Inside the Actor's Studio

I guess Jon Voight or James Woods won't be available.

"There you go again."

I did hear that the new pretzeldent named Leon Czolgosz as company man and much panty twisting ensued. Bet it was torture.

"Groan."












Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week. Enjoy the veal -- wait! Give me your bread! Look! It's Jesus! I think I'm gonna sell it on Ebay.

Anger management

I see that the Lord of All Fevers and Plagues took time out of gnawing on the disinterred bones of Nixon to wax poetic on modern American political theory:

SCHIEFFER: But nobody thinks that was legal.

CHENEY: Well, no. It certainly was in the sense he wasn't impeached. And it was a wartime measure that he took that I think history says today, yeah, that was probably a good thing to do.

Believe me, I'm well aware that any sense of justice has been off the table in our empire for a long time. We're no different from world powers of the past. At this point, I'd settle for a serious shoe-tossing at Unka Dick.

Thankfully, during preparation for finding further ways to increase the blood pressure, bring on a series of ulcers and imagine the infliction of deep psychological pain on these thugs and their spineless enablers -- see, even us non-fascists have naughty thoughts now and then, don't let anyone tell you otherwise -- I discovered something that demanded I cast aside my bloodlust and instead embrace joyous laughter:

"I've survived interviews with Keith Olbermann, testified before Congress, prevented voter fraud from overturning the results of a U.S. presidential election and fought the left in federal court more times than you can imagine," Blackwell said last month as he announced his candidacy. "I have been tried and tested, though I'll admit that I've never been called 'mavericky' by Tina Fey."

I'm sure you've been called an asshole, a wingnut, an Uncle Tom, a criminal, a puppet, a --

"Shhh! You want to deal with his Schutzstaffel?"





















Go, Ken Doll, go.

Wild cat, wild thing, wild side, wild something

"The power of McNabb compels you!"

Atlanta at Arizona: Atlanta is Example #17296 illustrating the frustration of being a Browns fan: four wins, the cloud of Dog the Quarterback hovering above, the coach up and quitting on the team before the season is over, the malaise of being in one of America's shittiest sporting towns. So what happens? A rookie coach leads a rookie quarterback, for my money, the most impressive since Dan Marino -- shut up, Steelers fans, look at the fucking team that was around Roethlisberger -- starts 16 games, actually makes plays beyond "game management" and, with the help of 1600-yard free agent signee Michael Turner, goes 11-5, whereas Brady Quinn will no doubt break his leg in week 6 next season. Then there's Danny's fucking Dolphins going from 1-15 to 11-5. Fuckity fuckity fuck. Oh, yeah, this game. Hey, how 'bout that Kurt Warner, huh? One more thing: NFL Network knuckleheads -- I'm looking at you, Rod Woodson -- Chris Johnson was NOT the Rookie of the Year. A running back splitting time on a team whose strength is their defense against a quarterback in that situation? Dumbass. Falcons, 28-20.

Indianapolis at San Diego: The World's Greatest Quarterback® -- quiet, Bah-ston, your dude hasn't played since September -- is on a serious roll. But guess who led the NFL in ever important yards/attempt and TD passes? Yep, the guy with the funkiest delivery since Bernie Kosar. Tomlinson -- NOT LT, that was Lawrence Taylor, you fuckers -- is nearing the glue factory, but expect lots of weirdness, as is usually the case when these two meet (Vinatieri shanking a chip shot, Billy Volek to Darren Sproles). Colts, 33-24.

Baltimore at Miami: I know that a game that took place nearly two pretzeldential terms ago when only a handful of personages remain the same, but I can't shake the feeling that the same result will occur. Both teams play tough D, run the ball and ask their quarterbacks to not fuck up (the Dolphins, along with the Giants, turned the ball over only thirteen times; that simply doesn't happen). I'd love to see Ray Lewis resort to reliving Gladiator in his front yard after tomorrow, but The Fucking Ravens live on another week. Baltimore, 23-10.

Philadelphia at Minnesota: The prodigious powers of Purple Jesus notwithstanding, does anyone envision Tavaris Jackson being able to stand upright after the blitzkrieg flurry of destruction that Jim Johnson is going to unleash? En plus, Donovan has been here and Brian Westbrook is this era's Marshall Faulk. Ignore the 9-6-1 record, it's not out of the realm of possibility to see these guys in Tampa in early February. Eagles, 27-17.

