Auto-Reverse

A couple of interesting discoveries. First, there’s apparently some website called Kickstarter where people come up with an idea and then ask you for money. No, really, I’m pretty sure that’s what it does. Perfectly reasonable, I guess, anyone can be an entrepreneur and anyone can be an “angel investor” (or sucker, mark, what have you).

I first heard about it because some smarty-pants guys claimed to be developing a smarty-pants home espresso machine (this is not a joke) and were raising funds on Kickstarter while they were developing the damn thing (because who wants to actually buy, say, an actually existing and functional espresso machine?). Truthfully, the thing sounds pretty awesome, but it’s not that hard for something that doesn’t even exist yet to sound pretty awesome. Oh, and by the way, as of this writing they’ve raised $369,569.00 on Kickstarter in connection with this apocryphal coffeemaker.

God bless America.

But hold on, this is not some cynical I-hate-everything kind of rant. Far from it. Because while I would love to have that espresso machine should it ever exist and, you know, actually make coffee, I’m willing to wait.

I did, however, throw five whole American smackers to a worthy project on Kickstarter that I read about on Animal. Turns out some dude or dudes or dudettes are making a documentary about the demise of the cassette tape, and are looking for some backing. Here’s the pitch:

A few months ago, the term cassette tape was taken out of the Oxford English Dictionary.

It may seem ironic, then, that the cassette has experienced a quiet comeback over the last few years, as independent labels issuing tape-only releases have begun popping up around the world.

What better excuse to take a look back at this beloved musical format?

As recorded sound continues its love affair with the downloadable, ethereal digital file, the tangible artefact is quickly becoming a thing of the past.

Help us celebrate the A Side, the B Side, the mixtape, and the whole of cassette culture by supporting Cassette: A Documentary. We’ll look at all parts of popular culture influenced by the cassette, including hip-hop and B-Boy culture, indie rock, home recording, and beyond.

I’m so in. Cassettes suck, but they were fucking awesome and blew the doors off of 8-tracks, and today’s damn kids (who should also stay off my lawn) don’t even know what the hell a cassette tape is.

For the record, I preferred Maxell to TDK. And, not that you give a shit, but I’m still mad about a cassette tape that was stolen from me at gunpoint in 1990 or so. Fuckers.

This is a documentary that needs to be made, and I’m putting my five bucks where my mouth is. Look at the nose-ring on that dude, this shit’s going viral, the hipsters will love it.

An enemy of love

The WSJ devoted the front page of one of its sections yesterday to the dramatic scientific finding that too much nagging can totally fuck up your marriage. No, seriously, apparently it’s true.

Here’s a taste:

Ken Mac Dougall bit into the sandwich his wife had packed him for lunch and noticed something odd—a Post-it note tucked between the ham and the cheese. He pulled it out of his mouth, smoothed the crinkles and read what his wife had written: “Be in aisle 10 of Home Depot tonight at 6 p.m.” Mr. Mac Dougall was renovating the couple’s Oak Ridge, N.J., kitchen, and his wife had been urging him to pick out the floor tiles. He felt he had plenty of time to do this task. She felt unheard. “I thought the note was an ingenious and hysterical way to get his attention,” says his wife, Janet Pfeiffer (whose occupation, interestingly enough, is a motivational speaker), recalling the incident which occurred several years ago. Her husband, a technician at a company that modifies vehicles for handicapped drivers, didn’t really see it that way. “I don’t need a reminder in the middle of my sandwich,” he says.

Seriously? Janet put a fucking Post-it® Note in Ken’s fucking sandwich? That’s not nagging, it’s attempted murder. But wait, there’s more, here’s the scientific analysis:

Nagging—the interaction in which one person repeatedly makes a request, the other person repeatedly ignores it and both become increasingly annoyed—is an issue every couple will grapple with at some point. While the word itself can provoke chuckles and eye-rolling, the dynamic can potentially be as dangerous to a marriage as adultery or bad finances. It is possible for husbands to nag, and wives to resent them for nagging. But women are more likely to nag, experts say, largely because they are conditioned to feel more responsible for managing home and family life. Men are to blame, too, because they don’t always give a clear answer.

