31 July, 2013

Prince Goes to Space

24 July, 2013

Prince Hosts a Lasagna Party

20 July, 2013

The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band), Episode 6: Harvey Milk

A Sound Design and Assembly Original Miniseries
Produced by M. Martin
Tonight: 2009's Harvey Milk
Written by Charlie Pauken
So here's the story with the first Harvey Milk record. You see, back in '94, some guy wanted to put Harvey Milk out on his label so the band recorded this record and sent him the master tapes, leaving themselves with only one cassette copy, which is pictured on the front cover, here. Then the guy with the master tapes up and disappeared, Hoffa style. Bootlegs of the first Harvey Milk record have been floating around on the internet ever since and the band thought it was time to give their "unofficial" first record a proper release. But how? They didn't have the master tapes, just the cassette of the rough mix.
You are listening to the cassette of the rough mix, mastered by the band's drummer, Kyle Spence. (The drummer on the record is Paul Trudeau).
To tell you the truth, it doesn't sound bad but maybe that's because I've been listening to sludge metal on cassette since the Earth cooled. It's as natural to me as never having been breast fed.
The songs on Harvey Milk are mainly from My Love...: "Merlin is Magic", "My Father's Life' Work", "Jim's Polish", and "F.S.T.P.". A scary assed version of "Plastic Eggs" from Courtesy... makes a showing and "Dating Pressures" and "Anthem" from The Kelly Sessions (the one I don't have) also show up. The three "new" songs include the album opener, "Blueberry Dookie", which, OK, I'll admit it: that's the one that sounds like a Melvins song, "Probölkoc", and "Smile".
Saying "Blueberry Dookie" sounds like a Melvins song is probably a bit detrimental to the band but I have to admit that it sounds like it would be right at home on Lysol. Even the vocals in the breakdown or chorus or whatever that section is supposed to be sound a bit like Buzzo. This is not a bad thing; after all, Lysol was probably the last great stoner-doom-drone-whatever record to be associated with the Melvins name. The issue here is that "Blueberry Dookie" was supposed to be Harvey Milk's opening salvo on the public, basically picking up where Melvins left off when they went to make Houdini. And just to drive a nail further into Melvins' dynasty's coffin, Harvey Milk followed it up with "Plastic Eggs", which, as I mentioned earlier is scarier than shit. It's oppressiveness comes from the mix of grandeur and claustrophobia, it's basically the sound of the giant murder engine thing at the end of Caligula.
"Merlin is Magic" has a fairly different sound. It's played the same but I can pick out different notes in the chords and the recording of the breakdown sounds almost like it came out of a Naked City session; it's a much clearer recording and, side-by-side with the version off of My Love..., I think I would be hard pressed to pick a superior one.
"Dating Pressures" is pure awesometasticness. If you haven't turned your stereo up yet, you will for this one. I want to say it reminds me a bit of Rapeman's "Trouser Minnow", what with Creston's sprechstimme vocals buried under the tension-building descending up-down dyad progression verse. But then the chorus comes in and breaks your fucking coffee table and punches a hole in the drywall.
"My Father's Life's Work" sounds pretty much like the version on My Love...
"Probölkoc" shows off Trudeau's talent for syncopated drum patterns - which, by the way, I've tried counting to at least three times so far and I'm not even sure this is in a three or four - while Creston and Tanner take the rhythmic lead, and they take it all over the place, too, going from a simple, chugging figure to punk and noise breaks. It's essentially what math rock ought to be.
"Smile" is a rumbling little bit with an aggressive snare-on-the-down-beat drum track and heavily echo'd vocals that could easily be a Damaged outtake. This is the one that the younguns will break the furniture to as they scream along the words they don't know. So hire a babysitter. I once read a review of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" (song, not record) that said that "Paranoid" was (and I'm paraphrasing from memory here) "the finest minute and fifty seconds of white boy angst". Well, "Smile" is two minutes and thirty five seconds and it's better than paranoid. I don't know if you have to be white or angsty to get down with this song, but it certainly is young and masculine (not macho) sounding. The song ends with a sample of a stadium crowd cheering.
"Jim's Polish" and "F.S.T.P." are pretty much how we found them on My Love..., though "F.S.T.P" has a xylophone on it.
"Anthem" sounds like it should have been on The Pleaser - Wait. It was on The Pleaser, at least my copy has it. That's fucking weird. Over at RYM, "Anthem" is not listed as being on The Pleaser. Well, anyway, this version includes a nice blues breakdown and solo that isn't featured on the version that I guess is on my copy of The Pleaser but no other ones or something. OK.
No really, this bugs me out. Maybe RYM is wrong. I mean, it is based on user submissions like Wikipedia. And we know how trustworthy Wikipedia is.
So, anyway, Harvey Milk is probably more for completists, truth be told. It's just got early recordings of songs you can find on other records. These are still good versions, though; like I said, "Plastic Eggs" is scarier than hell and "Merlin is Magic" is definitely worth checking out for exhibiting what the difference in recording technique alone can reveal. And there's some stuff you wouldn't have heard otherwise.
Next time on "The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band)...
2010's A Small Turn of Human Kindness, which M. called dibs on.

