as high as the seat itself. Do not poop, whatever you do.

Yeasayer – They sound outstanding, crystal clear. Weird, they seem to only play 3 songs off All Hour Cymbals. Everything else (save Dark Was the Night standout "Tightrope") appears to be new material. A bold choice that doesn't hinder them in the least. Also, they seem to have added a diminutive Indian since I last saw them. Did I mention they sound great? Also, they make rain from the heavens, fitting for their primitivist stylings. I wear my new poncho and squat over our belongings like protective Mother Hen poncho dork. 

MF Doom – Who is that masked rapper? Actually, I don’t really care. Too busy thinking about the pizza coming my way.

The pizza coming my way – Delicious, if not a bit on the wee side. Wee pizza is still pizza, though. 

Random girl – She recognizes my Enfield Tennis Academy t-shirt. Never before, but twice in one day. My hipster credentials are galvanized. I give her terrorist fist jab. 

Beirut – I miss half the set due to line for portapotties. This delightful band even sounds good from inside stenchy-hot thick-plastic outhouse filled with dumps.

The National – Quiet. So quiet. Sound good, what little I can hear. We leave early to catch a cab. Sorry, The National, I am The Old.

The cab – Seriously, this guy thinks he’s in the Daytona 500. We make it home alive, but just barely.

Tomorrow – Sunday Pitchfork from the perspective of my 9-month-old.

Break out the tinfoil fedora

Other upcoming questions at CNN.com: 

- Do you receive radio frequencies through your fillings?

- Was the Holocaust fabricated to make Germans look bad?

- Is Obama going to turn America into a Muslim country this week or next?

Absolutely inane

Found this recent headscratcher over at CNN.com.

Maybe tomorrow they should try this poll:

Is the word 'huh' overused?

o Huh?

o Huh?

My valuable advice

The next time you’re looking to abandon your professional responsibilities and go to Paraguay to join a young gaucho and a few llamas in an illicit, cocaine-and-yerba-maté-fueled orgy, follow my advice. I can help you keep your job despite your massive delinquency.

Okay, so first, tell people you’re going on something chaste sounding, like a mini-sabbatical on the shores of Lake Michigan. Or you’re making soup for Jehovah’s Witnesses. If you’re married, this is good. If you’re Southern, this is even gooder. Then, when you get found out, (and you will) cut your vacation short (sorry, it’s necessary), but be sure to kiss the gaucho goodbye. Who knows when you’ll see him again?

When you get back, call a press conference. I don’t care if you work at McDonalds, just do it. Talk about how you’re surprised anyone even noticed you were gone, it’s not like those fries can’t dump themselves into bubbling hot beef-infused oil.

Then talk about how you cried for several days in Paraguay. SAY THIS WITHOUT A TRACE OF IRONY. If you can get past that, then you’re onto the fun and games. Talk about the gaucho in lavish terms. Call him your soulmate, your honey-dipped luchador, your South American twink. Then the hammer: release some e-mails. Make sure these e-mails are written in the style of a low-rent bodice-ripper. Talk about the way the gaucho’s eyes would twinkle every time you said “alpaca.” Talk about the musky scent of his underarms. Talk about the special parts of him that he held in the moonlight. Okay, I guess that last one is too unbelievable.

The goal is to get people to puke themselves blind.

Your horribly personal and terribly written personal revelations that you shat out into the stark light of day will achieve that goal. Also, if you have a betrayed spouse that can help you set up a story of personal redemption for all the traditional media outlets to birddog? All the better.

Don’t worry; the personal stuff is the only stuff people will focus on. I mean, you fucked a gaucho, right?

But your job that you blew off, leaving all those fries to fend for themselves? Meh, you can keep that.

Orange fingers flash the devil's horns

Thanks to my friend Drew, who, um, “drew” my attention to this. It’s a homonym. Neat, huh?

Kids these days. They just have to have their snacks. And they want their snacks to be compartmentalized temporally, okay? Like, nacho cheese is so noon, you know? So what does Doritos do? They give the kids what they want, man, with Doritos Late Night, available in rule-breaking flavors like Tacos at Midnight and Last Call Jalapeno Popper.

But they didn’t stop there. Because kids these days are too cool to go see a real live concert, Doritos found a way to bring the concert to the kids. See, select Doritos Late Night bags serve as tickets to a 3d virtual concert by Blink 182. You go to a special Web site, aim the bag at a web cam on your computer, and then the concert starts. By popping out of your bag. It’s a 3d bag-concert. Kind of like Princess Leia popping out of R2D2, only it’s some guys wearing eyeliner. Yep. Oh, also, if you don’t like the performance you can change it by shaking or crinkling the bag. Oh, also, I want to kill myself.

It dawns on me now that they missed an opportunity by not hosting a bag-concert by Shakira. She could sing “Chips don’t lie.” Jesus, am I on fire.