Nagging can become a prime contributor to divorce when couples start fighting about the nagging rather than talking about the issue at the root of the nagging, says Howard Markman, professor of psychology at the University of Denver and co-director of the Center for Marital and Family Studies. “Nagging is an enemy of love, if allowed to persist,” Dr. Markman says.

This is all mind-blowing news indeed, particularly for those heathens who aren’t fans of the Ying-Yang Twins (who are “way more fun than most bitch-ass motherfuckers”).

Departures

Yesterday was a big news day in Yankeeland, which may have been slightly overshadowed by the mind-boggling nine-year contract the Tigers handed to Prince Fielder and the speech some dude made somewhere.

Most notably, there were two significant departures.

First, Jorge Posada retired. I’m really going to miss him. He was a fantastic part of the team, adding a ton of real grit and emotion to what can be a pretty cold-blooded organization at times. One of the memorable moments to me was when Jorge got pissed off that Fox was embedding tiny cameras into the field in front of home plate during the playoffs. What did he do? He stepped on them and smushed them into the turf. Fox wasn’t so happy:

“What we do with our cameras is no concern of his,” Webb said. “Posada should worry about catching. What he did (Tuesday night) was strictly bush.” On Tuesday night, Posada entered Webb’s domain during ALCS Game 1. The catcher decided to cover DiamondCam – two dime-size cameras buried in front of home plate (where the dirt cutout meets the grass) – with dirt. An inning later, Posada emphatically shook his finger at a Fox technician before kicking more dirt on the camera. Then, with the foot action of someone putting out a cigarette, Posada ground it farther into ground.

Another huge impact of Jorge’s retirement is that we will hear fewer (although not none) of the classic “Hip-Hip-Jorge” chants at the Stadium, as well as fewer of my own personal favorite “Whore-Hey” call and response. It was a damn good run.

The second departure that was announced is that Kim Jones is leaving the YES Yankees telecasts:

“It was a terrific seven years, especially when I didn’t know if I’d make it through the first one, and neither did anyone else,” she said, laughing. “It was filled with highlights and moments that only the Yankees can provide. I couldn’t be more grateful for the opportunity at YES.”

This sucks. Kim Jones is awesome. NoMaas suggests bringing in former Sox reporter Heidi Watney, who’s also a free agent. Well, that might ease the pain a bit. Good luck to Kim. She wasn’t even around long enough for us to make up a chant for her.

Headline of the Day

A New Generation Redefines Mormon Cuisine

Yeah, I don’t know. Mormon cuisine. Saltines? Caffeine-Free Diet Coke? I’m just gonna get myself in trouble here. Suffice it to say, I’m pretty sure redefining couldn’t hurt.

Jerome

Now I’m no fan of possums (or opposums — I don’t know the difference, if there is one), but how could you not feel bad for this poor creature:

Apparently the animal got onto the D Train at or about Coney Island and, as many D train riders know, that long trip back to the City can be pretty miserable. They evacuated the car, because New Yorkers obviously couldn’t handle being around actual wildlife (well, rats and pigeons are okay, but that’s it) and took the guy up to the Bronx (insert Bronx joke here).

The enterprising animal was reported on the D train around 4 a.m. on Friday, and by 4:30 it had been contained by the police, though after some resistance involving the baring of teeth. The officers locked the opossum inside the train car, which was taken out of service and sent to the rail yards near 205th Street in the Bronx. The train arrived at 5 a.m., at which point the doors were sealed. “He’s one of the only beings in New York City to ever have a subway car to himself,” a spokesman for New York City Transit, Charles F. Seaton, said.

It turned out that officers in the Bronx had summoned a group of emergency service officers, an elite squad that handles complex jobs, including capturing rogue coyotes and apartment-invading hawks. It was only then that the opossum was removed from the D train and, as a police spokesman put it, “released into an adjoining wooded area.” The opossum’s rescuers also bestowed a name on the animal: Jerome, after the avenue in the Bronx that runs alongside the rail yard. Jerome has not been seen, or heard from, since.

All’s well that ends well.

Confession, The Sequel

I ate half a Twinkie (Twinky?) today.

I feel so dirty.

Etta

Etta James has passed on at the too-young age of 73. I’ve always liked her music, although I find her seminal hit “At Last” to be a touch over-the-top. Lately, the tune of hers I’ve been enjoying is her version of “Lovesick Blues,” a song Hank Williams made famous (I like Etta’s version better).