Same ole song and dance

If I may be permitted to alter the words of the late, great Jose Chung:

"Well, all's well that ends well. Though that's easy for Shakespeare to say -- he'll be around for another year. But what of our own year? Will it all end well? No one can know, but that of course doesn't stop anyone from guessing. And the nature of those predictions always revolve around the usual suspects: salvation and/or self-satisfaction. With that in mind, I humbly add my own prophecy of what the dawn of the new year shall bring forth: three hundred sixty-five days of the same, old crap."

Rembrandt Q. Einstein's Seventieth Annual List of the Top Ten Three Classical Albums of the Year!

One would assume that when preparing the packaging for an orchestral CD or DVD, one wouldn't use a shot where the conductor looks like he just stubbed his toe or is dealing with a severe case of constipation.

Anyway, why only three? Because only three of the classical CDs I bought this year were actually released between January 1 and right now. Believe me, there exists an extensive list of stuff I need want, but my sometimes-better-half continually bitches about these things called "bills." I told her I don't know anyone named Bill. Then she, in her righteous anger, chopped my head off. Then I woke up. It's very strange to be staring at your headless corpse from across the room. At least it was only a dream. For now. On to the list.

1. Osmo Vänskä, conductor, Ludwig van Beethoven, symphonies nos. 2 and 7. Harnoncourt's early 1990s take on these greatest of all musical works is still sitting on top of the mountain, but the climax of this series inches these fresh views on The Nine ever closer. Crisp, clear, muscular and, according to the experts who actually know something about musical theory, pretty damn exact when it comes to following the Maestro's markings for tempi and such. All I know is that this bloody fucking brilliant playing stirs the soul. It's so easy to screw up something this involved, this large and Vänskä erases any fears of that within the first measures.


2. Steven Osborne and Alban Gerhardt, Charles-Valentin Alkan and Frédéric Chopin, cello sonatas. Both of these composers, one legendary and one far less known than he should be, are synonymous with the piano. You'll be disabused of that notion after hearing these wonderful works. Don't get me wrong, the piano writing is stellar, but the interplay between the keys and the cello's lower registers in the propulsive, thick Alkan piece and the lighter one of Chopin shows that there was more than high-wire virtuosity to these gents. If there's a highlight in this brilliant disc, it has to be Alkan's weeping adagio.


3. Rachel Barton Pine, Ludwig van Beethoven and Franz Clement, violin concertos. If you've read anything on Beethoven, there are plenty of composers, dedicatees and musicians name-dropped within the text, violinist Franz Clement being one of them. This is the world-premiere recording of his work and if it isn't on the same level as Beethoven's -- impossible, really -- it's pretty goddamn good in its own right. Very lyrical, but not showboaty, certainly a beautiful work that goes far beyond being a mere historical curiosity. And the Beethoven ain't too shabby, either.


Gothic Voices, The Medieval Romantics. One other album that I already have but has long been out of print was happily rereleased this year, and if you dig vocal music, you should definitely pick it up. Don't let the fact that it consists of 14th and 15th century French tunes scare you. That first track is pure ear candy.

Handsome B. Wonderful's Thirty-Fifth Annual List of the Top Ten Rock Albums of the Year!

"Your favorite band does suck, dickhead."

Let me apologize in advance, for here's entry #14,744,536 of The Tunes Some Jerk On The Internets Liked A Whole Lot. At least I'm not a paid rock critic, which means I don't have a failed musician axe to grind, plus I actually paid cold, hard cash for my CDs. Yes, CDs. Fuck you bastards and your internetual downloadery.

As I stated last time out with much fanfare, i.e. used about 92% more words then necessary, this really isn't a top ten --or thirteen in the case of rock and/or roll because thirteen is evil, though not as evil as 666, but I haven't heard 666 new albums this year -- because tastes can, through internal alterations due to often external stimuli, change. Taking 2007 for example, Witchcraft would definitely move up a few notches and I would probably shuffle The White Stripes' Icky Thump to #2 since that's what I've probably spun the most save the Moonsorrow since then. En plus, I didn't pick up the new Deathspell Omega -- hey, The End Records, where's my fucking EP? I preordered that fucker, goddammit -- album until after I posted and I don't know how many times I've gotten my Cosmic Satan Groove on to that platter. My point is thus: #12 -- hell, #23 in a good year -- is probably just as stellar as #2; it's all about the mood, which can transmute at the drop of a wizard's hat or an unmentionable. Anyway, on to the list.

