Shempkin hates Shempkin and Pornography

When Mrs. Shempkin was finished...she knew it was finished.

After all, she had written a list of everything she hated, which ended up being about her husband and his particular habits. These habits were not weird, maybe a little perverted, but not weird. But, she hated them; hated like a Frenchman hates an American Tourist. Hated like a handjob hates a blowjob.

That last metaphor made her think; there's something totally and utterly wrong with me...

So, she went to a shrink to figure out if she actually hated her husband, or if she was just a tad bit queer.

Sitting on her therapist's couch, she spoke softly.

Mrs. Shempkin: It's strange, you know. After 15 years, Ralphie's still a mystery to me. I really don't know all that much about him, and that scares me.

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, just yesterday I asked him what he was thinking about and he said "nothing". Nothing? What the fuck does that mean? Nothing. If you're thinking nothing, you're fucking dead, like that vegetable in Florida those Republicans tried to make a scene about. Thinking nothing!

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, I mean, it's a silly thing to say, "thinking nothing" because you're obviously thinking about something. 15 years of "thinking nothing" and it just convinced me that he's thinking something that he just doesn't want me to know.

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: I think that's pretty obvious.

Therapist: How so?

It was at this point that Mrs. Shempkin turned around and noticed that her Therapist had been replaced with a cassette player with "out to lunch" written on it. She decided she needed to confront her husband one-on-one.

When she got home, she noticed her man, laying quietly on the couch, watching the "Best Of Ellen Degeneres" on DVD. It was 5 minutes long.

Mrs. Shempkin: Ralphie, we need to talk.

Ralphie: I hope it's not about anything, because I hate talking about anything.

Mrs. Shempkin: Not only is it about anything...it's about something.

Ralphie: Some-thing? That's my least favorite thing.

Mrs. Shempkin: Why do you just sit there, watching hours and hours of Lesbian comediennes, while not paying attention to me?

Ralphie: Well, maybe if you tried to become a comedienne, I would pay attention to you.

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, to be honest...I did. And you know what I found out?

Ralphie: What?

Mrs. Shempkin: I found out that I hate you.

Ralphie: Really? You do?

Mrs. Shempkin: Yes, I'm afraid so.

Ralphie: We've got so much more in common then I ever knew!

From that moment on, Ralphie and his wife were inseparable; he never thought he'd ever meet anyone that hated him as much as he hated himself.

I Love You, You Big Dummy

Shempkin was in love with Wanda Sykes which, to him, was a little strange. Not only didn't he find her attractive, but he was also racist. Still, her shrill wine and consistent jabs at authority turned him on, somewhere deep in the cockles of his heart. At least in the vicinity of where his heart should be (and where now stood a large, black, empty hole).

This was somewhat disconcerting to his wife; she was a soft, cuddly, loving type, but couldn't quite get over his constant infidelities with b-list comediennes. Sure, they were all fantasies that could and never would happen, but Shempkin had called out Sarah Silverman's name every single night of their 7 year marriage (twice Silverman and Ellen, once Silverman and Seinfeld, which gave her pause for thought).

What was Flora Shempkin to do? She loved her husband, but she knew his eyes looked elsewhere. How was she to get his attention.

WAIT.

In a wit of inspiration, she realized what she needed to do: She was going to spice up their marriage by becoming a stand up comedian.

So, she sat down at her computer and tried to write up a routine. She read in a book that the foundation of a funny stand-up comedy was to write out a list of the ten things that bothered her the most. Flora, for the most part, was quite a content and amiable lass, so this did not come easy to her. But, this was a matter of the heart and she was going to try her darnedest.

Flora Shempkin's Top Ten List.

Don't you hate it when:

1) Your husband leaves dirty socks around the floor.
2) Your husband screams out "Barney FIFE!" during climax
3) Your husband cries while masturbating whenever "The Late Show With Craig Ferguson" comes on.

She almost got to number 4, but then she realized something.


To be continued on the next blog...

I Love My Cockles

Yesterday I had the most page views ever on this site. True, 'tis but a mere pittance to what most sites get (especially one that mentions pooter as much as I do), but I was overall-ly pleased.

One thing though, a fair amount of the views came from Little, Brown And Company, which is a book publishing firm. Someone there categorically went through almost every single blog that I've ever done...maybe they're scouting or maybe they're putting together a leaflet on how not to write blogs...my vote is with the latter.

In any case, I also received a very kind email this evening from a young entrepreneur who wanted me to link to his fabulous website full of knee-slaptastic clothing, so here ya go, kind sir. You can now check out his stuff in my blog roll.