If you haven’t seen Cadillac Records, which is a dramatization of the Chess Records story, you should. It’s maybe a little cheesy, but Beyoncé’s performance as the young Etta James (she started performing at 14) is excellent (even if Etta herself didn’t think so).

There will be obituaries aplenty, which are well worth reading because she had an incredible story (to give you just a taste, this is from the Guardian obit: “Her approach to both singing and life was throughout one of wild, often desperate engagement that included violence, drug addiction, armed robbery and extremely capricious behaviour.”). But here’s Etta in her own words about how, as a teenager, she came up with her “style” — including her platinum-blond hair:

I had a real nice figure and I was tall. And I remember this singer Joyce Bryant. … She wore fishtail gowns, sequined fishtail gowns, and she was black, and she had the nerve to wear platinum hair. And then I also loved Jayne Mansfield, because Jayne Mansfield had the blond hair and had like the poochie lips and the mole and all this. So I think what I did, it was kind of combine [them]. … I wanted to look grown, you know; I wanted to wear tall high-heeled shoes, and fishtail gowns, and big, long rhinestone earrings.

And one of Christgau’s reviews (of Her Best [MCA, 1996]) kind of sums it all up for me:

In addition to her junkie ways, her hack support, her adoring claque, and her bewildering discography, what makes James a myth and a secret at the same time is how hard she is to classify. Blues, jazz, pop, rock, soul–she’s all of these and none, because what she really is is r&b, in its original sense: blues so fetching white people can’t help but love ‘em even though they’re aimed at young blacks. She’s got that kid thing–a big reason her dirty voice is such a permanent scandal is that for all the hard experience she conveyed at 15 she still sounds underage as she comes up on 60, never outgrowing a sensibility she was old-beyond-her-years for as she worked through the ’50s and behind-the-times with when she hit in the ’60s. She’s been recycled as relentlessly as the grease in a french fryer. But from the makeout-party schmaltz of “Sunday Kind of Love” to the Muscle Shoals fatback of “Tell Mama,” this 20-song exploitation finally gets her sensibility right.

May she rest in peace.

Confession

With the bankruptcy filing of Hostess, I feel the need to admit that I’ve never eaten a Twinkie.

I feel so ashamed.

No sell out

In the last few days I’ve noticed that an awful cover of the Beatles’ “In My Life” has been playing on a TV commercial. This is noteworthy because the Beatles catalog has always been very tightly controlled. I remember that Beatles albums were not released on CD until years after most other back-catalog stuff, and even today I’m pretty sure you can’t download a Beatles mp3 from Amazon.

If I remember correctly, it was actually news when a Beatles song was first used in a commercial (for Jaguar if memory serves). So what’s particularly noteworthy about this particular crappy commercial? It’s for Sleepy’s.

Ringo must be rolling over in his grave.

“Somebody told you all wrong, pretty boy.”

Today, Muhammad Ali turns 70 years old. My good friend Mac sent me a great Sports Illustrated story from 1975 by Mark Kram with a contemporaneous recap of the “Thrilla in Manila.” I commend a prompt reading to you, as Mac did to me (and as a key bonus, you’ll get to find out what a “Jeepney” is, unless of course you’re smarter than me and already know).

Ali draws a lot of emotion and commentary that veers all over the map, ranging from the adulatory to what verges on hatred, but it’s entirely beyond dispute that he has been a brilliant figure in the world (and certainly not only, or even primarily, the sports world) and that his impact will long endure. As I said to Mac, it’s amazing that he’s already 70, and perhaps equally amazing that he’s only 70.

Here’s a piece of the article on the final fight of the trilogy with Smokin’ Joe:

After the fight Futch said: “Ali fought a smart fight. He conserved his energy, turning it off when he had to. He can afford to do it because of his style. It was mainly a question of anatomy, that is all that separates these two men. Ali is now too big, and when you add those long arms, well … Joe has to use constant pressure, and that takes its toll on a man’s body and soul.” Dundee said: “My guy sucked it up and called on everything he had. We’ll never see another one like him.” Ali took a long time before coming down to be interviewed by the press, and then he could only say, “I’m tired of bein’ the whole game. Let other guys do the fightin’. You might never see Ali in the ring again.”