1. Opeth, Watershed. Hey, I already reviewed this, dammit. Just go buy the motherfucker unless you want me to laugh at you throw rotten vegetables at you send Chuck Norris send Dick Cheney after you. I'm far too lazy to write up a quality summary of a bad review of a great album, but here's a stab if you're far too lazy to click on the link: Yes and Deep Purple play death metal. Of course it's not all cookie monster bludgeoning, that's what makes these Swedes so bloody good, a brilliant usage of dynamics. Oh, and those heavy riffs.


2. Jill Tracy, The Bittersweet Constrain. Hey, I already reviewed this, too, dammit. Failure to buy this one warrants a visit from Kinda Sleazy, where she will expound on the neoconservative worldview in between breaks of her interminably long recital and displays of the fruits of her footwear shopping. Trust me, you'd much rather have Jill playing piano in your living room. Shorter: sultry, noirish tales of love and murder in the dark.


3. Esoteric, The Maniacal Vale. Sludgy, funeral doom at its finest, i.e. fifteen-minute pits of undulating, morbid despair and suffering where everything is tinted black and hopelessness is the coat you wear out into the cold, knowing full well that you're going to freeze to death, regardless of your routine, increasingly faithless protections against the inevitable. And there's two CDs worth of this stuff! Even crazy heshers have to be in a mood for this hypnotic hell, but luckily for you blokes, I usually am 23.5 hours a day, thus spend my American dollars wisely. Something misanthropic.


4. Revue Noir, Anthology Archive. Verily, shall there be anoythere revywedd albume on thy liste! An inviting, sexy tour de oh yeah of jazzy, ethereal cabaret songsmithing that makes you pine for the heady days of Weimar or any cosmopolitan, turn-of-the-century metropolis. And a companion that can belt 'em out like this. Garçon, check, please.


5. Enslaved, Vertebrae. A band that can certainly give the imperial Opeth a run for their darkly progressive money, these psychedelic black metal Vikings continue to expand their sonic palette on this, their tenth(!) full-length, leaving pretenders behind to rot in the sun upon the battlefield. Yes, there are atmospheric, cleanly sung Floydian elements in tracks like Clouds and The Watcher, but you'll always have visceral, monster riffs and Grutle Kjellson's gutteral vocals to remind you just who the fuck you're listening to.


6. Agalloch, The White. I reviewed this, too, way back when winter last had us in its icy grip. I don't know why I didn't get around to reviewing the rest on this list. "Laziness." Ahem, this EP is the furthest thing from the cold; a warm, sombre yet inviting work of neo-folk. So for those of you loathing this time of year, here's your chance to escape to the lands of languid sun and shadow. Unless you're into tepid, summery party music, in which case, have some Clear Channel fun instead.


7. The Raconteurs, Consolers of the Lonely. How to build a supergroup: find one -- not three or more, I'm looking at you, Audioslave, man, were you guys fucking boring boring boring -- famous dude/chick, pair him/her up with lesser known, yet skilled songwriters/players, then rock the fuck out. As good as Broken Boy Soldiers was, that was a haphazardly cobbled freshman term paper compared to the postgraduate rock work going on here. Like The White Stripes, lots of styles are thrown in the blender, and Brendan Benson's classic 70s singer-songwriter voice nicely compliments Jack White's rock god chops. A fun (Hold Up), emotional (You Don't Understand Me), rockin'(Salute Your Solution) record.


8. Moonsorrow, Tulimyrsky. The mighty Finns follow up last year's emotionally crushing masterpiece with the world's longest EP, featuring the 29-minute title track which can only be another primal, pagan black/death/folk prog epic, a cover of Metallica's classic For Whom the Bell Tolls (thankfully not a carbon copy, but done in their own unique style -- follow this idea, bands of the world!), a couple of rerecorded demo tracks and a cover of Merciless' Back to North, all in all totaling over an hour. These fuckers can simply do no wrong, assuming they don't switch to techno.

