A lot to cover today...

My trip to Maine was epic, with Cardente having an allergic reaction at Darren Rahlves' retirement party, spending four days with my boss, his wife and his two yr old son, and watching how many girls come up to Bode and ask him to sign body parts. Perhaps the funniest part was when a girl sat down at a table with Matty, myself and Bode and the first words out of her mouth were, "It must be annoying to have people come up to you all the time and talk to you." Lunatic. And she wasnt even hot.

Also, I completely fell off the diet wagon due to the Root Beer BBQ Wings at the Shipyard Brewhaus. I am back to salad, sushi, and wraps, but those wings were glorious.

The best thing that came out of the weekend was probably matty's newfound revelation that he would never ask people for autographs again. Th is is long overdue. He is 28 years old. Two weeks ago he asked the bassist for the violent femmes to sign his ticket stub. It truly is the end of an era.

In the spirit of Mustachio, this does raise a good question though. At this point in your life, is there any athlete, actor, musicsian, etc who you would ask for an autograph if you saw them? I think I might ask Jonathan from Blowout. Does that make me gay?

I caught Stellastarr* with Editors the other night at the Warsaw. I reviewed the Editors a while back when they played Rothko and came away pretty unimpressed, the band being decent, but ultimately failing to live up to all the hype. Well, scratch tha. This time they kindof blew me away. They are one of the few bands whose sound really works better in a larger venue. I guess thats where the U2 and Coldplay comparisons come from, but damn, their sound was huge. I also just want to point out that the Warsaw is easily one of the best venues in NYC and every time I go there the crowd is super fired up.

Now for a little TV talk. As mentioned above, the new season of Blowout is truly fantastic. Jonathan Antin makes me proud to be an American. Amazing. On the flip side, what a letdown from the Gauntlet finale and reunion special. The reunion only had about 12 participants and absolutely no drama, although Kina tried to start some shit that never got off the ground. I did shed a small tear when Mark "retired" and handed his bandana off to Derrick. God bless MTV.

Also on MTV, did anyone see True Life: I'm a Reality TV Star? At the 50 minute mark on my dvr, i said to my roommate, I cannot wait for this to be over so I can erase it from my life. Oddly captivating, it eliminated any regret I may have had over never submitting myself for Real World or any other show. Although if the Bachelor called I might be interested.

This weekend I have my fantasy baseball draft and am seeing Hard-Fi saturday night. I will also be doing some curls to prepare for all the fist pumping that will go down at the Art Brut show next week.

Finally, I got the new Stills album yesterday and I cant endorse it highly enough. Totally evolved sound with more keyboards/pianos and super rad vocals. Pick that shit up when it comes out or see them with me at The Mercury Lounge next Wednesday.

(sorry...my work computer is fucked and cant upload pics)

Don't get upset with me. Look, I'm sorry; it wasn't supposed to be this way, but thankfully you've taken a liking to Mustachimo and Yaps. The folks who got worked up over that post need to calm down. He is only going to get more offensive and at the end of the day if it makes me laugh, its staying. Let's face it - I'm a big deal. Keeping me happy is key. Ok, maybe not, but don't get so worked up because there is a lot more where that came from. I know this as an unfortunate fact. But enough about them - let's talk about me.

The past weekend was a bit mellow, but on Saturday I participated in a minature Northern version of SXSW. It began at Webster Hall where the Arctic Monkeys played to a packed house of hungry press and blogger. If I'm not mistaken there were some fans in the venue as well. The door was a bit of a shitshow, but thankfully The Spinto Band and the Monkeys were good people so it went smoothly. I managed to sneak upstairs for their encore, but to be honest I don't know the songs. This doesn't mean I don't care. I want to make an effort because any new indie rock band that has Noah shaken his Jew-Fro like that intrigues me. They definitely sounded tight, but if you want a bit more substance on this show check out Yeti's page who has a recap and links.

Speaking of Yeti; after the show Jerry, Ang (can I call you Ang), The Village Indian (who wrote an Arctic Monkeys review for Stereogum) and I hopped a cab down to Rothko for a set by Portland's golden sons - The Joggers. Avid readers of this shit know that I'm a lover of all things Joggers so my excitement boiled over as I cozied up to the bar with my man in white - Nado - and The Crew aka Shananana, Sarock and E-Money. Though the sound was shit in the sense that the mics kept screeching, The Joggers pulled off a solid set. One that was more impressive than their appearance at the Vice Kills Texas party. The band chugs along as a full force wrecking crew, but if you haven't noticed, the big jams on their first record pull more from the Phish side of the tracks. This undoubtedly makes me a bigger fan of the new jams that take an angular approach to the guitar while piling heaps of dirty vocals on top of each other.

I bolted as soon as they finished and made it to the Mercury Lounge in time for a goon hand and a few songs by the Noisettes. I had no idea what to expect since most of the articles I've read posed them as some out-of-control punk band. They were definitely my speed, but all the thrashing by the drummers head just seemed a little too postured, (go figure from a kid who loves Art Brut). After a couple songs Rory, Christen and I stopped into 186 to fill my flask with tequila before heading to Movida, (Queen Goon - do you still have my flask?).