Now he's supposed to link back to me, which will be an interesting social experiment. Seems to me like this free exchange of linkage is like communism, and we all know how well that worked out, so I'm not holding my breath.

In unrelated news, does anyone notice that it's no longer strange to talk/sing/yell loudly at yourself while walking down the street? I used to think it was a trait unique to transients and homeless people, but now it seems like every Tom, Dick and Hipster is doing it.

Like today, someone road past me on his bike, and I could have sworn I heard him yelling "Fuck that corporation 10 dollar logo bullshit!"

And the other week, I saw this straight off the boat Chinese guy scream/singing "Material Girl" last week around Sunset and LaBrea: "I am riving in a matryl wor, an I am a matryl gul". It warmed the cockles of my heart, or at least the cockle-area.

I love my cockles.

time!

Each day is a smaller percentage of our life; ergo, each day passes faster and faster until we die.

Basically, relatively, our time gets shorter as we get older. Does anyone else think this is backwards? As a reward for trudging through a meaningless life, don't you think it's fair that we get to enjoy more of the day? Though, I guess at some point, life becomes so painful that it's not even worth having a nice long day with it.

The sun set at around 7:30 today. How did that happen? Just a few days ago it was 8...

Somehow or another, a year is a milestone and it's rapidly approaching a year since I quit my job. Believe me, it was the best decision of my life; I make more money now, am less stressed, and have more time to write. But still, I do miss some things.

I wrote and directed over 200 episodes of a show called "Bikini News", which, although 90% of it was stuuupid (directive from the CEO I was working for), it still managed to get quite a following (several million viewers, 10's of thousands of subscribers), as well as gave me a chance to flex my artistic muscles sometimes (though not extremely often).

At some point, I decided to parody my own work as a stupid...uhhh...student filmmaker who loved Bergman. This is what I came up with;

La Douleur De La Vie: Un Filme De Jennifer Jackson

Not wondrous, but also not bad for 20 minutes of shooting and about an hour of editing.

That's what I love about the web, it's complete immediacy. What I like is that there are SO MANY bad things going around, I can get away with half assing it most of the time. Actually, it's more quarter assing it, but that's neither here nor there.

No one can tell the difference if I give it my all or if I barely pay attention, which gives me the ability to focus on things I enjoy and kinda shit out everything else. That would explain the last two and a half years, but at least several million people have seen it.

Anyway, next time you're sitting around, wondering where the time has gone...just remember that you're alive and that's pretty much enough. Don't get too greedy.

Click HERE! To check out one of my favorites...

Watch for the puppy throwing...a personal favorite...

Writer's Block

I sat starkly staring at stern stories untold and thoughts I couldn't form into sentences. My problem was that I kept taking a post modernest stance to my writing and continually questioned its and my existence. What does my writing contribute to society? Indigestion? Paper herpes?

"NO! I should give up". I thought.

"I really need to do something memorable. Something my grandchildren could remember me for". That's when I decided to assassinate the president.

15 minutes later, after sobering up, I realized that was a pretty bad idea. After all, if people remember presidential assassins, they'd remember Leon Czolgosz or LBJ. No, I really needed to do something memorable. Something where ex girlfriends could say "I used to date the guy who did that". Something where my parents could say "I am no longer entirely ashamed of my son because he did this". But what was that thing?

Poet? Maybe. I gave it a try.

Why do our knuckles crack?
is it loss, is it pain?
Oh my Jewish Nose
The blood red spackle stain

Then I realized that I was a horrible poet and I didn't know what iambic pentameter was. Even the world "iambic" looked like a Ukrainian side dish that came with my Hulhulash, which, incidentally was a word I just made up.

OK, what else could I be? A musician???

So I sat down, wrote and recorded this song:



So, obviously, that's a wash.

"What else could I do with my life to potentially make it memorable?". I wondered.

Then I looked at the clock and realized that it was 1:30am; just in time to catch the second episode of the hour long "Golden Girls" block on Lifetime. Whatever wonderful thing I could be doing would have to wait until tomorrow.


POSTSCRIPT: This was the same note that Matt jotted to himself every single night. He died penniless and alone at the age of 110. His final words were "I'll do it tomorrow".

No one came to his funeral or remembered him.

Problems with Jung

No, Jung isn't a sexual euphemism, it was the name of Jung R*u, a gentleman who stayed in my apartment in Astoria, Queens at the beginning of this year. WARNING: This is a tale of deceit, treachery and dried fish heads...Proceed with caution.