9. Les Fragments de la Nuit, Musique du Crépuscle. Equilibrium does it again, adding yet another masterful neo-classical ensemble to their label. Where do you find such sullen beauty so redolent of a soundtrack to your own interior film? Copious, yet skillfully woven, amounts of violin, cello and piano intermittently entwined by the human voice successfully marry foreboding cold and voluptuous warmth.


10. Gojira, The Way of All Flesh. If the weirdos in Faith No More decided to go all metal, all the time, and were serious-minded, dirty fucking hippie tree huggers from France instead of Bay Area loons, Gojira is what they might sound like. Flush with off-kilter, stop/start riffs, double-bass brutality and a melodicism alternating between lilting and jazz-inflected swing, Gojira masterfully document the emotional and physical fuckery that humanity is perpetrating on itself and the only home it knows. The songs are busy, progressive, but everything makes sense, just like recycling. So bang your head with much drunkenness, but when you're done, throw that empty can of Schlitz in one of those blue bags.


11. A Forest of Stars, The Corpse of Rebirth. Progressive, meandering, post-black metal alchemy best suited for moments, not of clarity, but of welcoming opacity, the journeys we make of the depths within. A scent of the flautist, of subterranean percussion layered with the vastness of a crushing riff carries the listener away from the mundane on the updrafts of male and female vocals; this is the soundscape of quite a faraway place. Of course, if you're one of those happy types, you won't like it one bit, but what the hell are you doing reading this blog anyway?


12. Amanda Palmer, Who Killed Amanda Palmer. The Dresden Dolls' frontwoman's first solo work isn't all that much different from her other band, and that's a good thing. Sure, skinsman Brian Viglione's monster chops are missed, but the sardonic textures remain and Miss Palmer can still write a good fucking song. So think a little bit less cabaret rock backbone and a bit more stringy introspection. I refuse to make any Twin Peaks jokes. Okay: why did the cherry pie cross the road? So it wouldn't get killed like Laura Palmer.

13. I said thirteen, didn't I. Some of the following I've heard in their entirety but haven't yet spent enough time with to make an emotionally-informed judgment, or I just didn't have enough loot to buy all the music that I wanted and felt that listing 30% of an album would be wrong, and if I'm against anything, it's wrong. So choosing between the thrash-is-back of Metallica's Death Magnetic, the precision, old-school brutality of Bloodbath's The Fathomless Mastery, the psychotic dark ambience of Darkspace's Darkspace III, the Viking death marches of Amon Amarth's Twilight of the Thunder God, the ethereal yet organic neo-classicism of Arcana's Raspail, the abyss of stark emptiness that is Nortt's Galgenfrist, the violent catharsis of Hate Eternal's Fury and Flames, the black-n-roll of Satyricon's The Age of Nero, the macabre return of Voltaire with Oooky Spooky, the even longer return of deathly tech/fusion-masters Cynic with Traced In Air and on and on and on is nigh impossible.

Yes, I'm cheating.

This, that and the other thing MMVIII

Post about the Browns? And soul-destroying stat lines like --


















-- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I'd prefer sticking to more lighthearted fare, if you don't mind.


















It's always nice to disconnect for a weekend knowing that when you do climb back in the tubes, you'll return to riotous humor:

As the clock winds down on the Bush administration, historians and critics are coming to grips with how little they know about some of the scandals which helped make the president one of the least popular leaders in modern U.S. history.

Imagine how hilariously heart stopping it'll be when they find out just how deep such blasphemy goes and, for the 974,335,418th time, the filthy commie hippies will have been proven right and for the 974,335,418th time, the filthy commie hippies will subsequently be ignored and then the military/industrial/entertainment/pragmatist complex's favorite game will repeat for the 974,335,419th time. I just hope the teevee robots have hair as cool as Rod the Helmet.
















Speaking of hilarity, how 'bout those little scamps over in the Middle East?

Israel continued pounding targets in the Gaza Strip with airstrikes on Monday and Hamas-backed militants fired a new volley of rockets at the Israeli towns of Ashkelon and Sderot as the current round of hostilities entered a third day.