Movida was a fucking head trip. I'd never go there on a regular night, but on Saturday Justice was scheduled to make their U.S. debut at 1am. Unfortunately those types of spaces never run on time. So while we sipped tequila from an empty Corona bottle we fucked around and watched Rory get progressively more awesome. The DJ played a mix of shit and crap, but eventually one of the Frenchmen got behind the decks and blasted some of the hard electro we came to hear. As the night grew in length, it seemed apparant that if I stuck around I might end up defending someone in a fight, (we already saw some dude whose face was covered in blood get thrown out). I gathered myself and headed home. Now don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see Justice at a real gig even though I don't know what that would mean for these guys. Maybe I should have got off my ass to see them at Asterisk on Sunday, but that seemed like a stretch especially since my couch has felt neglected. Now if only I could get one of those folks at Vice to send me a recocd.... PLEASE!

Sunday was a lazy day that ended with a few folks coming over for the HBO shows, and Monday was a bust outside of Builder treating me like a lady, but I managed to sneak some fun into last night. We had The Magic Numbers at Webster, (I shit you not - George Whipple was interviewing them when I got there - this is only important to four people, but yeah, it was hilarious. I gave him the Whipple on his way out). Anyway, the band was great. I managed to sneak upstairs in time to hear "Love Me Like You" which is easily my favorite jam. As they came back for an encore I bounced around the balcony with Christy, Liz, Matthew, Molly, Julia and some other folks. They played three more songs including a really delicate number during which my walkie talkie went off and I looked like an ass! After the show I ran into Christy and Julia outside. They were putting together a reaction piece for Spin.com so go check it out later today. Christy and I took a cab down to the Mercury Lounge for a quick drink. We ran into Eugene who got straight Voided by Christy, but he didn't seem to mind. All around, it was the best Tuesday I've had where I put in a solid 14 hours of work.

Moral of this story is that you shouldn't give up on me. I'm still out there seeing as much rock as possible even if I don't have any balls.

Use this blog to wax on politics. I still cannot support any badmouthing of Columbus, but that's for personal reasons.

To all those in the tristate area who were rooting on Uconn the other night, I have to say I am so sorry that they failed so miserably in one of the greatest upsets in college basketball history. Seriously a monumental and memorable loss. And to a team who's school is named after a former slave holder. Wow.

No wonder the Whale left Connecticut, I would too.

Back to the victors though...George Mason, the man responsible for the Virginia State Bill of Rights (and in turn largely responsible for our nation's Bill of Rights), was an iconic legislator in early America and centuries later, George Mason University has 3 separate branches throughout Virginia. But somewhere in between writing historical documents and having a school named after him, this motherfucker was a slaveholder.

Now before we get into the tedious process of discussing the historical ramifications and contextual circumstances of slavery in early America, I think I would like to propose a new contest:

Please help me to create a new university named after the most reprehensible, disgusting, morally-bankrupt, dirty, cruel, asshole that you can think of.

I'll even start off the contest with John Wayne Gacy University. Maybe BTK U?

Or there's James Earl Ray A & M. And the ever popular College of Kirk Cameron.

Or what about Yaps Tech?

OK please help me to come up with a school that can take down George Mason U next year...if we get suggestions early, we can establish this school and get a solid team by next march. Hurry up and give me some good suggestions...

Winner will recieve an all expenses paid trip to Northern Illinois, complete with a clown suit, rubber gloves, and a T-shirt that says "Someone went to Des Plaines and All I got was this Frickin' Crawlspace."

Until I'm 6 feet under
Baby I don't need a bed
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead

Bring on the weekend. Seriously, is it me or are Animal Collective fans the neo-hippie. I thought that Phish fans were stupid in their own right, but the Animal Collective crew was some of the most spazzy, spaced out, drug induced group of kids I'd ever seen. The funny thing is, they would probably take pride in it. I watched a hot minute of the show while Dana and Meredith chatted away. I'm one of the people that doesn't get it - at all. But you kids keep dosing and enjoy yourselves. Remember to wear condoms!

I didn't mention this, but I saw Shy Child on Monday night with Stella from Tralala. We popped into show some love to the Say Hey kid. Anyway, have you seen this band lately? I haven't caught them since the lovely Karen took me to one of their shows during our torrid winter love affair, (or something). Anyway, they are fantastic. It's tough to imagine them on a huge stage, but think of them as a post-punk, dance-rock, bubble-burst Rapture. If the four-piece pseudo-pioneers were forced to downsize, they could take a queue from Shy Child. Basically, it's a two piece band whose drummer completely rips while the lead singer plays both the bass and guitar parts on a keytar. Yes, I said a fucking Keytar. Believe it. Needless to say, I loved it.

As for this weekend, there are two chances to see The Big Sleep, (tonight at Brooklyn Lyceum with Detachment Kit and Sunday at Bowery with The Head Set and stellastarr*). It's great to see both tHS and tBS on the same bill. Tonight you might want to consider checking out Mystery Jets at Mercury (for the guitar player alone - dude is straight out of Spinal Tap) because they are the next hot shit from StarTime International. Tomorrow there is more StarTime action with The Joggers (who were at the Loose SXSW party) at Rothko followed by Justice (hard French electro) at Movida. You wish you could get in. Hipsters everywhere are practicing the creases in their bandanas while their white boots get spit shined. I can't wait for the goon hands.

