o, my TV isn’t broken. If anything happens to my precious, someone’s fucking dead. Seriously. Totally pardonable offense, that murder would be. In a related incident, I also won’t be purchasing a Nintendo Wii anytime soon.
If any of you haven’t put two and two together, you must not read a lot of tech news.
See, when the Wii first came out, there were a spat of incidents involving loose Wiimotes flying into (and damaging) pretty flat-screen TVs. Nintendo started sending out their new batches with little wristbands, effectively stopping the problem of idiotic overachievers trying valiantly to win Wii Bowling.
Rewind to Saturday night, when HFB-D and I visited Gabriel Powers for some booze and bowling. After consuming quite a bit (and just as Teh Bradley made his appearance), Gabriel’s girlfriend accidentally chucked the Wiimote into his 32″ Vizio LCD TV.
Dead fucking center, with the velocity and accuracy of a sniper’s bullet.
The TV started making weird color patterns, shifting constantly in a futile attempt to stop the hemorrhaging. If it could scream, it would have. I almost felt bad for the little guy. I felt even worse for Gabriel’s girlfriend, who was absolutely horrified at what she’d done.
While not completely similar, here’s a general idea of how the TV looked afterwards:
After several more horrifying minutes of Gabriel’s drunken rage, complete with a further trashing of his TV screen to make sure it wouldn’t work again, the night continued.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Much like with stripper/hooker sex… always wear protection when playing Wii.
So, I went to a strip club on Saturday. It’s been ages since I’d last given dead-eyed dancers my hard-earned cash, but my lil’ bro’s birthday necessitated the trip. So, what knowledge did I gain from this experience?
Just because the club is called “Dreamgirls” doesn’t mean you’ll find yours (or ANYONE’S) inside. Unless your idea of a “dreamgirl” is a flat-chested, haggardly-tattooed meth freak. In that case, this place is heaven.
Ohio’s liquor laws are fucking retarded. If you serve overpriced beer/liquor, the girls keep their bottoms on. I understand something about protecting the girls from alcoholic sexual assault, but the full-nude clubs let you bring your own damn beer. That method still allows for drunk dudes making moves, doesn’t it? Wise the fuck up and make all of these clubs full-nude. It’s like swimming with water wings in an above-ground pool.
On the positive side, not being able to show their coochies forces these girls to learn amazing acrobatic tricks to bring in money. I’ve never seen more graceful, strong-legged pole work.
$5.50 for a bottle of beer, while strip club standard, is rape, and should be prosecuted as such.
Private dances should be a three-song standard, regardless of the club. This place had the gall to charge $40-$50 for ONE FUCKING SONG where the girl didn’t bother to get naked. Luckily, I got lil’ bro a half-price deal that he seemed to enjoy.
If I tell a stripper I’m not interested in a private dance, it probably means I don’t find them attractive enough to have them take me money. There’s no need to get upset/depressed at my spurn, lady. Just move on to the next drunk. Seriously, I’ve gotten into three or four “debates” with dancers over why I don’t want a dance from them. Stop with the yapping and get on stage if you want my money.
Strip club buffet? FOR FREE? All the heat-lamped stale food you can shovel in your face AND titties? Trust me, your intestines pay the following day for this crime against nature.
All in all, it was pretty fucking worthless. $10 to get in wasn’t too bad, but I managed to win a drawing for $150 gas card. PROFIT, bitches! Plus, the insight I’m giving away for FREE here will save you guys money that could instead go towards killing your livers.
Man alive, have I found (quite possibly) the worst song of the year. A little backstory is due, though, before unleashing this aural diarrhea onto you, my fair audience:
While highly ashamed of it, I’ve never disowned my nu-metal years. I consider a lot of those albums as “gateway drugs” that thankfully got me into the better metal I enjoy now. With that in mind, I was a fan of Korn for a spell during high school. The self-titled album and Life Is Peachy, though highly juvenile in retrospect, were the forefathers of the nu-metal debacle that continues today. Well, sometime after I stopped listening to them (basically after Follow The Leader brought more rap into the mix), guitarist Brian “Head” Welch discovered Jeebus and quit the band. Since then, he’s traveled to Jerusalem, opened a refuge for children in India or something, and basically done everything he can to look exactly like his lord and saviour.
More power to you, dude.
After writing an autobiography chronicling his touring days and addiction to drugs/alcohol, Welch seems to find himself short on cash. So, he’s decided to use his “talents” as a musician to release an album of preachy, holier-than-thou nu-metal. Why he’s still using the “Head” moniker that’s so associated with his drugged-out past is beyond me. I’m sure Jeebus loves the nickname, dude.
Anyhoo… the first single from this abomination of a record is on his MySpace page. Holy shit, is it bad. The music is standard drop-D Korn crunch, with the overdubbed auto-tuned growling nu-metal vocals. It’s the lyrics, obviously cribbed from a sixth grader’s winning D.A.R.E. poem, that seal the deal. Seriously, take the time to digest the moral authority he’s dropping on your ass when you listen. Here’s a snippet:
How did I get into my bed? I don’t remember anything.
How did I get this bump on my head? It could have come from anything.