15 July, 2013

"Leviathan" was an OK movie aside from the last five minutes.

For real, 1989 saw a lot of underwater sci-fi / horror / thriller movies, but only one had Peter Weller, and that was Leviathan.
So, hey, just a quick heads up, I am going to discuss only the end of this movie, so if you don't want to know how the movie ends, leave now. Otherwise, you've had twenty four years to watch this thing, I don't want to hear any bitching because I tell you how it ends.
First of all, Leviathan is one of those rare sci-fi horror thrillers that move at a snail's pace, building tension the entire time with a few roller coaster moments when the monster - the believably explained monster that we catch only a few glimpses of - up and offs someone. Basically, it's pretty much how the critics back in the day put it: It's just like Alien... except it's underwater: Weyland-Yutani wanted the Xenomorph and consider the crew of the mining freighter Nostromo to be expendable. (That was Alien.) Tri-Oceanic wants the creature and considers the crew of the underwater mining facility Shack Seven expendable. (That's Leviathan.) So there's that.
Also, just as a quick aside, the amount of workplace sexual harassment depicted in that movie is kind of like "Wha? ... OK, I, uh, guess."
But then comes the last five minutes, that doesn't really ask you to suspend your sense of disbelief or get all wonky... Just joking, it totally does that. We finally have the big reveal for the monster, which looks like it would be more at home in the kind of 50s B-movie that got played at drive-in double features. It's basically a giant fish monster. The special effects crew did do a bang up job with the animatronics on the monster and the exterior or shell or skin or whatever you call it doesn't look all fakey like foam rubber but it's a giant fish monster and it looks as ridiculous it sounds.
In fact, it reminded me of these cheesy aliens I drew last summer...