Israel and Hamas, I'm impressed. No, seriously. All we did was clumsily invade a nation -- granted, in order for our best and brightest to make off with gobs of loot, thereby, along with other unregulated shenanigans, sending the economy into a delicious spiral so the best and brightest can make off with even more gobs of loot, so give us some credit -- whereas you two keep the visceral horror going every second of every day of every year because who knows what real or imagined slight, which can descend from above or manifest in front of you at any time, will send limbs 'a flyin' and blood 'a spatterin'. Kudos.

So, in the spirit of the holidays where all of creation is bound together in some clichéd crap, here's my message to you, brothers, sisters, amoebas:



Oh, and Philly? Thanks.

My love for you is like a truck, berserker!

Between trying to come up with a quality post-Xmas post to post, and all my other important work, I'm simply swamped. Hope everyone got what they wanted unless it conflicts with anything I'd want.

Have a good weekend, ladies and germs, and see you next week.

I hate Christmas

If you know me even a little, and my condolences if you do, you are well aware of my venomous disdain for Christmas. All holidays save Halloween, really, and even that with all those sugared rugrats can get annoying at times. That's why I like to keep all the lights off and let those bastards assume a serial killer lives here, biding his time through sharpening knives and painting clowns. Maybe it's a burnt out parenting thing; everyone either wants to see the mutants or they won't leave me alone. You with kids know exactly what I'm talking about. Or maybe the antisocialism (patriotism!) is simply increasing geometrically with each passing year. It's certainly not a novel sentiment --

"I see Captain Obvious has returned."

-- as I'm merely one of millions who engage in such officially frowned-upon aversion to banality, but for those of you that enjoy such pointless comings and goings draped in tinsel and turtlenecks splattered with egg nog, don't waste your valuable time nor mine trying to convince me, religiously or atheistically, as to why Xmas is numero primo supérieure and I won't do the same, except in reverse. Have you ever tried driving in reverse like a faux Steve McQueen in an over-the-top action movie? Me neither.













I imagine that once upon a time, many a lady and a few dudes would have liked a Steve McQueen for Xmas. I know my wife, one among many a lady and a few dudes, would like one of these:















I wouldn't mind his bank account and house in France, I can tell you that, the fucking bastard.

"Oh, that's fair. Just because he's talented and handsome and you're untalented and ugly is no reason to cast aspersions at the man."

True, as he's starred in many of my favorite movies.

Where was I?

"About to post a scantily-clad picture of what you want for Xmas, no doubt."















Well, yeah, but I'm also well aware of the impossibility of her ever appearing under my tree. I'm thinking something far more plausible: the elimination of Xmas itself. Which is proving more difficult than I had imagined, as my campaign to replace it with what it replaced isn't going too well. No one wants to subvert The Man even if just for a week? Quel dilemme.

A new tack; let's try The Reason For The Season®.














Everyone loves Santa Claus, right? Especially if it's Lightly Painted®, all jolly and drunken as he passes out cheap Chinese trinkets soon lost in a crumpled avalanche of glossy wrapping paper strewn at the feet of wingnut relatives, the ribbons hastily torn off by miniature candy cane fiends as they, in unquiet desperation, try keeping them on their heads while sprinting around the house like coked-up Larry Kudlows chasing after the last hooker but fail miserably because the glue has worn off.

Vomit.

On the flip side, no one loves monsters, and that's where the krampus enters the picture. Whether you were good or bad, it doesn't matter to this vile beast. And don't concern yourself about the receipt of lumpy coal either. You're getting a good birching.














Okay, given our cynical, postmodern age, perhaps a monster is too melodramatic. Those folks don't look too scared, do they. Plus there's that inconvenient notion about monsters not being real.

"Yeah, there's that."

Au contraire, mon esprit, unholy creatures do exist.

Wait, I simply want Xmas to go away, not set in motion a wave of unfettered cannibalism.

Back to the drawing board.

Hmm.

Do I get to choose who gets eaten?

Toxic Garbage Island

"That sounds about right."

Oh, poor brain, you're still out of it, huh.

"Sorry, I couldn't be of more help, slacker."

That's fine, you bastard.

"Hey, I've given you suggestions. Unka Dick, Rickie the Homophobe."