Incase you're wondering (meaning incase you are Yaps or Beach) I'm currently in 2nd place in my pool after last night's upsets. The only problem is, if I win, who buys me dinner? Hopefully I can just convince Shananana to cook for me. That girl has talent.

Oh and before I forget, if you can't feel Ghostface's new record Fishscale, then you need to get up off Perpetration Avenue because Manhattan Island - Lemme Hold's That. Seriously though, the whole album slays, but "Be Easy", "Kilo" and "The Champ" are the fucking jams to end all jams.

Don't forget to enter the contest for a pair of tickets to see the Editors, stellastarr* and Mobius Band at Warsaw next week. Details a couple posts below.

Today on the Tripwire :: (Thanks Shananana)

R.I.P. SPIN Magazine
by: Emily Haines (aka Jay Belin's muse)

I stayed in NYC for a while after playing the Stones dates with Metric this winter and noticed some fine-print mentions of SPIN Magazine being for sale. Then on February 2, The Wall Street Journal online reported that Hartle Media was buying the magazine for "dirt cheap," a measly $250,000. What? You can't buy a crappy condominium for that little! In a flash I decided I would outbid them and buy SPIN before daybreak. The launching of the new magazine would in itself be an elegantly orchestrated dream story for all media outlets, and I imagined myself living the headline: FEMME ROCKER EMILY HAINES BUYS MUSIC MAGAZINE FOR PENNIES, PUTS SELF ON COVER. Finally, Metric would get some real mainstream coverage! More importantly, we would save SPIN and forgive them for saying that My Chemical Romance was our new favorite band. We would assemble an all-star board of directors to complement the existing staff, a selection of luminaries from related fields to root the magazine in the reality of today's music world while attending to our commercial interests. With their help, the magazine would expand it's circulation outside of America and bring the SPIN brand into Canada, with an emphasis on regional content to complement internationally syndicated stories, giving the magazine the relevance and immediacy it requires to be a success in a fractured marketplace. The magazine's online component would be world-class; we would hire established music bloggers, celebrity print journalists and respected rock photographers with guaranteed audiences of their own. We would integrate the of-the-moment voyeuristic appeal of popular websites like gawker.com and lastnightsparty.com with more lasting interpretive, critical and analytical pieces of old school rock journalism without the white boy indie elitism and drabness of sites like pitchfork.com.

In keeping with the spirit of the original SPIN, we would create a magazine which speaks to music fans in their own words, merging the best of regional weeklies like The Village Voice with the gossip & glitter of the NME, linking the stars of peer-to-peer internet message boards with A-List music writers who we consider direct descendents of Lester Bangs, Dave Hickey and Greil Marcus. To cap it all off, the new SPIN would simultaneously be introduced to the world as a BRAVO reality series - airing right after Top Chef! - chronicling the ups & downs of this generation of overgrown kids (writers, musicians, fashion designers, video directors, photographers, and most of all the music fans who ultimately hold all the power) stepping up to own what is rightfully theirs. Rainbows would fill the sky and Brian from Holy Fuck! would double ride me to work every day on his Unicorn. No. Last week the sale of the magazine was finalized, and it wasn't sold to me. Everyone is getting fired. I heard that Chuck Klosterman - the very writer who named me the Jackie Onassis of hipster rock at SXSW! - quit. My imaginary moment as a media mogul has passed and the future is anyone's guess. R.I.P. SPIN Magazine, much love.

Also, check out E-Moneys interview with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs over at the Simple Mission. If there was one person running crazier than Beach and I in SXSW it was this kid. He was even munching an ice cream cone bigger than his head at 10am in the Austin airport. His justification for doing so was hilarious.

But we still throw kick ass parties. Check out the press from the Loose Record party at Big Orange Studio ::

** Gorilla V. Bear
** Brooklyn Vegan
** Crazy Talk (Britt Daniels interview at the Party)

Maybe they just missed the giant in-your-fucking-face-banner on the way in, but hey, I thought us bloggers see everything. Either way the party ripped. Thanks for coming out and drinking keg beer until the cops sent us home.

So last night I flew home from Florida after some days on the beach. I will leave out the details but one noteworthy thing is that a blackbird swooped down from the sky and scratched the top of my head. I've never heard of live birds running into anybody but then again, I've never had a flight like I did last night either.

Anyways, if you've ever been on a plane or in a movie theater (Shit, I hope you can at least say you've done one of those), you know how tense it can be jockeying with your neighbor over the armrest. Sometimes it's an awkward battle for control and dominance; other times the arm brush can be a flirtatious little hello to a lovely lady (or a gentleman if you're in the mood for a little "hobbla hobbla hobbla".)

Last night I actually had a middle seat on the airplane and the guy to my left only had one arm. His right arm was gone...which meant no jockeying for the armrest...a one in a million gift from God! So while it might have been sad and traumatic for this man to lose his arm, at least for me it meant that I had full control over one entire armrest for the duration of the flight. SCORE!!!! So I guess the moral of the story is: something horrifying and tragic to someone else can be great for me.