I bet you're just fuckin' horrified right now, aint you?
So, anyway, with Ernie Hudson and Amanda Pays floating to the surface of the ocean, Peter Weller is still down in Shack Seven with the monster. Mind you, the monster has absorbed the memories of the other five crew members - seriously, that was part of the good part of the movie aka the first ninety three minutes - so it's cut off the air supply to Shack Seven meaning that Shack Seven is about to become depressurized and implode, so he's going to escape... You know, kind of exactly like how Sigourney Weaver had to escape from the Nostromo that was about to self-destruct with the Xenomorph on it? Yeah.
It's in the course of Peter Weller escaping that the monster's face gets caught in the elevator shaft and blood comically sprays all over the helmet of Peter Weller's scuba suit. Then Peter Weller just sraight up bounces out onto the ocean floor and watches as Shack Seven implodes and then begins his ascent to the surface.
Of course, since Ernie Hudson and Amanda Pays left Shack Seven for the surface whole damned minutes before Peter Weller did while Peter Weller made it a point of fucking with the monster that was only going to die in the implosion anyway, they all arrive at the surface at exactly the same time. And it's after all the drama, after all the intrigue and brooding speculative investigation, after all the jumps and starts, and after a halfway forgiveably laughable looking fish monster through the first hour and a half of the movie, that, for some dumb-assed reason, that the screenwriter decided to, you know, for no reason at all, bust out some sharks. The three survivors freak out moderately as the sharks, you know, don't actually attack and Ernie Hudson, I shit you not, says, "Talk about a bad day!"
What the fuck just happened? That's how we're handling this now? A cheese ball line like that after all of that beautiful suspense?
And then, motherfucking then the sharks just take off and the Coast Guard shows up to pick up the survivors when, of course, the creature comes out of the water, bigger and cheesier than ever and, because, I mean, he is the black guy and, come on, we know how this works, attacks Ernie Hudson.
Does Peter Weller go back to save Ernie Hudson? No, because everybody knows Ernie Hudson is dead at this point. No Peter Weller goes back to rip off one more movie: Specifically, the end of Jaws when Roy Scheider says, "Smile, you son of a bitch!" and then shoots the oxygen tank is Jaws's mouth. Yeah, except Peter Weller says, "Say 'ah', motherfucker!" and then throws a grenade or a depth charge or whatever kind of pull-and-throw explosive an underwater mining crew would have - and check the fuck out of this shit out - right into the creature's mouth. Which, you know, blows the monster up.
So then, back on the safety of Tri-Oceanic's offshore oil rig, Meg Foster - who is the evil head of Tri-Oceanic and wanted, like I told you earlier, the creature for R&D - comes up to Peter Well and Amanda Pays and gives them some bullshit line about how she was anxious to launch an emergency evacuation but nobody at the company would believe her and then asks Peter Weller how he's feeling, at which point Peter Weller just straight coldcocks her, you know, as they do in the movies where you can knock a person out with one punch, and says, "Much better," and then the movie just ends. You know, kind of like how he shot Ronny Cox out the window of OCP HQ at the end of Robocop and Dan O'Herlihy asks him his name and Peter Weller just says, "Murphy," and the movie just ends.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that the score to the end of the movie is wrong wrong wrong. Like there's this big, peppy, soaring, jovial score, like a military marching band type of thing. Everywhere else in the movie, the soundtrack is completely appropriate. And here? Here it's just distracting, misplaced.
So, there you go. That's how Leviathan ends. udging from the ending alone, it's kind of hard to tell that it's actually a good movie.

13 July, 2013

The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band), Episode 5: Life... The Best Game in Town