Yeah. “Anything” literally rhymes with ANYTHING. This shit makes Jonathan Davis‘ output seem like Dylan.
I’m sure most of you are sick to death of my constant post-metal/sludge reviews, but you’ve got to write about what you know. I’ve recently started expanding my horizons a bit, giving hipster-ish bands like Kings Of Leon and My Morning Jacket a try (to varied results). Honestly, though, music like that is so fucking over-reviewed that I feel adding my two cents is pretty meaningless. Bands like Across Tundras, and most of the metal genre in general, tend to get overlooked except in magazines/websites devoted to metal. So, while I’ll try to review more mainstream stuff, the majority of these reviews will be focusing on stuff I tend to like.
I understand that metal is anathema to the majority of you readers, but this is one of those albums that tends to transcend the genre: qualifying it solely as metal isn’t doing the album proper justice. I’ve read comparisons like “Neil Young meets Neurosis“, but the album never tends to get Neurosis-level heavy (nor howl as nasally as Young can). The easiest way to describe Across Tundras would be as such: fuzzed-out, sprawling country instru-metal rock. Everything about these guys, from their album covers to the promo pics of the band, screams “western cowboy”. The sound, while seemingly incompatible on paper, actually manages to mesh well. The production is a bit fuzzed out and distant-sounding, furthering the sparse atmosphere the band seems to be creating. The music becomes pretty hypnotizing when given a chance, and one starts to picture Across Tundras as the perfect soundtrack to a desolate western movie that has yet to be filmed. Even if used solely as background music, it’s definitely worth a listen.
Work has been fucking hell for both myself and HFB-D, so we’re completely wiped. I’ve been watching some movies and shit during downtime, but don’t have the time or energy to post reviews afterward. Hopefully next week will be a bit calmer and I’ll get those up for you to read.
Thankfully, LinkBeard The Pirate continually drinks and scours the intarwebs to find the weirdest shit. I stockpile his millions of emails until days like today, where I’ve reached creative burnout. Leave it to a pirate to help out in a pinch.
Oh, and yes: that Weezer album is a steaming pile of dogshit. I’m sure PreGremlin and/or dre222 may disagree, but I stand by 98% of reviewers and their abject hate for The Red Album.
This will be the last “long-ass/multiple review” post I’ll be doing. From here on out, I’ll probably be posting one item at a time. This will keep things fresh (I’ll review as I listen/play/read/watch as opposed to trying to remember my opinions weeks/months later) and will up the post count for the site. I’m also going to attempt to post clips (both video and audio, depending on the reviewed item). Hopefully, I’ll still get some comments. We’ll see.
About. Fucking. Time. I’ve been waiting for these guys to kick my ass like they did the first time I discovered them. After sitting through 2004’s Salvation (great, but plodding) and 2006’s Somewhere Along The Highway (every song doesn’t HAVE to be over 8 minutes, fellas!), Cult Of Luna return to form with Eternal Highway. I’ve read it’s a concept album based on a diary they found in the studio (Mars Volta beat you to that, guys), but who really listens to CoL for the lyrics? From the start, this album reminds you why these Swedes are considered upper echelon post-metallers. Once considered the poor man’s ISIS (ironically once considered the poor man’s Neurosis), Cult Of Luna have come a long way from their 2001 self-titled debut. While the album has a few instrumental interludes, the majority of the disc is crushingly beautiful soundscapes built from the ground up. A few surprises crop up along the way, most notably the rifftastic meedly-meedly guitar at 3:30 into standout track “Ghost Trail”. Holy shit, who mixed metal with Minus The Bear? Several songs, including “Ghost Trail”, tend to meander a bit and could probably have been chopped up into further instrumental parts I could skip. All in all, though, I’ve never been more pleased with an album (especially as I only recently heard they were recording the damn thing!). This fucker has positioned itself firmly at the top of my 2008 Best Of Metal list.
It looks like I only needed a week’s reprieve from alcohol to fully recover from Memorial Day’s festivities, so I should be posting some reviews and shit later this week or next.
“A week’s reprieve?” you ask, dumbfounded.
Yup. TD’s taken a break from drinking. Currently a week in, and looking strong to make it to Saturday (lil’ bro’s graduation party).
Completely irrelevant to the topic at hand, but I had the displeasure of following a Honda Oddysey the other day… rocking this vanity plate:
4 BON JVI
That’s when you know you’ve made it, folks. Fuck the platinum records and mountains of cocaine; forget about banging Heather Locklear for years and getting off the hook for drunk driving your underage daughter; you and your band have become fucking STARS when an Ohio soccer mom dedicates herself and her vehicle to your cause.
Either I’m getting really fucking old or bands today hate weekends. Why the hell else would I be at a rock show on a fucking WEDNESDAY NIGHT, pounding PBR like every other hipster? Unlike my college days, though, partaking in a weekday show isn’t as easy as buying a ticket and showing up. No… as a sellout corporate shill I have to PLAN AHEAD for such an experience, burning up a vacation day for the inevitable hangover afterwards. Now, I’m nowhere near as hungover as I thought I’d be after drinking from 6pm-midnight (approximately 12 PBR drafts), so I’m now burning my vacation day blogging about the show and running errands. Great to be mature, married, and all that.