It got me thinking about that surfer chick Bethany Hamilton who got her arm bitten off by a shark. If I went on a date with her to the movies, would I want to sit on the no arm side so I could have the armrest? Or would I want to sit on the arm side so I could allow the chance of getting a handy? (If anyone reads this, which is doubtful, please let me know which side I should sit on).

And what about the late, great (well actually not that great or late) Jim Abbot. Admittedly he only had a gimpy retard hand, but he'd probably make a good date to a ball game...you know, giving great commentary on the inner workings of pitching and the game of baseball, while staying the fuck off my armrest. What if Jim Abbot and Bethany Hamilton went to the movies together?

Oh shit, this is going no where...time to do lines of my dry taint skinflakes.

This one is going to be short and sweet, but we have a special offer for all you kids out there who hold The Editors, stellastarr* and The Mobius Band very close to that black indie heart of yours. On Tuesday, March 28th these bands invade the darling venue Warsaw out in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Never have you seen so many hot indie rock girls dressed in short-shorts shoving Wurst into their mouth. Yeah, I know - boner city. Anyway, Loose is giving you the chance to win a pair of tickets to this gig. All you have to do is send an email to contests@looserecord.com with Editors in the subject line. We'll pick a winner and inform them as to how they can obtain their tickets. I just caught their show at the Diesel SXSW party and they destroyed. ENTER NOW!!!

Editors w/ stellastarr* & The Mobius Band
Tuesday, March 28th
@ Warsaw (Tickets)

Awesome Round Two ::

I just received this email regarding Diamond Nights' drunkfest. It's pretty funny and at the same time adds fuel to their already flaming fire. This is so fucking rock and roll. Take notes you Arctic Monkeys:

Although, they sounded fantastic and were generally great guys...Diamond Nights caused major havoc at our broadcast last night in Austin. Bringing an entourage of about 10 drunken, drugged out people who had to have hotel security called upon them for riding around on hotel luggage carts drinking boxed wine in our broadcast space. Not only were their groupies drunk...so was the band. It was blatantly obvious on the air as they boasted about drinking from a colostomy bag on the stage as they performed.

Now, I know this is rock n' roll but give me a flippin' break. Maybe you should consider assigning them a babysitter next time. We had to dump completely out of the broadcast during the second part of the interview because one of the members of their group in the audience screamed and dropped an f-bomb during the live broadcast. Previous to that they swore during the first part of their performance. Our engineer thankfully dumped out during that and was able to continue. But, the second time we just had to cut out completely. It's a real shame because their performance was fantastic and one that we all looked forward to.

We'll be editing the audio we do have from the performance and posting it on our website. But, please reconsider letting these fellas fend for themselves with their media related appearances. They obviously need someone to watch over them. Thanks again for helping to set this up but it was quite a disappointing disaster.

Awesome Round Three ::

Loose's very own loose cannon (no pun intended) photographer Byran Bruchman has taken his show on the road. By his show, I mean his band - Man in Gray. On Thursday, March 23rd this Brooklyn based five-piece will take their tough-as-nails-stuck-in-the-bottom-of-dance-shoes rock to the Metro in Chicago. This is a huge gig for the band that is headlining the bill. Go show some Loose love!

So last night I went to Bowery Ballroom for the Live from London showcase. I'm not going to get too crazy with telling you about the bands because I'm reviewing the show for Loose, but it was a spectacle. George and I rolled in just as Towers of London were taking the stage. Wow. While these guys might not play great music, they dominate the stage. Here a just some of the highlights(?) of their set; the drummer hawking aloogie inthe air and catching it in his mouth (funny the first time, weird and gross the second, third, and fourth), the lead singer swinging his mike in the largest lasso arc I have ever seen, constant beer spitting, and beer throwing, and a bevy of girls in the right balcony going nuts.

The Rakes took the stage next and absolutely killed it. I ended up in a mosh pit at the front of the stage where i am pretty sure I saw Meredith from TPM's. I'll have a full review later on the greatness that was their set. The one bummer was I left before the encore to make sure I got into the Brakes afterparty, and apparently a girl stage dove during Strasbourg and no one caught her. Amazing.

The Brakes are one of my favorite bands and their live show completely delivered the goods. After waiting online for 15 minutes or so, George and I made our way in. After all the chaos surrounding the Annex, I have to say its a pretty rad venue. As for the the Brakes, their half hour set was rad. I was in the second row singing along to All-Nite Disco Party, Heard About Your Band, and the rest of my favorites. Other bands should take note at how deft Eamon Hamilton was in handling the sound problems with his accoustic guitar. He basically just said fuck it, threw it to the ground and started the show. Awesome.

After the set I met H-Wall and Shark at Inoteca. We had a glass of wine which I then projectile vomited onto Orchard St. as we walked to Black & White. I am smooth.

With There and Back finished, I had huge expectation for The Gauntlet last night. Not only was it the final male gauntlet, but the show now had to carry Monday night's 10-spot. What a let down. The show was fantastic for the first 29 minutes, with TJ Lavin referring to someone as a VIP instead of an MVP, the utter collapse of the Veterans, and Derrick predictably kicking the coffee table until it broke...and then kicking it some more. But let me ask you a question. If we have made it through the entire season without a cliffhanger, each week finding out who the unlucky soul is who has to leave Trinidad and Tobagos, why would MTV start now? I am supposed to wait 7 more days to see if Derrick can hold off Timmy in reverse tug of war?