A Sound Design and Assembly Original Miniseries
Produced by M. Martin
Tonight: 2008's Life... The Best Game in Town
Written by Charlie Pauken
So, last week's episode was hampered by a dying computer and that I got drunk while trying to cope with that doing the best I could OK, so I got drunk. I had to work for twenty minutes, let the thing cool down for twenty minutes, work again for twenty, do dick all for twenty... like that.
This week, I come to you from my new lappie 'puter and the only beer I have in me right now is a root beer. Also? Two junior roast beefs from Arby's because fuck you.
In the two years since putting out the best record ever made, Harvey Milk return slightly to their earlier efforts with Life... The Best Game in Town, opening with "Death Goes to the Winner", featuring a gentle lyrical guitar intro with harmonized vocals evoking imagery of Christmas time before the song, you guessed it, goes bang for the chorus. If you think Pixies or Nirvana cornered the market on the loud-quiet-loud angle, then you've not heard "Death Goes to the Winner". The song goes back to the intro figure for the second verse and then the big bang chorus and then there's the four minute, nineteen second outro, and this song is seven minutes fifty five seconds. That's right: Nearly half this song is the outro. Who did you think you were listening to, anyway? Has nothing I've mentioned about this band sank in? And then, of course, the lyrics in the outro reference Velvet Underground's "Waiting For The Man" because, just like I ate two Arby's junior roast beefs, fuck you.
And then, just to let you know the song is over, I guess, there's a big piano chord.
To kick off "Decades", Kyle Spence's drum kit is given the old "When the Levee Breaks" treatment with the reverb. This song was featured on some NPR show a few years back, right around the time Life... was released, obviously, and there were, what I'm sure, two Ira Glass looking motherfuckers - every male voice on NPR sounds like he looks like Ira Glass to me except for David Sedaris who, for some reason, I see as a clean-shaven Ben Kingsley in my mind's eye - talking about new indie releases for that month and how there's this band called Harvey Milk that takes it's name from the celebrated GLBT politician and civil rights activist and how the band sound nothing like one would expect because apparently A) the only thing that ever was about Harvey Milk, the man, was that he was gay and that informed all of his decisions from his plumbing fixtures to his breakfast cereal because GAY! all the time, you know and B) when all there is about a person is their sexual alignment, the only things that can be associated with them is shitty club music or probably because these two Ira Glass looking motherfuckers have never heard anything heavier than the Vines' "Get Free" coming from the headphones of the stock boy next to them at the Whole Foods that one time. And considering that "Decades" is perhaps one of the most accessible (and, frankly, Zeppelin-esque) songs in Harvey Milk's canon, using all the Jimmy Page reverb tricks, like reverse echo and the aforementioned drum sound and even nicking a few Page/Jones moves, that shows you what the music goons at NPR knew. And they wonder why I don't pledge.
"After All I've Done For You, This Is How You Repay Me?" is just one big ball of riff that makes you want to put down your guitar because, fuck, now you're done. How are they pulling that off? It's enough to make me want to say something shitty about Reign in Blood, it's that good.
"Skull Socks & Rope Shoes" exhibits Harvey Milk pulling off that fine southern-blues-metal-dirge that they pull off so well. I hesitate to say that it's a return to form for them since, as I've explained in previous episodes, they really don't have a form; they just do whatever the hell they want, that is to say whatever they have a genuine interest in, not just dicking around and genre hopping for its own sake. "Skull Socks & Rope Shoes" is probably as fine a primer as you'll find for the uninitiated.
"We Destroy the Family" is a Fear cover with a vaguely funk inspired guitar and bass interplay over taut, syncopated heavy metal tom pounding over spastic kick-snare work reminiscent almost of 80s industrial drum machines and "TV Party"-esque chants. Oh, and I forgot to mention the almost surf inspired guitar solo. Writing it out, it sounds like it shouldn't work. But remember who we're talking about here. They can pull it off.
"Motown" doesn't sound like anything that ever came out of Motown, before you ask. It's actually a relaxing anthemic number, if you can think of what that would sound like. Wait. You don't have to think about it, you can actually listen to this song and then you'll know what a relaxing anthem sounds like.
"A Maelstrom of Bad Decisions" harkens back to "Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I" off of My Love is Higher Than Your Assessment of What My Love Could Be, the songs could be fraternal twins, really.
"Roses" begins with a piano and vocal intro that's been missing from the last two records and then the whole thing moves into Queen levels of bombast before a brief breakdown and then back into the big arena-reaching howls and soaring arrangement before going back into the breakdown passage again before one last, let's face it, Queen-esque outro.
"Barn Burner" is exactly what the title says it is and it features vocals by some bloke named Andrew Prater that perfectly match with the feeling of the song and Tanner is playing bass faster than humans should be allowed to. For real, why was this band never the biggest in the world?
"Good Bye Blues" sounds pretty final (don't worry, there are two more LPs left) in both title and tone, it sounds like Harvey Milk giving their audience one last taste before they hang it up. Again. (You'll certainly note that there was a nine year gap between The Pleaser and Special Wishes.) That the band could disappear all over again was always on the table, and they do nothing to assuage that fear by playing the closing theme from Looney Tunes at the end of this album closer. And when I say "play", I mean they perform it. It's not a sample, it's the band playing the goddamned closing them from goddamned Looney Tunes
As far as bands that get back together - the dreaded reunion - when Harvey Milk got back together, they didn't coast on playing their hits, no; they picked up where they left off and kept moving forward. How's that for a reunion? And this slab of heavy was their second outing into the reunion. How can you beat that?
Next time on "The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band)...
2009's Harvey Milk

08 July, 2013

Hey, Charlie, what happened to Butt Week?