In his suite the next morning he talked quietly. “I heard somethin’ once,” he said. “When somebody asked a marathon runner what goes through his mind in the last mile or two, he said that you ask yourself why am I doin’ this. You get so tired. It takes so much out of you mentally. It changes you. It makes you go a little insane. I was thinkin’ that at the end. Why am I doin’ this? What am I doin’ here in against this beast of a man? It’s so painful. I must be crazy. I always bring out the best in the men I fight, but Joe Frazier, I’ll tell the world right now, brings out the best in me. I’m gonna tell ya, that’s one helluva man, and God bless him.”

Julian Billiard Academy

EV Grieve posts this picture that Jim & Karla Murray took of a graffiti mural that was revealed after they (they being the motherfuckers at NYU) tore down the Palladium on 14th Street in 1999 or so (to make room for a dorm and now a fucking Trader Joe’s).  The Greek statuary in the mural are a pretty great reference, it being next to the Palladium and all.

The last time I remember being in the Palladium proper was years before when I went to see Grace Jones and Dee-Lite play there on New Year’s Eve 1991. As annoying as the Internet can be, remarkably, there is backstage footage from that night on Youtube, as well as some of the performance itself. Personally, I was pretty loaded by that point.

Anyway, the most endearing thing to me about the Palladium (I understand that the use of “the” before Palladium is probably incorrect, but it just sounds right to me) was the pool hall that had long resided (reportedly since 1933) upstairs, Julian’s. I spent many many hours in that place, shooting endless games of pool and regularly funneling two dollar bills into the “special” Coke machine that dispensed cans of Bud.

I miss Julian’s.

Courtesy The Devil Wears

Breaking “News”

Snoop Dogg arrested on marijuana charge

Rapper Snoop Dogg was arrested over the weekend after border control agents found what they said was a small amount of marijuana on his tour bus.

The singer and record producer, 40, was stopped at the same Sierra Blanca, Texas, checkpoint on Saturday where country singer Willie Nelson was arrested for marijuana possession in 2010, customs officials said.

That is all. We now return you to your regularly-scheduled program.

Bull

So last night we went to see Professional Bull Riding at MSG. That’s right, you heard me, Professional Bull Riding. You can’t make that shit up.

So for those of you who’ve never experienced this spectacle, here’s how it goes. A dude gets on top of a ridiculously large animal, weighing about a ton. There’s no saddle, there just a “bull rope” that the dude hangs on to, and the “flank strap,” which, according to the ever-accurate Wikipedia:

The flank strap is a rope made out of cotton which is tied around the bull’s flank. Contrary to popular belief, the flank strap is not tied around the bull’s testicles. This rope is to encourage the bull to use its hind legs more in a bucking motion, as this is a true test of a riders skill in maintaining the ride. If it is applied improperly a rider may request to ride again, as the bull will not buck well if the flank strap is too tight.

The goal is for the dude to stay on the bull for 8 full seconds, while having as much bucking action as possible. The scoring is 100 points per ride — 50 for the rider, 50 for the bull. Even harder than staying on the bull seems to be getting away from the bull after you are off so you don’t get trampled, kicked or gored. Also in the ring to help the rider out are some other fearless idiots, including some rodeo clowns and one of the calmest horses you’ll ever see.

Bottom line is that it was a fun evening, but a crazy sport. The last rider of the night, Pistol Robinson got stepped on, and, per the PBR Twitter: “Pistol Robinson fractured right femur & left leg. At Bellevue Hosp, where he will undergo surgery. Out 6-9 months.” That shit is no joke.

Oh, and I did manage to score a Pabst Blue Ribbon baseball cap that was thrown into the crowd, but unfortunately I don’t think I can wear it because people would thing I was some hipster jackass. Oh well.

Here’s a little clip I shot last night. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…

Truth

“Swordmaster”

What better description could one possibly achieve in his obituary than being described as a “swordmaster”? Stop trying, there is none.

Bob Anderson, who I hadn’t previously heard of, recently passed on at the ripe old age of 89. Apparently he was Darth Vader, and fenced with notorious swordsman (not to be confused with swordmaster) Errol Flynn.