So next time you’re sequestered in a room with nothing but a webcam and a bag of Passed Out In My Own Vomit Quesadilla, you know what to do. Smear some pasty, spitty orange residue all over your keyboard, log on, aim the fucking bag of chips at your web cam, and get ready to rock. Just like the old days, man!

An unlikely pairing

A Motocross dude launches into the air in an explosion of euphoric, Technicolor starbursts. What is the soundtrack to this colorful stunt?

Based on standard X Games fare, my guess would be something atonal by Staind or Disturbd or Retardd.

Nope. It’s Woof Woof by Dan Deacon, one of the most hyperactive, vocoded, raptastical (i.e., best) songs of the year.

And somehow, it all works really nicely together.

I still won’t be watching the X Games though.

(Note to self, get off your ass and figure out how to embed video on this damn blog.)

Taco Bell Sauce Packet Reviews

1. "Help! I can’t tell where I am. It’s dark and I hear laughing."

I’ll take “Things You Might Have Heard at Neverland Ranch” for two hundred, Alex. TOO SOON.

2. "Will you scratch my back?"

I don’t get it. No, I won’t scratch your fucking back, you dumb sauce packet.

3. "Ah…we meet again."

The words of an evil mastermind. Taco Bell is evil, and we met again yesterday when I stuffed my face with Grade D meat, so I guess this one’s got a valid point. 

Wes Anderson movies

My ranking of Wes Anderson films. I wonder where Fantastic Mr. Fox will fit in? It’s Roald Dahl, after all…

1. Rushmore

Natch.  Not just my favorite Wes Anderson movie. My favorite movie, period. Generates warmth like a high-end furnace that's been serviced by a really good service company. Sorry, too lazy for good metaphors this morning. Anyway, this movie features the love triangle against which all other love triangles should be judged. Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman absolutely rock this movie off its hinges. Incredible soundtrack, “I saved Latin,” O.R. scrubs, bees, bad ass slo mo elevator exit, that kid from Dennis the Menace spitting on Murray’s car. What, pray tell, is not to love and cherish about this movie?

2. Royal Tenenbaums

Another homerun as far as I’m concerned. I know some didn’t quite care for this movie, but their opinions are not as valuable as mine. An absolute top-notch cast, headed by one of my favorite performances ever by Gene Hackman. Owen Wilson nails the movie’s two most memorable scenes, the hysterical tennis meltdown and the disturbing Needle in the Hay sequence. Again, nice soundtracking, Anderson. Oh, and even Ben Stiller is tolerable in this movie, which is a testament to a kick ass script and director keeping his monkey mugging under wraps.  

3. Life Aquatic

A beautiful movie, no doubt. The ship cutaways, the ending underwater sequence, and that oh so wonderful Murray deliberate walk up the prow near the beginning, yum. But here’s where I feel Anderson starts to get a little too expansive with his storytelling. It’s like the insular world of Rushmore and to some extent Tenenbaums was suffocating him, so he had to go big. And when you go big like this, with this large of a cast, and everyone is on a journey, well, things can easily get kind of floppy and flabby, with barely related episodes strung together like cheap Christmas lights, kind of like all the clauses in this sentence.

4. Bottle Rocket

My friends swear by this movie. I don’t, but that could change. Just got the Criterion edition and am going to give it a shot to see if it’ll move up my list. Something about the meandering nature fell a little short for me. Tell me why I should love it.

5. Darjeeling Limited

I liked Anderson's American Express commercial better than this. Suffers from episoditis even more than Life Aquatic. I mean, it takes place on a train making various stops, what did I expect, right? And oy, could you be any more hyperliteral with the luggage = baggage? SPOILER ALERT (highlight to read): They get rid of their luggage. Get it?

Flip-flops

I refuse to post a picture of this flappy footwear out of a general sense of decorum and respect for my legion of readers.

The sartorial equivalent to smacking your gum, flip-flops are a great way to say “Look at me, World, I completely don’t give a shit!”

If you’re on a beach, we’re cool. If you’re in a locker room, knock yourself out. But if I have to see one more lazy schlub slapping down the sidewalk with his gnarled toenails on full display, I’m gonna snap. 

The worst band name in the known universe

I know you can't see the worst band name in the known universe from this photo. That's to protect the innocent. See, every step I took toward this godforsaken sequence of letters, my gorge rose so high in my throat that I…......yrrf.......…?

Gross. Pardon me.

Ahem. I….......yrrrrrf…........Oh my. How uniquely embarrassing. Apparently I can't even type about this. That's a first. Okay whatever, back on topic.

Putting this band’s name on this Chicago landmark is like putting a..............yyyrrrrrrff.........…excuse me, I’m sorry.......I…yyyyyyaaaaahhhhrrrffffff.

FUCK! 