... is a question that nobody ever asks.
To put it simply, the exhaust fan on my 'puter died and I had to drop five hundy on a brand new 'puter that's twice as fast with nearly three times as much memory. So Butt Week got cut a little short; not to mention the 'puter tragedy, which limits my time with my laptop to about fifteen or twenty minutes before it overheats and shuts itself off, hilariously butchered any attempt I tried with the review of Special Wishes I tried to accomplish on Saturday. And trust me, when you have absolutely nothing to do but repeatedly wait for a laptop to cool down so that you can resume working on a project, you have few options with how you spend your time. You know how I chose to spend mine: With a six pack of Kirin Ichiban.
Anyhow, while I should've celebrated the end of Butt Week on Saturday, I'm just now getting around to it. Better late than never, and as the graphic shows, this hasn't killed Butt Week, it's only made it stronger.

06 July, 2013

The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band), Episode 4: Special Wishes

A Sound Design and Assembly Original Miniseries
Produced by M. Martin
Tonight: 2006's Special Wishes
Written by Charlie Pauken
OK OK OK, I know I make this joke a lot but seriously, if you do not love this record, you and I seriously, and I'm serious, now, for real, you and I seriously have to reconsider our friendship.
There are very few records in the universe that could be considered perfect to my ears. Marquee Moon, Entertainment!, Pink Flag, Ace of Spades, Mclusky Do Dallas, and in that group belongs Special Wishes.
It's more than a mere metal record, it is Harvey Milk's magnum opus.
It begins with the slower than molasses in January dirge, "I've Got a Love", and you'll know the name of the song because Creston belts out those words at the very opening in that unearthly howl of his: "I've got a love, hot-rod ride, push-button start and five wheel drive." And from there, the pastiche of imagery he conjures may as well be a slow summation of Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!; the lyrics are almost comically masculine and sexy and the music is the sound of a werewolf being birthed; to make another movie reference, the loud, ascending movement in the song could easily be laid over the top of the initial transformation scene from An American Werewolf In London. Basically, folks, if you want to fuck slowly and deliberately on shrooms, this is the song you put on a loop; if you want to feel the force of your chi push out through your ribs, this is the soundtrack.
These are your oats, horsey, and it's only the first song.
"War" follows "I've Got a Love" with a threatening march that transfers to a lurching herky-jerky dizzying piece of drop-dead tight heavy metal that, while not complex or complicated, would probably throw even the cantankerous Zappa for a loop.
Yeah. That's right. I said it. Zappa. What? Show me "the black page". Get at me, you fuck.
"War" is the exactly the kind of mid-tempo metal Melvins wished that they could have perfected on Stoner Witch.
"Crush Them All" is the blues but the special kind of blues that sucks the breath from your lungs with its minimalism. "Crush Them All" is the sound of seeing all those empty bottles of Cutty Sark laying on their sides next to over-stuffed ashtrays and unopened condom packs in the morning and regret settling in. The lyrics here play on old sayings with lines like "curiosity aint what's killing me" and so on. A little more of a taste?
And wouldn't you agree about that famous tree?
If no one was around it didn't fall at all.
I couldn't even care if someone had been there.
When it fell and crushed them all down.
Jesus wept, man. Those are a thing of beauty. Especially when the back drop is that slow pummeling from Tanner's descending bass line, rich with low end and Creston's guitar set to the sound of a goddamned circular saw and new drummer Kyle Spence's unrelenting crash cymbal bashing. For real, this song will fuck up your whole universe. Like the rest of the record, it's a chemical peel for your ears. This number should send you into slowmotion epileptic convulsions.
"Once In a While" is a gentle, introspective respite from the heaviness with what sounds like a piano low in the mix but that could be my untrustworthy ears pulling a trick on me. It's a ballad with an easy one two three four ascending melody line. After all of the violence and suffocation of the first three songs, there's a reassurance in being told "everything will be alright".
"Instrumental" is an instrumental. Well, not really. It's industrial strength paint stripper. It's a fucking power-washer. You could hose down a sweaty elephant with "Instrumental". I mean, really, this thing will just slash through all of your preconceived notions of what constitutes an instrumental. It's a piece that doesn't need words and one of the number in Harvey Milk's canon that displays not merely the competency of the musicians in this band but the prowess and thoughtfulness and dexterity. You wish your band was this good. I wish my band was this good. Ferfucksake, man.
"The End"? Get the fuck out of here with "The End". "You say your life's been unkind, sounds a lot like mine", is the opening line and if you ever had a problem with Creston's voice, you need to listen to this. Through all of the heaviness of the song, juxtaposed with gentle chiming guitars, Creston is singing in a mellifluous voice he hasn't previously used and then harmonizing with himself in the overdubs with intervals reminiscent of the Beatles. You know the Beatles. They're that band that everybody seems to really like. I presume that even the most slavish devotee to Lennon/McCartney would have to admit that there's a bit of White Album in those harmonies. And it's precisely this exploration of vocal layering that would go on to inform the intro to "Death Goes to the Winner" on 2008's Life... The Best Game in Town. Couple this with flourishes of electric piano and you've got nothing but the most succinct amalgamation of Beatles-minded composition and metal ever since some jag-off critic announced that Superunknown was a Black Sabbath record written by the Beatles.