Jung was a seemingly kind fellow who wanted to stay in my apartment while I was in Los Angeles. Since I was away and the guy had a pretty sweet job at a financial instution, I figured "what the hey!" and gave him the keys to my apartment. It was the biggest mistake of my life.

OK, that's a little melodramatic, I've made bigger mistakes, which would actually explain the last 15 years of my life, but I digress. After he "moved in" little weird things started to happen; I began to notice lots and lots of porn being ordered on the cable bill. With this "new fangled Internets!' " you'd think the days of someone ordering pornography via cable at $12.95 a pop were over, but apparently not.

When I emailed him about it, I never heard back, and I figured "whatever" because he gave me enough money before he moved in to cover it. The thought of him "having a solo sexercize" on my couch was a little disheartening, but that's what bleach is for.

Anywho, he never paid his bills on time (if something was due on the 1st, he wouldn't pay until I emailed him about it on the 10th...he also often lied and said "he sent it out already", but then two days later, I'd get the check, postmarked the day I called), he never responded to phone calls or emails (unless it was about said rent), and then one day my landlord called...

"Matt, do you have an Asian person living in your house?"
"Well, there's a guy staying there while I'm in LA, but he's not renting it"
"Well, the super called and told us that there are Asian people coming in and out of the house all day long; several of them. There have been noise complaints"

I called Jung:
"Jung, if you're having parties there, please stop. I told you that you couldn't"
"I am not having parties there. In fact, I am barely even there"

I thought..."OK", well he's there and has my keys. Maybe "several Asian people" meant two or three and maybe the noise complaints stem from "late night pornography watching", so whatever. I'll take him at his word.

Cut to a few months later...

I get to my house in Astoria and one of the first things I notice is a bucket of dried fish heads that smelled like Satan's underthings sitting on top of my refrigerator. Next thing I notice is about 200 Korean books on my bookshelf, wrapped in newspaper. OK, that's strange...maybe he was a reader and wanted to leave them as a present as a sign of gratitude for not telling the world of his porn addiction.

Then I see the super...

and he tells me that a large Asian family was living in my small one bedroom apartment for several months. There was 2 elderly parents and 2 or 3 "teenaged girls".

That would explain why Jung said: "I am not having parties there. In fact, I am barely even there". The essence of a good lie is to tell the truth; just ask John McCain.

That gave me quick pause for thought; what the fuck was going on in my tiny one bedroom apartment? There's no way that anyone was watching pornography there without the entire abode (and perhaps the neighbors) noticing. If there WERE 2-3 teenage girls, how did they feel about the litany of porn being ordered night and day?

WAIT...

"People coming in and out all day long?" + "Porn being ordered all night and day" = *Definitely Not a* Prostitution ring?

Stranger things have happened.

Oh, they also stole a $500 rug from me.

So, the moral of the story is, don't give your keys to some strange guy named Jung R*u...he just might give them to people who are DEFINITELY NOT RUNNING a large Korean prostitution ring.

Aloha nui means goodbye...

He played the player piano with grace.

With his eyes closed he could almost rule the world. He sang songs of loss, love and laconic lessons. He wasn't sure what "laconic lessons" were, but he was a fan of alliterative prose.

She walked in; already in the middle of a sentence about the fallacy of the human condition: she, as she eloquently put it, was a frying pantheist; a believer that only cooking utensils and inanimate objects went to Heaven.

He was of the belief that if you pretended hard enough, it would exist; therefore Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and a Unified Democratic Party were all lurking about in the real world.

They began to make wild, passionate love. All he could think about was Darryl Strawberry hitting a home run during the '86 play offs. This was his way of not ejaculating quickly. Unfortunately, after Strawberry, his thoughts went to balls...and it was all over too soon.

They lay together in bed for a few minutes; wondering if this was the last time they'd lay in bed together for a few minutes. Their relationship was tumultuous; he frequently cried during sex and she frequently gave him venereal diseases. Not the bad kind, the kind that made you smarter. What, you haven't heard of "Smart-philis"? He fucked her to boost his IQ and she fucked him because her father was a rabid Jew hater.

Their difference proved to be too much though and this was the time they knew it had to end.

She looked at him:

"This is the last time we'll have sex, you know"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm looking for something more; someone who wants to talk aimlessly about sports and slap me on the behind as we have unemotional, passionless sex!"

"You're getting married?"

"Yes"

Three weeks later, she was married at the 3rd United Church of Jeebus. He sat in the back, planning his next move.

His next moved proved to be sitting on his couch and eating potato chips while crying. He knew he wanted something similar, so he put an ad in Craig's List:

"Looking for someone to spend the next 50-60 Years With; Must be open to arguing about the division of household labor, complaining about the things that make me unique, and gaining 20 pounds within the first year of dating."