Regardless, this weekend was rad, starting with a Thursday night that ended in Cap Gun hilarity and a major Dylan/Strokes session in my living room with H-Wall. She also provided the highlight of the weekend when, on Saturday night she turned into a Death Pirate (her side project), breaking a wine glass in her bare hands at Employees Only. Everyone around us should have just chilled the fuck out and realized how awesome and badass that action was. Of course this was all after the broken glass shenanigans at Lit on Friday night, but we can write that off to St. Patrick's Day.

Also on Friday, I saw the Silver Jews at Webster Hall with George and Derrick (not the one from the gauntlet). Maybe I wasn't that into it because I had to leave the UCONN-Albany game with my team, a #1 seed, losing, but I could only muster some half-hearted excitement for this band. George loves them, and so did the rest of Webster Hall, but there is something about a reluctant rock star that drives me crazy. When a band acts like they only half want to be there, tells the fans to go home because the band is lazy and doesnt want to play anymore, and advises us to all just come back tomorrow if we want to see more, than fuck them. I mean, cand David Berman just sack up and be a performer. Give me Eddie Argos and a band who want to destroy the stage anyday. Whatever, their music is pretty good and the lyrics really are special. The show was capped offf by a walk to Chris' luxury pad behind Derrick constantly mooning us and the most broken cell phone I had ever seen. Good times.

Tonight should be fun, with The Rakes at the Bowery for Live From London, followed by an all-nite disco party with the Brakes at the Annex (I think). The Brakes are one of my top 5 bands right now so I am supper stoked.

(Also in my top 5 are Cap Guns and Death Pirates..."Pop! Pop!")

Oh yeah, I gave blood yesterday for the first time in a while. Has everyone seen some of the insane regulations on who can and can't give blood? You can't give blood if you're gay. You can't give blood if you've done cocaine in the past 12 months. I'm not even going to start on their draconian views on prostitution. You know, you try and do something good. I guess we'll find out in a few weeks if my blood was up to snuff. I sure hope so.

Connor Oberst played Harry Potter in his senior class production of the Wooden Wand or whatever those books are called, (thanks Tumbleweed).

So I'm back to the grind after returning from Austin yesterday. I'd like to send a big thanks to all the people who came out to my events whether they were for Loose Record or The Orchard. All the support is greatly appreciated. If you didn't know by now, contrary to popular belief it wasn't Vice who killed Texas - it was me!

Top 10 Shows of SXSW:

10. The Stills @ Stub's (Spin Party)
09. Tunng @ Victory Grill (Vice Kills Texas)
08. Magneta Lane @ Emo's (Tag Team Party)
07. Wolfmother @ Middle of Nowhere (Vice Closing Party)
06. Art Brut @ Beauty Bar (Jelly NYC Party)
05. Voxtrot @ VFW (Diesel Party)
04. Gang of Four @ 7th St Car Park (URB Party)
03. Hockey Night @ Lava Lounge (Lookout! Party)
02. Sam Champion @ Emo's IV (Razor & Tie Party)
01. Dirty On Purpose, Dr. Dog, Sound Team & Voxtrot @ Big Orange (Loose Record Party)

Biggest Dissappointments: ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead and The Ponys

Top 10 Moments of SXSW:

10. Giving Beach the double goon hand with Rory.
09. Meeting a shit ton of amazing people and getting to know the Orchard crew.
08. Chipped BBQ Sandwiches at Vice Kills Texas Party.
07. Eating breakfast with the Beastie Boys.
06. Getting tons of free gear, (I'm a whore).
05. Seeing Brit Daniels and CYHSY at our party.
04. Watching Adam Mandel be a fucking loon.
03. Daily happy hour parties in my hotel suite.
02. Drinking my weight in Margaritas.
01. Hiding in the bushes to avoid getting jumped.

Is anyone else super pumped for the new Pearl Jam release? The first single, World Wide Suicide debuted at #1 on the Moder Rock singles chart and #3 overall. Fuck yeah. Between Eddie Vedder coming back and the two Strokes shows last week, I am beginning to get a little nervous about my heterosexuality.

Anyway, if you pre-order the new album now, you receive a free bonus disc of the classic 1992 New Year's Eve Pearl Jam show from The Academy Theatre in NYC plus a digital download of "Pearl Jam" delivered May 2nd at 12:01 a.m. Eastern time. Details here.

Their massive US tour also has dates in Hartford, Albany, Philly, New Jersey, and rumored shows at the Garden.

God, I fucking love Pearl Jam.

Due to my final night of self-imposed house arrest post-LA, I watched Hustle & Flow last night with my roommate and his girlfriend(?). The movie was ok. I mean, any movie with the line "Is a pig's pussy pork?" can't be too bad, right? The bigger issue is the questionable actions of D-Minus. As the credits rolled on the TV screen, he hopped off the couch and scurried feverishly over to the cd player. Yup, he put in the soundtrack and cued up Hard Out Here for a Pimp. Really Dave? I argue that this is even worse than the proverbial 'wearing the t-shirt of the band you're going to see perform to the show.' Perhaps, Pulling a Mattei can now be put in the lexicon for complete retard maneuvers like the one detailed above. Regardless, my roommate is a douchefag.