Oh, shit, son. Get ready for "Love Swing". You should look at your list of life goals and crumble it up and throw it in the fucking compost heap because your new life goal from here on out is to fuck to "Love Swing". To break with being so phallic-minded, may I address the ladies?
Ladies, may I implore you? The next time you find yourself the proud queen of conquest, put on "Love Swing". Celebrate yourself. Mount that hot twenty year old stud, blow his mind through the back of his skull and into the neighbor's dining room. Make that young'un beg for more. Wreck him. Give him scoliosis. Make him walk home with a damned limp and red marks on his neck. Ladies, this song belongs on your "Fuck Jams" mix tape if you haven't put it on there already.
Everything on this record sounds like ascension. Everything on this record sounds like rising. Spiritual separation from the corporeal vessel. Ecstasy. Many records seek to attain this emotive response and only few can pull it off. I've listed the few that do it to me above, I probably left a few out, but, for sure, this record does precisely that.
"Old Glory" is a nice little piece of patriotism without being nationalist, enough to make me not want to move to Canada. Well, maybe not enough to make me not want to move to Canada. There's certainly a Friday Night Lights vibe going on here but what can you do? It's still a fun romp, really, and the finger work on the guitar is impressive with a nice little flourish of arena cock-rock coming from both speakers. It really is the one song on the record that makes me uncomfortable but that's because I'm a stinking pinko. So if you watch FOX News and believe any word out of their talking heads, well, A) you and I won't see eye to eye on this record and B) I'm not sure that I can talk to you anymore. I've got a cousin that watches FOX News. I don't ever talk to him. It's like that. But I'm not getting a Rupert Murdoch vibe from this song; it's a song about being proud of your country and fighting wrongs and striving to find a justification behind empty symbolism that any nutter in the tea party could misinterpret, sure, and listening to this song won't make you more forgiving of the Democratic party's move to centro-conservatism but it might make you think a little, I guess.
Whatever. Fuck it. We're not here to discuss politics. I'm just trying to write a goddamned record review that only three people will read. One of whom has not been writing a damned thing during this car wreck, M. I'm actually writing this on a dying computer that I have to replace soon. The exhaust fan has died and now I have about twenty minutes at a time to write before the fucking thing overheats.
So, M., really, can you pick up some of my slack next weekend? Just until the new laptop arrives. Otherwise, our readers will get bullshit reviews like this. And, you know, this whole thing was your idea. I'm not trying to be pissy, but this is the fifth time I've opened the computer and I got this other shit to deal with on top of a busted laptop.
Why do I get the feeling that I'm totally Prindling this review?
I mean, cripes, this is one of the best records ever recorded and now I'm totally biffing it.
So thank the sweet baby Jesus that this is the last song, "Mother's Day". It begins with organ and violin in a composition that should be a traditional piece. It really should.
And, mon petit illiterati, if you want to do your mamas proud, kindly raise your drink with this song at maximum volume. Prost, skoll, and slainte to the woman who let her vagina get ripped up into a Freddy Krueger face so that you could suck air, you ingrate. Maybe your mother doesn't dig metal, maybe your mother doesn't dig opera (yes, this song is operatic, just a heads up), maybe your mother doesn't understand half the weirdo shit you get yourself into but, hey, I got lucky. My mom is cool as fuck. She got me Big Black's Songs About Fucking one Xmas when I was sixteen and the Jesus Lizard's Liar the next when I was seventeen (or maybe it was Scratch Acid's Greatest Gift). She understands that intent overrides presentation. So I send her this song on Mother's Day, she tells me it sounds like "Bohemian Rhapsody". It doesn't, but at least she appreciates it. She shakes her ass to Queens of the Stone Age, she don't give a fuck. She put up with a whole fuck ton of noise from some little rotten bastard kid's bedroom for eons and then just supplied him with more noise. So if you have a mom who is cool as fuck, this is the song you send her. If your mom isn't cool, I can't help you. Maybe, you know, pick up a card at the pharmacy, put a gift card to Denny's in it. All I'm saying is that if your mom is cool as fuck, you send her this song on Mother's Day, let her know that it was cool as shit that she let you suck air, let her know that it was cool as shit that she encouraged all - OK, maybe only a few - of your half-brained schemes at finding your identity.
And if she can't get down with this song, then you two seriously need to reevaluate your relationship.
Long and short of it? This record is the best record in the world and anybody who tells me otherwise is just plain goddamned wrong.
I'm also kind of drunk right now because I've had to write this post in installments on a busted laptop.
You know what? Fuck you. Some kind soul has put the whole thing on YouTube. Consider your next forty five minutes are accounted for, you damnable twat.
Feel it.
Next time on "The Life and Times of Harvey Milk (The Band)...
Either M. Martin will pick up some slack or 2008's Life... The Best Game in Town