As a stunt double, Bob Anderson … reigned supreme in the fencing department, earning the title of “swordmaster”. Given the partly Japanese genesis of the Star Wars franchise, it was an apt description of the man who wielded the lightsaber for Darth Vader in his duels in The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Return of the Jedi (1983). In 1983 Mark Hamill, who played Luke Skywalker, blew Anderson’s cover in an interview: “Bob Anderson was the man who actually did Vader’s fighting. It was always supposed to be a secret, but I finally told George [Lucas, the creator] I didn’t think it was fair any more. Bob worked so bloody hard that he deserves some recognition. It’s ridiculous to preserve the myth that it’s all done by one man.” But Anderson had been quite happy to remain out of the spotlight ever since he entered the film industry as the fencing coach and stunt double opponent to Errol Flynn in The Master of Ballantrae (1953).

“I arranged the fights and in the action sequences I doubled almost everyone who fought Flynn,” he recalled. “I doubled five actors in that film and when it was cut together, one sequence showed me killing myself because I had doubled two actors who actually had a fight together.” At one stage during rehearsals, Anderson slashed Flynn in the thigh by accident, drawing blood, while the star was being distracted by a passing beauty. This led to Anderson’s reputation among Hollywood insiders as “the man who stabbed Errol Flynn”.

Rest in peace.

Go Fish

I’ve been thinking about this and I have concluded that Swedish Fish should be a separate food group, or a separate tier in the food pyramid, or whatever organizational structure is being applied to consumables these days.

Please note that I don’t like the multi-colored fish, although I will tolerate them. I also don’t really like the other “aqualife” that the Swedes have come out with. Seems like a total bastardization to me.

Swedish Fish should be red (red is purportedly “strawberry,” but only in the loosest possible interpretation of the fruit). I prefer the full-size, as the minis often do not have the proper consistency. So give me a bag of straight up classic red full-size Swedish Fish and I’m a happy camper (and apparently there are Swedish Fish parties that I’ve consistently not been invited to).

Come on, take a chance on me.

Note to self

Skip the André and Yellowtail on New Year’s Eve. Fork in the Road does the dirty work:

Both come in cork-free, re-sealable containers (of course) and can be easily procured at most booze emporiums and some bodegas. They tend to be less expensive than Korbel, which can hit 17 bucks a bottle. In terms of price, they contend with Verdi’s Sparkletinis, which is a good thing, considering the “sparkling Italian fun that keeps the party going” tastes like a mix of antifreeze and Axe body spray.

And how do they taste?

Yellowtail’s offering features a peculiar metallic flavor: This bizarre air felt so intense, in fact, that I began wondering whether I was supposed to celebrate accidental self-poisoning with each sip rather than the new opportunities of 2012. Though dry at first, a syrupy tone suddenly emerges, overwhelming the palate with a heavy, sugary rush. A sour aftertaste then follows. Imagine from-concentrate white grape juice that lacks high-fructose corn syrup and white grapes, and you’ve got the right idea.

André, on the other hand, has a drier crispiness that makes it almost palatable. Sure, it’s sweet — and as with all such drinks, will leave you with a slamming headache and hungered fatigue the next day. Though far cheaper than Yellowtail, it could pass for something served earnestly in the first class section of a shady airline.

Fuck it. Just grab a bag of ice and some Riunite. That’s nice.

Take me right back to the track, Jack

I heard this Louis Jordan tune this morning and I can’t get it out of my head. When it first hit the radio, I thought he was talking about the racetrack. No such luck.

Ain’t Love Grand

With the passing of Kim Jong Il we now have tie for the most detestable person on earth, and they just got married! The Times has a wonderful account of the their recent wedding in Dumbo.

The couple did not want their wedding to “to be just about us” so:

When guests arrived on Saturday night two weeks ago, they were greeted with name tags that asked them to declare a commitment.

and, just to make sure everybody understood that this was not some sort of absurd joke, cards were printed up instructing the poor suckers who had the misfortune to attend this wedding (which, from the report of a friend who attended, served no food and only some cheap wine) to:

“Name something you are really committed to.” The cards contained further imperatives: “Name one action you can take in the next 24 hours that is aligned with your commitment.”

.