He had over 3000 applicants. Not one to make a decision, he killed himself instead. It seemed a faster way to achieve the same goal.

Pick A Number

INT. LIVING ROOM
Jen and Matt sit next to each other on a couch.

Jen's reading a book.

MATT
Guess what number I'm thinking of.

JEN
Not now.

MATT
No seriously, take a guess.

JEN
OK, 14.

MATT
No.

JEN
12.

MATT
No.

JEN
27.

Numbers go fast and Matt either shakes his head or says "NO"

JEN (CONT'D)
Decemberteenth.

MATT
That's not a number.

JEN
Taster's Choice.

MATT
That's coffee.

JEN
I dunno. 18.

MATT
Sorry, I was thinking of 42.5. You lose.

JEN
Lose?

Two men WEARING PANTY HOSE OVER THEIR HEAD...

...stick a SOCK in Jen's mouth and carry her away.

Matt looks down at his NOTEBOOK:

There are a number of stick figures with names above them:

Jen, Ian, Karl Rove, The Grocer, Family Guy Writing Staff.

He makes an "X" over Jen's stick figure.

Voices in My Head

Brian Wilson (pop genius Beach Boys songwriter) hears at least three voices in his head: Phil Spector, his father Murray and...well actually I can't remember the third one, I read an interview with him last night and apparently my memory has a 20 hour rule.

The voices tell him that he's awful and untalented, and they also tell him to kill himself. Sounds like a dinner with my family.

I bring this up because I'd also like to have voices in my head, but voices saying "hey, you're amazing, superstar" or "you know, for a neurotic outsider with an inferiority and superiority complex, you ain't so bad". Perhaps voices that recount famous episodes of "The Simpsons". I'd love to have the Monorail one going on all day long: "I call the big one bitey!".

So here is a list of people I'd like to have rambling in my head, preferably not telling me to kill myself:

1) Groucho Marx: It would be worth a lifetime of zingers to be able to have the "Elephant In My Pajamas" speech at my disposal. Of course, knowing me, he'd probably just perform shit from "The Big Store" or something.


2) Tupac: I would love to become more familiar that fabulous Gangster patois; plus we both agree that "life goes on...and [then] we up out this bitch". Drawback: he'd be banging bitches all night long and keeping me up.





3) John Cleese: no real reason other then I think listening to him would make me sound a lot more proper and thereby make me a hit at all the fancy soirées I go to. Yes, I go to a lot of soirées, AND Yes, I have a lot of friends AND Yes, I don't find every minute that I limp painfully through life torturous.



4) God: If only to get him to explain some things. Seriously, why do we sneeze? Is John McCain an automaton robot programmed to give "thumbs up" every 15 minutes? Also, why am I turned on by watching the Outdoor Life Network?


Well, now that I've gotten a "Real World"-esque group of thugs, deities, and elderly (or dead!) comedians hanging about in my head, it's time to throw a party. Well, not really a party, more like me alone in a small, dark room hearing a bunch of voices and drinking shit brand whiskey to get them to say "nice things" about me. Must...kill...pain...

Random fact: Drinking Prickly Pear Juice five hours before drinking booze will prevent hang-overs.

Also, I have heard that people who are left-handed have a shorter life span...so I better start hearing those voices soon.

Sarah Palin and Ann Coulter Have Sex

Ann Coulter closed the door behind her.

Her heart was pounding and her nerves were shot: "Is this really happening?" she wondered.

That's when Sarah Palin approached her. Ann caught a glimpse of her nubile bosoms that were just barely peaking out of her purple blouse.

"What are we doing here?", Ann knew the answer but felt obliged to ask the question.

"I think the question is, what aren't we doing here?"

Sarah Palin thrust herself upon Ann Coulter. She began to caress her legs, moving ever so slowly up to Ann's penis.

"Fuck me, Coulter. Stick your penis up my ass".

"My penis is like your stance on Russia; hardline".

"I don't know what that means".

Palin arched her back to allow Coulter's throbbing man muscle inside of her.

"You see, if Bristol had listened to me and done it this way, she wouldn't have gotten knocked up. Always up the pooper; that's the way God wants you to have it!"

When it was all over, Palin and Coulter took a shower together. Not much happened, except some light touching and gentle tongue kissing.

They cleaned up, got dressed and went their separate ways; Coutler to appear on the Fox News show "Liberals Bad" and Palin to give her nationally televised speech; "They're Sexist Because I'm a Woman".