01 July, 2013

It's a Butt Week conspiracy!

So, for some reason, I went about Googling "Butt Week" and what I find is that there's another Butt Week, apparently it has a campaign to go along with it, started by a woman named Natalia Reagan inspired by an idea from Stephen Colbert in July 2011. You know, one year after I conjured up the idea of Butt Week all on my goddamned lonesome. Don't believe me? Click that link to see where I officially declared the last week of June / first week of July as Butt Week on 2 July 2010, then check out Stephen Colbert rallying his "nation" to call for NBC to inaugurate a Butt Week on 21 July 2011, three hundred eighty four days after I had the idea.
Now, there's certainly no reason that there can't be two Butt Weeks but I want some recognition, so I'm going to officially declare that Sound Design and Assembly's Butt Week henceforth be known as Sound Design and Assembly's Original Butt Week or Butt Week, the Sound Design and Assembly Original, or maybe just even Original Butt Week, The Butt Week, The Original and Best Butt Week, the Original Week of Butts Brought to You by Sound Design and Assembly or maybe Butt Week, Not That Bullshit Version that Stephen Fucking Colbert Ripped Off from Me That Someone Else Took to Promote Colon Cancer Awareness. Or how about no? How about I just keep calling my Butt Week "Butt Week" and make everybody else fuck off and they change their goddamned name? How about that, huh? I came up with Butt Week, I'm keeping Butt Week, and I'm celebrating the only Butt Week I know. The Butt Week that I started, the Butt Week that I gave you, the Butt Week where we sit around and talk about butts and enjoy the delicious coincidence that had "Baby Got Back" come on the radio after midnight on Sunday morning, practically kicking off Butt Week for me. The Butt Week where we're happy about asses of all kinds here in the hallowed halls of SD&A. The kind of Butt Week where everybody's looking for anal sex because fuck it - no, literally fuck it - it's Butt Week, goddamnit, our Butt Week.
Seacrest out.
 
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