I'm back from LA and I don't know how Jay Mediocre Times does it. My weekend was so fucking out of control that there is no way I can give it the proper write-up you are all accustomed to from the big guy. So instead I'll cop out and just throw out the greatest hits in list form.

1. Getting a call as soon as i landed in Burbank from Garette, who posed the good news/bad news question to me. Lets just say the good FAR outweighed the bad and we were set all weekend.

2. Tequila shots outside at the Cat & Fiddle, if only because it reminded me how much fun NYC will be when we can start drinking outside again.

3. A walk through the Hollywood Hills at 4 AM with Garette, Lancit, and Rudikoff where we got super gay, caught up with each other and saw how far bud bottles will roll down a canyon.

4. Returning from the walk to see Laurie had layed out the sleeping arrangements for all of us. Reason #176 Garette is marrying her.

5. Sleeping with Lancit for three nights in a row. The first night he was polite about my snoring and endured due to some help from outside substances. The second night, as I stumbled in at 7 AM in broad daylight and fidgeted with the blinds for 10 minutes he was not nearly as forgiving and would shove me. Apparently by the third night he was openly hitting me in the head with a closed fist. God, it was a fun weekend.

6. Ameoba Music. My first trip. Holy Shit. $67, 100 minutes, 5 7", and two cds later, I popped my Amoeba cherry. Some highlights: The Hot Chip album provided a perfect LA lounge soundtrack for much of the weekend and a Wolfmother Mind's Eye .45 that Builder would probably suck me off for, and finally finding a Gold Soundz .45...I could stay in that store for hours upon hours and be happy.

7. The mega-mansion in the Pacific Pallisades we stayed on Friday and Saturday thanks to Whitney, the former captain. One of the nicest houses I have ever set foot in and definitely the nicest view.

8. The bathrobes we found at said mega-mansion that we stayed in all day, playing ping pong, drinking champagne and playing rich.

9. Wearing the bathrobe into Von's a la Lebowski, filling out a vons card application, and saving money on the 6 bottles of red wine, two racks of ribs and a bouquet of flowers. I think they were pansies.

10. Asking the cab we called to bring us to a friends music show "Why are you a cab driver?" after he wouldnt bring us to Topanga because he said it was too dangerous. It was drizzling. The only time I missed New York the whole trip.

(There should have been two really funny pics of Wendie Malick and Cecil Cooper here, but I suck at blogging. sorry.)

11. Seeing Wendie Mallick rocking out to my friend Tay's band wearing an outfit that she probably stole off the set of Just Shoot Me. That's right, LA for three days and my best celebrity sighting was Wendie Mallick. Christ, Bothe probably saw Cecil Cooper in eating brats in Kenosha this weekend.

12. Gladstone's. The worst, most touristy (and not even in a funny way), most overpriced meal in LA. All because Whitney said there were no other restaurants in the area. We were in LOS ANGELES. The best part of my meal was the Jameson's, followed by the Dewar's.

13. To be honest, I dont remember the rest off the top of my head. Needless to say it was a rad trip and I should be completely recovered by tomorrow. Also, on the plane ride home I was able to watch the finale of Flavor of Love, cath up on all of the new Real World, see the new West Wing and watch the Sebastion Telfair documentary "Through the Fire."

FYI: While posting this I am watching The Real Houswives of Orange County. Holy Shit. I cant believe this show exists and still havent decided if I really love it or completely hate it. I'll keep you posted.

Go Huskies.

To all the faithful readers of this blog, this next post is going to be painful. Not once will it mention any shitty indie band (sorry J, they're not all shitty). It will not talk about tequila Tuesday and never once will it mention nachos or Mexican food. Furthermore, it will certainly not use the numbers 1, 8, or 6, or any combination thereof. There will be no funny nicknames either. Except for Dr Dorito, dont forget that name.

No, my friends, this story begins and ends in the great state of Wisconsin. Maybe another day we'll get into why in the fuck Jay would want a flatlander from the midwest to commandeer this blog, but like I said that's for another day. This day is for my modern Moby Dick. Its a little long and the payout isn't great, but here it is.

It all started way back in the early part of last August. I'll assume that all you rockers know and thoroughly understand the spawning and migration patterns of Great Lakes trout and salmon. Just like fellow blogger, Yaps, these fish only get laid once a year. Oooh Burn! Anyways, to make a long story a little less long, these fish go crazy in the months between August and November and come in close to the shore to fuck. Nothing like some hot cloaca action...honestly, nothing compares with a multi-purpose hole for shitting, pissing, fucking, and giving birth.

So for the sake of brevity, I will just say that I made it my goal over summer to catch one of these gigantic fucking fish. I know I'm a hick and that I will catch some shit about fishing, but go fuck yourselves. So each and every day I would spend a lot of time on the shores of Lake Michigan trying my damndest to cath one. Being the constant failure that I am, I never caught one of these bitches.

Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed. If I had spent my time and money doing something more productive than getting fucked up and fishing, I'd probably be wiser, richer, and cooler. But I had to catch a fucking fish, that's all. I felt like I was becoming equal parts Captain Ahab and Captain Rehab.