During Fox's coverage, Coulter couldn't help but crack a smile: She just did to Palin what Palin would be doing to this country for the next four years.

Charlie Gibson/Sarah Palin Outtakes

The following is an excised part of the Charlie Gibson/Sarah Palin ABC News interview:

Gibson: Governor Palin, how has being the Governor of Alaska prepared you to handle international diplomacy?

Palin: Charlie...Charlie, Charlie Charlie. Charlie. You can see all types of countries from Alaska; Russia, Canada, Montreal...

Gibson: With all due respect, Montreal isn't a country.

Palin: Exactly. When it comes to international diplomacy, you can't blink.

Gibson: Alright. So, what do you think of the current housing crisis?

Palin: If there is legitimate and enough intelligence that tells us that a strike is imminent against America...

Gibson: Housing crisis, Governor.

Palin: You know, Charlie; this is a nation that wants change from the Washington "politics-as-usual" malarkey. That's why I'm here; I'm a woman and you've never heard of me. That's change we can believe in.

Gibson: What do you think of the housing crisis?

Palin: It's a crisis, Charlie. Charlie, you know, Charlie...that we need to protect our shores against housing crisis. I would not second guess Israel, because they are our strongest ally and if there is a housing crisis in the Middle East, America has to exercise all options in order to stop the housing crises who are hell-bent on destroying America. America, Charlie. America.

Gibson began to cry and run a butter knife down his wrist.

Let's Be 'Pest' Friends Forever!

"It's cold in here", I whispered.

I don't like the cold because it reminds me of fashion week. Why? That's one story about an egg whisk, 2 liters of ethanol and a large Doberman named "Floppy" that I'd like to forget.

She turned to me and spoke: "Then why are my hands melting?"

She said that, but wasn't awake. She frequently talked in her sleep and that, along with the vicious night terrors made her a difficult bedside companion.

That's when I thought it was time for a glass of tea, which for me was me-speak for "a glass of T".

2 hours of "The A-Team" later and I started to make my way back to bed. That's when I noticed a large Jewish cockroach on my wall.

How did I know he was Jewish? It was the peyes and yarmulke.

Thinking that perhaps his Judaism might indicate he was a cockroach of superior intelligence, I spoke to him.

"What are you doing on the wall?" I must have been crazy thinking that the cockroach would talk back.

"Wall?" he responded, "Really? I thought I was on the ceiling. CHRIST, I'm all upsidedown: just like my life".

He began to sob profusely; like he was appearing on A&E's "Intervention", hoping that his younger cockroach brother could be saved from his crippling Wallpaper Paste addiction. I thought I should console him.

"Are you OK, Mr...?"

"Roachawitz. And yes...'I'm OK' ". He used air quotes with his 6 sticky hands, which is a sight to behold.

"It's just that I'm one of 100,000 suitors for the queen roach; I'm desperately in love, but she barely knows I'm alive, so it's killing me. But even if I do get her, she'll eat me during sex; so I'm dead either way: damned if I do, damned if I don't".

I could identify with his plight: "Hey, us humans are just like that. It's like when you're at a bar and go up to a woman - she could reject you and make you feel like shit, or you could end up in a relationship, which is like death".

He looked at me and smiled. Everything went blurry; in this world it was just him and me; me and him. Cockroach and human, inexorably tied together through the common bond of morbid depression and a sense of helplessness.

"You know", I said. "We're not so different, you and I. You eat filth and I had Korean food for dinner last night. Same thing".

"Yes", he said. "We cockroaches have tough shells that make us one of the hardest insects on the planet; but inside we're soft and emotional, like a wounded child. In much the same way, you're a dribbling mess who's incapable of becoming emotionally mature".

"Touche", I said. "I guess you and I should be 'pest' friends forever".

We started laughing and it ended with a hug.

"Oh man, I feel like this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship", he said. Just like Sarah Palin and John McCain: The Two Original Mavericks!"

"What?"

"They'll bring change to Washington."

"But they're Republican, and they have almost exclusively the same policies that George Bush has, down the line".

"She's a woman and I've never heard of her. That's the right kind of change".

It was then that I slapped him with a newspaper...he died immediately.

That's when I realized this cockroach was a little too human for me.

Procrastination

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Sexy Hipster Band Chick

She stood staring starkly; contrasting with convenient crooks and con artists.

This was not the place for a 19 year old hipster chick.

"Well, this is a fine howdoyado" she thought to herself. "Actually," she continued, "Is howdoyado spelled how do ya do or howdoyado?"