Yawn. Like the Democrats would willingly implicate themselves in their eight year Enabling Act.

"Oh, Godwin?"

As for Hawaiian Shirt Guy, double yawn. Like the Democrats would willingly reward their supporters in lieu of placating extremists, all in the name of bipartisanship which, to my knowledge, is officially outlawed in the RNC bylaws except when out of power.

"You're an angry man. At least you aren't posting any bad verse."

Go Cheney yourself.



Because that's pretty much what Xmas In Murka® is.

Blogger® Post Construction Template: Slacker, 3rd Edition

1. Commence with pleasantries

Greetings and salutations, fellow travelers,

2. State reason for your extended absence

please excuse my extended absence as I was [sicker than a dog/copulating with the spouse/watching eXtenze infomercials] which completely threw a wrench into my plans to [read/further expand world domination goals/stare into space] so I decided to [lay on the couch all weekend and watch Millennium/dabble in Satanism/practice paper football accuracy].

3. State how you will rectify the situation

In the future, I promise to [do nothing/log on and engage in deep research for a hard-hitting political post/log on and praise your greatness]. [insert deity here] bless you all.

I'm still feeling a bit under the weather, as opposed to over it, which would be kind of cool because then you wouldn't have cloud cover and the artificial light of human civilization blocking stargazing, if one is so astronomically-inclined. Anyway, it's a special moment here chez Randal as I'd like to present to you gentle creatures the first ever guest blogger at this woefully unimpressive site, so put your hands together and pray, no, clap, for Captain Obvious!


















Thank you, Randal!
Pie is good!
Ice cream is delicious!
The Browns suck!
Up, up and off to some other location!

The World's Shortest Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, the end.

A Conspiracy

I could use a good conspiracy as I've got zip.

"Still?"

You guys want to band together and take down The Man?

"It will ultimately depend on citizens, and whether they will remain silent in the face of a crime that's been committed in plain view," Turley concluded. "It is equally immoral to stand silent in the face of a war crime and do nothing, and that is what the citizens are doing. There's this gigantic yawn."

Out of sight for us, out of mind for suits. Pant or double-breasted.

Comfortably dumb

Childish scribblers, let me summarize --
no, I'm not here to proselytize,
but sprechen sie truth
and that's the honest to Satan's tooth!

Barack Hussein Obama
-- oh, save us from the drama! --
gave the bird, 'bout it, no maybe,
to the Super Magical Jesus Baby

by playing with the DNA
of his own and Rod the Helmet.
Crazy, ridiculous, mad, you say?
Here's a real scandal you won't soon forget:

one mutated stem cell sandwich,
a failure? No! A winner? Yes, victory!
Vilsack, you Monsanto bitch!
good job brewing zombie mobs of insanity

refusin' to disclose what they're hidin':
Hussein and Rod, twin fathers of Osama bin Laden!


















Talking hairpieces, how 'bout that Kennedy chick?
Makes you wanna flic your Bic
and set fire to your toupee, teevee,
the house burnin' far as the eye can see!

What's the scourge of the nation?
Terrorism? Masturbation? No! The worst prestidigitation,
plastic gossip for your amusement:
diabolical, insidious infotainment!

You're either with the networks or agin' us
in this, Our Great Country!
Sorry, just tripped over the Stumbling Colossus --
being eaten by American nobility?

"Yeah, but what can you do or say?"
Oh, narcissistic fairy in the sky,
bringing freedom to Iraq was child's play.
So instead of Afghanistan, let us numb up Dubai!

So dance your happy dance, and when you're through
don't move a muscle, gonna throw my shoe.

AAARRRGGGHHH, etc.

Spend all your time alternating between watching the good local sports team get infected with the stupid virus of the bad local sports team, reading and domestic bliss --













"My friends, I know all about 'domestic bliss.'"

--and you miss the vital news of the day:














"Al-Qaeda tasty! Grrr!"













"It's not like crimes were committed, heh heh."

And most importantly, this:














I've got nothing to add to this historical piece of comedy, so I'll just echo what Frederick said. In the midst of sharpening the angry a bit further, I realized it's the birthday of The Man --



--and then I felt a little bit better because I finally had something worthwhile to post about.