So come one rainy day in November, I was out fishing again, detesting life, probably thinking about how much weight I would have to attach to my own feet to ensure that I wouldn't be able to swim to the surface. I was dressed like a Down's Syndrome Elmer Fudd, bundled up with ear flaps and looking like a complete fuck. As I listened to some eastern European cocksucker talk all accented about how many fish he'd caught, I was seriously ready to punch myself in the balls. I dont give a shit about you or your fish you Yakov Smirnov-sounding pussy. Shouldn't you be doing a Best Western commercial?

And right then I felt the all too unfamiliar tug of a fish. Fuck yeah it was finally the day for Captain Douchebag to get his fish. Several thrilling boner-popping minutes later I had this fish to shore...a massive brown trout in the neighborhood of 15 or so pounds.

So as my bipolar day started miserably, I was finally feeling ecstatic. I was so happy, that bluebirds literally flew out of my asshole. Literally. Chirp Chirp. I called my parents. Gone. I called ALL my friends. Gone. I called my lovely and patient girlfriend. Gone. But I had to take a picture of this big fucker. What to do? This was a serious fucking bind for me.

Luckily I got home and saw that the landlord was working on the house and in the back yard. Perfect, I'm sure he will take a picture for me, and sure enough he was stoked about that fish and was happy to take some pictures.

Now, to fully understand the rest of this story, you'll need to know that I live one block from the harbor and there is a killer fish cleaning station there. Plus I didnt want the mess inside the house. So I walk the block down the hill to this station and butcher up this formerly majestic beast of a trout. As I finished up, I walked home still in a stupor of glory that usually only comes from blow jobs or imagining myself playing in Led Zeppelin.

Now as I opened the door to the aprtment I found a bag of weed, my bag of weed, rolled up neatly, and concisely placed right inside the doorway. I couldn't rememebr doing that but just figured that I had put it there in my fish/reefer-high. I didnt give it much thought until a few weeks later when I finally got the pictures developed. Here it is in all its shittiness. Look at that asshole shithead smile. What a cocksucker. I guess it was the landlord who found my weed. At least he didnt pinch any or evict me.

So this shitty fish story will finish the same way Moby Dick did: "The drama's done. All are departed away. The great shroud of the sea rolls over the Pequod, her crew, and Moby Dick. I only am escaped, alone, to tell thee."

So the big upset of the night last night was not Canada beating Team USA in the World Baseball Classic. It was actually the fact that I walked out of a work reunion/going away party at Brother Jimmy's and was not completely annihalated. You see, when I used to work at SFX, we would convene there post softball and for March Madness. I was younger than most of the co-workers, and decided that to really make a good impression, I would show them what a muthafuckin' gangsta I was at consuming alcohol.

The heights of this came during the first day of March Madness last year. Coincidentally, it was also St. Patrick's Day and the day that I had gotten tickets to see a Marc Spitz play downtown. What was I thinking? I am a retard.

We got to Brother Jimmy's around noon and I did the first of my 14 irish carbombs. I also challenged co-workers to do normal shots and decided I would not eat any food so I culd drink more. By the end of the evening I was slurping down alligator bowls, throwing plastic alligators at co-workers and screaming "I have to go to an off-broadway play!!!!"

I hailed a cab to take me downtown. The tix and address was in my pocket. I simply told the cab driver "east village." It was sometime in the ride downtown where I lost all control. George called, asking where I was and if we were still going. I replied "ADURFTGOFVRTDCFCGH". The cabbie asked me for the exact address and I believe I told him to fuck off you stupid motherfucker fuck you fuck fuck idiot asshole fuck. He kicked me out of the cab.

It was then that i tried to get myself together. Amazingly I hailed a pedicab and gave him the right address. Moser and Lombardo were waiting for me outside the theater and we made it inside just in time. Apparently as I was walking/sloshing up to them, they debated the merits of bringing me inside the theater. They made the wrong choice.

The theater sits about 30-40 people. It is very small. Five minutes into the play I whispered to moser, and by whispered I mean said fairly loudly, "This play is atrocious." I then put my headphones on with no music playing, put my feet on the woman's seat in front of me, and fell asleep.

My friends woke me as the play finished. I made it home somehow, pretty sure that i stopped for pizza twice in 6 blocks.

The moral of the story is, like I said before, it is amazing that I didnt get plastered at Brother Jimmy's last night. Maybe I'm getting older and more mature.

Actually I leave for LA tonight for a long weekend, and I am fairly certain I will get Brother Jimmys '05 drunk at least two out of the three nights I'm there. I just hope they have pedicabs in LA.

Have a great weekend.

*Update: apparently I was so hammered, that even a full year later I still have major story details wrong. I attended the play with Neuhaus and Moser. Lombardo was in China. I am banning myself from irish carbombs. until St. Patrick's Day.

Where the hell have you been? What? Oh, fuck you and your busy life. Ok, don't get pissy - really. I'm sorry about the lack of blog posts, but thankfully I have Yaps and Mustachimo here to help me out. Go ahead and beef them in their comments. They give as much of a shit as I did - zero. Anyway, thanks to these gents for helping me out during this transition period and hopefully well into the future. In any event, I've started at The Orchard and it is a bit of a beautiful shitstorm in the sense that I had to really dig in starting day one. Thankfully my coworkers are eager to help me with this curve and they are a passionate bunch who care about the music. But that's all I have to say about that - yes, fuck you, I just quoted Forrest Gump.