It had only been 6 months since she entered NYU's famous Gallatin School. They call it "the school of individualized study", but was looked at amongst the students as "the school for people who don't know what they want to do with their lives, except hang out in NYC". Her major was "Martial Arts in South American Cinema". She took a martial arts class, a cinema studies class and spend the other 166 hours in the week smoking pot and listening to Weezer.

But there was something gnawing at her; an earnest desire to find purpose in her life - a meaning - something.

Standing where she was, she knew that something was not gigging around Brooklyn in a band she named "Combustible Diaphragm." A name which came about during the following pot-induced conversation with her roommate about antiquated methods of birth control:

Dark dorm room with a LAVA LAMP on and THE KILLERS blasting.

Hipster: And what about the diaphragm? Who uses that shit anymore?
Roommate: Smeriously! Pass the bong.
Hipster: Let me take a hit first.

Hipster lights the bong and takes a deep hit.

Roommate: Dude, we should buy a diaphragm and make a bong out of it.
Hipster: No way, it's probably flammable or some shit. EXPLOOODING DIAPHRAGM!!
Roommate: VAGINA COMBUSTS!!!!

They both start laughing hysterically.

Roommate: That is the funniest fucking thing I've ever fucking heard.

Thinking that somehow this gag would come in handy for her boyfriend's improv troupe "Fine, Upstanding Cereal Killers (FUCK)", the roommate scribbled "combustible diaframme" on a piece of Hello Kitty notepad paper.

When the Hpster found it the next morning, she vowed to herself that if she ever had a band, this was going to be it's name.

And here she was; microphone in hand, tattooed Asian synth player to her left, slightly overweight guitarist wearing a marching band uniform to her right, and her in the middle; feeling like starting her first ever gig with an ironic Goth synth-pop cover of Hanson's "Mmmbop" was not a particularly wonderful idea.

But she did it anyway and the 12 people in the crowd passively paid attention while sipping their $1.50 PBR's and talking about djing/blogging/how everyone else in the room looks.

They played 2 covers besides "Mmmbop"; a slightly uncomfortable take on Weezer's "Hash Pipe" in which she mistakenly sang "I've got my brie cheese" instead of "you've got your big g's"; and an earnest rendition of The Cure's "Why Can't I Be You", which, when stripped of it's horn section, virtuoso playing, emotive singing and terrific production values, is a really shitty track.

CD's only original song, "Electric Nation" came across slightly better...until the chorus, which included unfortunately personal lyrics about the Hipster girl's parents' 2001 divorce. She really thought the metaphor covered it up, but lines like "father left home; mother all alone - we are an electric nation" made the audience feel pity instead of "the rising spirit of an impending revolution", which was her goal when she wrote the song (and was also it's working title).

Backstage (which also happened to be the ladies room), our Hipster girl looked at herself in the mirror. Sure she sucked; sure she didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, but damn it, she...

...actually she couldn't think of anything positive. This was an all out terrible experience and she really wished she hadn't created the Facebook group "come see my amazing band" or Twittered about it every three minutes saying "this is the beginning of something big".

"Well," she thought to herself, "I guess this is it. I have to give up on life".

When she got home, she immediately pulled out a carving knife and slashed her wrists...

...then wrote her application in blood. Her film school application.

"Film School is the right choice," she thought. "I have no direction, no motivation: no artistic talents: but my parents sure are rich!"

4 years later she was found dead; hung by 100 ft of B&W reversal film. Her suicide note read: "wow, I didn't know the depths of humanity's narcissism, self-hatred and pure evilness until I spent 4 years with 120 film students"

Dalek I Love You...

My feeling is that there aren't enough Dalek I Love You fansites out there.

You read that sentance and a question pops into your head: "Matt, those words make no sense. Are you snacking on those 'crazy pills' again, padre?" WELL, SCREW YOU AND YOUR BLATANT ANTI-SEMITISM, LOYAL READER!

DILY is one of those long lost bands from the late 70's-early 80's which no one except strange music nerds (and 55 year old Liverpudlians) remember. They emerged from the same scene that brought you Dead Or Alive, Frankie Goes To Hollywood (before they both sucked with "Spin Me Right Round" and "Relax (don't do it)" respectively ), OMD ("If You Leave") Echo and the Bunnymen ("The Killing Moon") and one of my favorite all-time bands, The Teardrop Explodes.

I first came across DILY them after listening to The Teardrop Explodes seminal 1980 album "Kilimanjaro". I found the guitar playing fantastic; it had that jagged post-punk sound, but with a meandering psychedelic vibe. It was so much more expansive than what was going on at the time, and I wanted to find out who the player was.