Following the ceremony, which involved some made up Hebrew chanting– which I had to assure my intrepid reporter was not a traditional part of Jewish weddings, instead of toasts, dancing or anything festive, they had speakers. Graham Hill, the founder of the sanctimonious environmental websites treehugger and lifeedited (you can look them up yourself if you care), the latter seems dedicated to things like making your Hamptons summer cottage as green as possible, got up and hectored the crowd about some such. And it just goes on and on. The writer of the Times account comments:

Mr. Hill did not seem aware of how unnerving it can be to hear rich people talk about the pleasures of not spending money

I’m a pretty green sort of guy, but all this crap is enough to make me want to beat a baby seal with a car battery.

I wish them a long and happy marriage.

Lay before the king

Never let it be said that THEG doesn’t have the holiday spirit.

Without further ado, Ms. Jett:

Or, alternatively, Boney M.:

Bing & Bowie?

Fuck

Eater points out an awesome website that is not only vulgar, but actually useful. It’s called Where The Fuck Should I Go For Drinks? and it figures out where you are and gives you ideas for where to go get a drink. Don’t like a suggestion you just click “No, That Place Looks Shit” and it gives you another one. Brilliant. These guys should file for a $10 billion IPO or something.

I assume it’s the same people who do The Fucking Weather, but maybe not. Although that’s also one of my top sites. The Interwebs are so fucking useful.

And it’s definitely time for this one again:

Seal

I’m not much of a twitter guy, but I do follow a couple of friends just to see what pearls of wisdom flow. The other day Arturo tweeted (I always want to say twatted) an interesting little story from New Zealand, via the NY Daily News (it’s “New York’s Picture Newspaper” don’t you know).

Turns out that a baby seal snuck it’s way into some lady’s house by coming in through the cat door and proceeded to plant itself on her couch. Sure. Happens to me all the time. Here’s the lowdown:

“I thought the cats brought a rabbit or something in, so I went down and had a look – and there’s a seal in my kitchen,” she said. “I was standing there thinking, ‘this is really strange.’” After calling a neighbor over to verify what she was seeing was true, Swoffer called the SPCA. “They were giggling away and I’m saying, ‘I’m not drunk, I’m not lying,’ there’s a seal in my house,” she told the New Zealand Herald.

Meanwhile, the seal, undisturbed, waddled right past Swoffer into her living room and plopped down on the couch. “Then it looks at me with those huge brown eyes,” she said to the New Zealand Herald. “It was so cute, but I didn’t touch it because you don’t with wild animals.”

The department removed the stray pup and returned him to the water.

All’s well that ends well. I think I need to go back to New Zealand.

What am I, a Kardashian?

I’m sure this new Sacha Baron Cohen movie is going to be horrible (although it’s hard to imagine something less watchable than Brüno) but the trailer is worth it just for Megan Fox.

In other movie news, we recently saw the Descendants, the George Clooney Hawaii movie, and it was pretty good. Not great, but a perfectly legitimate use of two hours. Take that, Pauline Kael.

Straight Outta Compton

Back in the day I was a big N.W.A. fan (I was particularly partial to “Gangsta Gangsta”). Since N.W.A.’s heyday, its members have moved on. Eazy-E is dead, and in addition to a solo career, Ice Cube became (I think) a sitcom star or something.

Anyway, I came across this great video of Ice Cube discussing the Eames house in Los Angeles. Turns out that pre-N.W.A. Ice Cube studied architectural drafting. How gangsta is that?

His description of which L.A. freeways are “bourgy” and which are “gangsta” is also particularly worthwhile.

Headline of the Day

The New Full-Frontal: Has Pubic Hair in America Gone Extinct?

Man, that’s a long article about pubic hair. I never thought I’d type that sentence, and I sure as hell ain’t reading the whole thing, but I thought you should know.

Here’s the, well, Brazilian money shot:

The 5-foot-5 Minnesota native — a sly, funny, 22-year-old natural blonde who spends every summer bikini-clad on the shores of Lake Minnetonka — works out five days a week. Her slim waist and megawatt smile hearken back to the polyvinyl glamour of the original Barbie doll. In fact, if Mattel were to redesign Barbie based on the new millennium’s ideal woman, she would likely resemble Pinto. Healthy, athletic, alluring, and smart (Pinto will graduate early this month from Northwestern University), she’s both a role model and a sex symbol.

And if you were to undress Pinto, you’d find she embodies yet another trademark characteristic of the plastic glamour girl-turned-careerwoman: Like Barbie, Pinto has no pubic hair.

Well, then.