Okay, hold on. Hold on. Pulling myself together. Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths.

Okay. The band name is below, but I typed it in white to avoid any unseemly spewings. Highlight it with your cursor if you dare.

CHICKENFOOyyyyaaaaaaaaaahhhrrrrrrrrffffffff....Damn.

Meditate on this

Don't freak. But Jennifer Aniston is looking at me. Right at me. And she’s smiling. And possibly naked. This might get good. 

Then I realize I’m standing at a bus stop in the land that summer forgot, and Jennifer Aniston just wants me to buy some smartwater, whatever the hell that is.

I’m no Buddhist, but here’s a koan for you: If there is no peace in purity, but there is such a thing as pure Zen, which apparently comes in the form of a bottle of overpriced tap water hawked by a doe-eyed tabloid luminary, then what is the sound of one hand flipping this ad the bird?

Also, does anyone else get thrown by “Yeah every bottle comes with that” as a close? Such an oddly colloquial wisecrack for a product that proposes to be as pure as Jennifer Aniston’s pallid soul.

The Seance

The closest I have ever come to passing out was as a teenager, riding the Shockwave at the Six Flags in Gurnee. I remember my peripheral vision going dark, and then the rest of my field of vision clouding over, until all I could see was a pinhole of the sun. I was holding onto consciousness by a thread, terrified that if I passed out all the way, the Shockwave would break my damn neck.

People don’t pass out much these days, except from heat or Obama’s awesomeness. That’s why I was glad to read The Séance, a moody little novel that takes place back in the day when fainting was de rigueur. Why did women used to faint so much? If I were a woman in the 18th century, I’d probably wear a fake moustache filled with smelling salts. Of course, if I did that, I’d probably already be declared a witch, or a freak, or a mustachioed hussy. Oh, and did you know women could be scared to death back then? It’s true. I read it somewhere.

Anyway, this book reads like A.S. Byatt had a threesome with Poe and Stoker: the delicate mannerisms, the nested narratives, the creepy, mysterious house in the middle of nowhere.  It’s a short book that’s long on atmosphere, not particularly creepy or horrific, but a worthy read nonetheless. Plus, it’s mostly told from the perspective of a couple of heroines, which is useful, because it allows the reader to experience fainting firsthand.

Viagra ad

A few things pop up in this ad, so to speak...

1. Meta-advertising. Maybe next they should have a billboard featuring their Web site, their Web site featuring their direct mail to physicians, and their direct mail featuring this magazine ad. It'd be an infinity mirror of boner med advertising.

2. Fake billboards with twenty words rock.

3. Fake billboards with twenty words AND asterisks totally rock.

4. Fake billboards with twenty words AND asterisks that are footnoted on a printed page below four paragraphs of side effects sort of suck.

5. Is the guy in this picture smiling cuz he just got laid? Or because he's about to? Or because we don't see the woman's hands? Or maybe, geez, the backstory could be that this guy doesn't NEED Viagra and that's why he's smiling, cuz he's like "14 minutes? Shit, I can be finished and watching Sportscenter in 10."

A Question for Art Directors

Okay. So, I'm concerned that I'm missing something here. Is the headline "Great taste is timeless?" Or am I completely missing some double entendre? Cuz I'm kind of freaking out over this hyphen. 

My question for ADs is: Given that the headline is indeed "Great taste is timeless," would you have designed your ad in such a way that you were required to add a hyphen?

Again: am I being obtuse here? Am I missing something?

Eco Lofts

How can you help the environment?

- Recycle

- Add a low-flow faucet aerator

- Recharge batteries

- Replace shower masturbation with shower threesomes to conserve water

- Use fluorescent light bulbs instead of incandescents

The contents of my tackle box

• Needle nose pliers

• Folding knife

• Hooks

• Sinkers

• Bobbers

• Golden hued cluster of deep fried lard

• Live bait

And lest I forget the subhead, if one were to be in the unenviable position to take "one bite" from the ((shudder)) tackle box, then wouldn't one already have been sufficiently "lured?" Does not the copywriter intend to say "hooked?" Or would that be cliche? Yes, yes, that would be cliche. Better to be woefully inaccurate. And to represent one's food as a luring device, not unlike, say, worms.

The Hangover

I wanted to love The Hangover. But instead I just slept with it.

Don’t get me wrong, The Hangover is very good for a laugh. Ed Helms has been great since the Daily Show and Zach Galifianakis had me at rihTARD. Plenty of comic setpieces, money dialogue, and really, one of the most fantastic premises from a screenwriting perspective that I’ve ever encountered: Piecing a night of drunken revelry back together again. Wish I’d come up with it.