Alan Gill was the man in question, and also the only constant member of DILY. They had the same complex guitar noodling that TX had, but, at least when they started, were more minimalistic, with a heavy emphasis on drum machines and analogue synths. Something, which almost 30 years later, seems conflictingly modern.

The difference with DILY? Quirky, deliberately uncommercial pop gems. The kind of music that doesn't sit well the first few times you listen to it, but after a while, it's impossible to get out of your head.

My personal favorite was their first album, Compass Kumpas, which had more of a sparse synth pop vibe and lyrics about machines, the end of the world, being unhappy and social disorder. That's always a recipe for awesome.

The second (eponymous) album was also pretty good, much more upbeat and psychedelic with a full band sound (less synths and drum machines, more guitars, female back up singers, samples and tribal drumming). As a side note, since I wrote most of the DILY's Wikipedia entry, wholesale quotes of mine were put into that album's reissue liner notes.

If you ever hear me mention that in polite company, please slap me in the face with a halibut or any of the more painful fishes.

Anyway, I'm particularly excited, because the fans (at least 5 of us) have been waiting years for their mythic third album, Naïve, to be rereleased. Put out in 1986 (or 85, I've heard conflicting reports), Gill put it out on a c90 cassette under the umbrella of his Bop-a-Dub label (a label that lasted probably a few months and released at least 1 cassette tape).

Anyway, it's been completely unavailable until the good folks at dalekiloveyou.com uploaded the whole album. The fidelity isn't great, but it's worth hearing. Sure, a lot of it sounds like 8 track demos that Gill did in his living room and it's about 10 tracks too long, but the DILY spirit is still immediately apparent: It's funny, catchy, ambient and off-beat. A shame that it never got the release or production values it deserved.

I've put the lyrics of a few songs from Naïve below, just in case anyone's looking to google it. If you want to listen to some DILY, here are a couple of tracks to download:

Freedom Fighters: their best single. Like The Clash meets early OMD...
Click Here To Download

The World: the lead track off their first album, a catchy little synth pop tiddy about the end of the world.
Click Here To Download

4 tracks from the second album can be found on their MySpace page. Check out "Masks & Licences".

Here is their third album, hosted on the DILY website. I would suggest: "Before The Gong" "Prince Of Clowns" "AD Men" and "Soldier Of Love"


Prince Of Clowns:

How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?
One Day I Woke Up
And Suddenly Three Years Had Gone

Still All The Time I Knew It Had To End
But Then One Day I Found
I Was the Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get In?)
She's Out Of Love

Well I Know It Won't Mean Much To You
But It's the Truth, So...
And So I Sing It Out

One Day I'll Look Back At This and I'll Smile
Remembering The Time
I Was the Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get In?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get In?)
She's Out Of Love

I'm Sure There's Lessons To Be Learned Somewhere
But It Escapes Me...
Hmmm...

Still All The Logic You Get Out Of Fools
Can't Stop You Feeling This Way
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get In?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get Into My Heart?)
She's Out Of Love
Prince Of Clowns (How Did I Let It Get In?)
She's Out Of Love


Soldiers Of Love:

The Soldiers Of Love Have No Opinions
Good Soldiers Die In Jungles

Reading Letters Send From Home
Soldiers of Love Crush The Weak

Had To Arrest His Family
He says "it's nothing personal"
"I follow orders like good soldiers do"
"I'm not concerned with right or wrong"

When You Saw Your Brother in the Crowds
You Could Have Fired Into The Air
But You Were a Good Soldier
You Were a Good Soldier
You Were a Good Soldier

Soldier of Love.

Top 5 Reasons You're Alone

1) Nobody Loves You.
2) You Can Stop Staring At Those Hot Hipster Girls, You'll Never Have The Right Sweater-Vest For Them.
3) When You Wake Up, You Realize You Killed Your Only Friend; The Empty Bottle Of Black Velvet Whiskey.
4) Your Early 90's Hip-Hop Beats and Operatic Lead Vocals Never Quite Endeared You To People
5) OH GOD, WHY!!!!!! FUCK. I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!!!!




Hmmm...a bit of a downer tonight. I just got an email goodbye from a loyal reader of this blog who told me they'd be off the internets for 2 weeks and unable to keep up. Damnable! That's cut my daily readership from anywhere between 1-99.9999%

A little piece of the bible in every stab!™

Our story begins in Montpelier, Vermont. A sleepy New England town with a population of around 8000, it is the smallest state capital in the United States. Not much happens in Montpelier, which is why I am no longer going to write about it.

Our story continues in Washington, Connecticut. Another sleepy New England town; the major attractions are the 3 screen movie theater that plays "Tropic Thunder" on loop and the Whites Only (not really, but actually) country club that houses the bi-monthly over-65 pinochle championship. This is where Plotzman found himself murdered to the point of near death.

Plotzman, a middle-aged Jew with poor eyesight and a bum knee, found himself limping about one humid Sunday afternoon. After a series of wrong turns, he ended up on a Tennis court at the "Whiteman Blackiehate Country Estates", a unique country club for racists that also hated themselves. Gourmet Magazine proclaimed it "THE must-see destination for Self-Loathers".

Plotzman refused to wear glasses, because he believed that the Bible should be followed to the letter, and as we all know, Leviticus 25.13 states "thou shall not touch thyself in the poophole on a Tuesday, whistle with a Virgin during Sabbath, or sport eyewear that might cause the twinkling of a blond girl's Clitoris (whatever that mayth beeeth)". Plotzman also believed that the drunk scribblings of his frat buddies were the word of the Lord. He also didn't get out much on the weekends.

Squinting at the Tennis court, Plotzman noticed a sign that he thought said "Pinocchio". Excited, he made his way over to what he believed was a movie theater.

As he got closer to the movie theater, he noticed it was a really ugly baby. "How did I mistake an ugly baby for a movie theater?", he wondered. This made him philosophical: "If I cannot see what's in front of my eyes, perhaps NPR is really interesting! Perhaps black is white! Perhaps my Penis is just an inside out Vagina!".

It was during this last pithy thought that he ran into the woman who would murder him in about 2 minutes. Her name was Kathy; an overweight Evangelical Christian who believed that the exclamation "Gosh!" was not to be used in polite conversation.

"Good Morrow, My Fair Lady! Have you heard of Pinocchio? Perchance where it might be playing?" It wasn't until the autopsy was it revealed that Plotzman had a stroke three seconds before he opened his mouth.

Kathy, who wasn't so much "hard of hearing" as she was "not listening and hearing what she wanted to hear" responded thusly:

"Knights of Pythias? You know in order to join that organization you must believe in a higher power. Being that there is only one higher power...JESUS...I can't tell you where it is unless you tell me that...JESUS...is your higher power. Do you agree that...JESUS...is your higher power?"

Kathy began speaking in tongues and dancing the Mochacha. This confused Plotzman, as the Mochacha doesn't exist.

"No, I believe you didn't hear me, I'm looking for Pinocchio. The movie?"

"MOVIE!?!? Movies are the vile maraschino cherries on the putrid chocolate bunt cake that is Satan's bottom!"

Plotzman now realized this woman was a tad "unstable" and began to formulate the excuse which would directly lead to his death:

"Uhm, it's a little drafty over here, I think I'm going to go inside to get out of the cold".

Kathy leaned over to him and whispered: "Cold? Don't you know that Cold is just God's way of telling us to burn more Jews and Catholics?"

"I'm Jewish."

Kathy's eyes opened as wide as she could possibly make them; it wasn't an instinctive reaction, but she knew she had to do it for dramatic effect.

"Jewish? JEEEWWWWISH? JESUS WANTS YOU TO BURN UNLESS YOU CONVERT!!!"

"Gosh, wasn't Jesus Jewish, actually?"

Kathy grabbed her bible, which was sharpened into a knife-like weapon which she called her "Unbeliever Bible Stabber", which she was convinced was the most humane way of killing people, because not only was it incredibly effective, but it also purified the soul as it brutally murdered. "A little piece of the bible in every stab!™", she thought would be the catch-phrase if it was ever marketed.

She pulled back and GUTTED Plotzman in the stomach with her UBS.

"Ouch!", he exclaimed..."that rather hurt a tad".

He looked down at the Bible and pulled out the particular page that was stabbing him. It was Leviticus 25.13. In his last remaining moments as a corporeal being, he reread the chapter, which is when he realized there was nothing about eyewear.

As he closed his eyes to die, he came to understand three important things:

1) Always buy two Bibles to double check inaccuracies
2) Never mess with an overweight Evangelical Christian
3) Modern Poetry is filled with overwrought metaphor

He wasn't quite sure where that last bit o' knowledge came in, but it sounded like it should be right. He breathed his last breath, understanding the irony of the fact that the very bible which told him to go glassesless and thereby landed him in this awful place, also murdered him.

He didn't care much, except that he left the light on in the bathroom and this month's energy bill would bankrupt him.

A Jew to the end, he thought.