The turn into the second act was classic: the inevitable “this’ll be a night we’ll never forget,” launching into our amnesiac characters sprawled across an utterly destroyed hotel suite was exactly what I wanted, hoped for, and expected. And for a while, the movie delivered. But eventually, it simply ran out of steam. No more gas in the tank. Zero wind turning the turbines. Ixnay on the olarsay owerpay. There's only so long you can flog a single joke before the lights go out.

Of course, it could have been my ridiculously high expectations. So I have to either start seeing movies like this on opening night, before the hype machine turns it into an inevitable disappointment, or I wait ten years down the road to catch it on WGN during a rain delay, and watch it with all the swear words replaced by “dummy” and “funnyface.”

Haiku reviews

I hold many valuable opinions on music.

Here are my top 5 albums/EPs of the first half of aught-nine, in no particular order, presented in the concise and tranquil form of haiku.

Animal Collective – Merriweather Post Pavilion

January melts
As readily as my brain
In summertime clothes

Dan Deacon – Bromst

Holy shit this guy
A spaz genius composer
Snookered me real good

Grizzly Bear – Veckatimest

So exquisitely
Arranged it almost transcends
This ironic form

Phoenix – Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix

Fishing line threaded
Through Sugar Smacks then strung up
Across the heavens

Suckers – Suckers EP

Four songs. That's it. Four.
But they all kick so much ass
You have to believe

Home Depot's valuable opinion

Ordinary Horror

This book is teeth grindingly slow. And not much happens. Like, at all.

But it scared me. Or made me feel dread. Or disquiet. Or unease. I can't really put my finger on it because the author put "it" so far out on the periphery that it's just a blur.

I still don't know if this book is about the devastating natural degradation of the human mind (as suggested by the title), or about wicked, carnivorous, hallucinogenic flora and the apocalypse.

Either way, I recommend it for those of you who appreciate your horror with a literary twist. Or your lit with horrific undertones.

Don't drink and do page layout

My pie-hole itches

I commend Pace for putting the oddly hyphenated, yet mildly attention getting "pie-hole" into a headline. 

I just wish they would have taken it to its logical conclusion: Fire in the ass-hole.

Nothing says security like a bank using baseball metaphors.

So, National City, I sure hope your batting average is better than Milton Bradley's. Hey-ooo! 

But seriously, folks. Can't you just imagine the copywriter who came up with this one. "So, I'm trawlin' Getty for inspiration, and I find this baseball, I mean, dramatically cropped and everything, and I think, ball...ball...ball...BAT! Free associatin' like motherfuckin' Freud. Then for the CTA I'm all like gotta get somethin' in there like 'money bunt' or 'dollar sacrifice fly' and make sure the designer fucking italicizes it so that no one can miss my unprecedented conflation of sport and finance. Gettin' all Don Draper up in the hizzy."

Not all headlines are created equal

Lisztomania Brat Pack Mashup

This mashup of 80s teen movies with the summer confection Lisztomania by Phoenix is basically the AV equivalent of pop rocks and Mountain Dew. Try watching it without smiling.

Snickers Outdoor

My valuable reflection.

The Strain

I'm not sure how much of this enjoyable little vampire novel was actually written by Guillermo Del Toro, but I'm also not sure I care. He may have just been hanging over Chuck Hogan's shoulder, saying, "ooh, ooh, try 'desiccated'" and "have the one guy's eyes be, like crimson, and swimming with flagellating virus-worms." I mean, even if that was his only contribution, it would still be a worthy one.

The book is basically a medical thriller set in Salem's Lot, New York, and the vampires are the same seriously evil, hungry and shark-eyed cabal from King's classic. There's no Lestat here, no tortured soul. Just pure eating machines. In fact, in a way, it's a lot more like a zombie story.

My only complaint is that it's pretty clear, almost immediately, that this book is the first of a trilogy. Not that it's that unsatisfying of an ending. It just all feels like one big setup. An entertaining, bloody, violent, decently paced setup. No biggie. Also, I caught a couple of typos. Seriously? Del Toro, why I oughta...

Anyway, that's my valuable opinion.

My valuable first post

Welcome to my valuable first post. I've tried pretty much everything there is to try: karaoke, dreampainting, energy drinks. But now I'm off on a new kick. Telling you what I think. Maybe I'll tell you what I think about your blouse. Would you like that? Would you like that, huh? Okay then. It looks nice.

Without this blog, how would you know what I REALLY think about that sick new album, or that shitty billboard I just walked past, or that geeky little videogame that made me cry, or that Republican guy who just cheated on his wife with some Argentinian, or the split pea soup I just ate, or that other sick, sick album, or that movie that I Tivoed and am basically too embarrassed to admit that I sat all the way through? What? You plan on learning that from a status update on Facebook? Where I have to duke it out with your other 377 "friends?" Not bloody likely. I'm king here, pal, or lady, and you are my vassal. And this blog is my fief to you. So don't screw it up.

Welcome. Welcome to my valuable opinion.