Anyway, a quick fuck yeah to the past weekend. How good was that? Yeah, it was mad robotic from start to finish. The start being a kick ass dinner at Yuca Bar where a young lady puked everywhere which prompted the bar manager to hook us up with Patrone shots. Dr. Shitcan nearly got into a fight - don't worry baby, it will happen soon. After dinner, Ackerman, Beach and I met Fitzgerald in front of the Bowery to catch some M's, Grand Buffet and Of Montreal action. It was one of the best bills I've seen in a long time, but then again, I don't think last Friday really counted for seeing anything. I managed to be fairly liberal in terms of my alcohol intake that lead to a blurred night of Stop Making Sense, baby carrots, tequila, black and white cookies, "Wedding Marches" and more glitter than a San Francisco summer day. Make sure you check out all three of these bands next time they pass through these parts. It was such an eclectic bill, but it worked like magic.

Saturday should have bene for recovery, but instead we had the Loose Crew over for some milk and cookies, (read: beers and quesadillas). Thanks so much to all the writers, photographers, editors, interns and friends who came over and packed the 186. It was great to have the NYC contingency in one place if only for a few hours. After our best getting-to-know-you session ever, Dan, Erin, Josh, Yaps and I headed to Hammerstein to check out The Strokes. If you think you're over this band - don't be. They simply destroyed. Though the double vodka tonics passed through my hands like change at a toll booth, I was still able to soak up most of their show. As you may have already heard, they played a ton of old shit including the entire original pressing of Is This It?. They also played some new tracks like "You Only Live Once" and "Red Light" that managed to get me worked up, but please back burn that two piece jam with Nick on keys and Julian on vox. It sounded fine, but the lyrics make me cringe. Har Mar popped out on stage to rock a little harmony action on "Under Control". By the time they came out for the encore my ears rang so hard I was forced to head bang with wreckless abandon. We ran down to the Bowery post show, but managed to miss all of Mike Rother's set. Bumskies.

Sunday became the Sunday challenge. Sarah, Emily and I started the day at Juanita's for some brunch which is a surefire end to all potential productivity. Nic(holas) joined us and we pissed away the day gawking at dogs (and Mr. Hess) while drinking margaritas. We came back to 186 where Shannon joined us for some Colt 45 and a viewing of Hustle and Flow. Then we watched some 8 hour show that had John Stewart hosting. It kind of sucked.

Since then it's been all work. Hopefully I can find some time to sleep in the future, but I wouldn't put money on it.

A couple quick notes: Can we pass the hat for Barry Bonds? Juanita's is in its last week of operation - thank god Dana and I shared nachos this evening. You have to use all the hustle to get to the flow. Sisters of Mercy make goth kids angry.

Its amazing that as soon as I started to write for a blog, noteworthy shit happens. I ate at Nobu last night with my boss and one of our clients and others. While we were there and i was munching on the cod with miso, the tuna with jalepenos, the rock shrimp tempura and the kobe beef (he scored 81 last night), i noticed Magic Johnson. Magic was with about 5 people, all good looking african americans who were probably plotting how to gentrify harlem even more (wait, what do i care, i NEVER go to harlem). We sent someone from our table over to introduce Earvin to a fellow gold medal winner. While hovering around my table, he took a shine to me, as the only person in Nobu wearing a bandana. He said, "You look like a gold medal winner in my book. You gotta keep rocking that personal style." I told him, "You're right Magic, this is me being me." and then i fainted. and then orded another drink.

Then we went to arlene's grocery for rock'n'roll karaoke. i set the record for vigorous fist pumping before i stumbled home.

Paul, what did you do last night?

While Belin is busy fooling his new co-workers into thinking that he knows what he's doing, I have been given the keys to Good Times Roll. Jay wanted someone to take a little heat off of him and post 2-3 times a week. Since I am consistently late handing in live reviews for loose, have very little free time due to a job, school, and alcoholism, and am addicted to Parental Control, He thought I would be perfect.

Hopefully at least a few people will find me either mildly entertaining or irritating or awesome. I choose awesome. One thing I learned about myself this weekend is that sometimes I speak exclusively in t-shirt slogans. I also overheard the someone say the best sentence of all time while walking in Soho with shark and h-wall. a woman said, "speaking of pornstars, i heard he has a blog."

So enjoy making fun of me while i try and figure out how to be entertaining. I think this blog will be a huge influence on my blog voice/style. At least I hope so.

I'll get better at this, I promise.

Oh, and one other thing. I saw the Strokes wednesday and saturday and they fucking killed it. Holy shit are they a good band.

cheers.

That's right, this blog has been comandeered by a couple of Christ-punching, sea-faring, bastard scoundrel motherfuckers. I can only speak for myself, but I am thrilled to be on board as a new contributor to Mr Jay Good Times' wonderful boner-iffic super duper GoodTimes Roll blog. Now you may be asking yourself "Why Jay? How can you string us along for three years of your day to day and suddenly step back and hand off this blog to a couple loser pieces of shit?"

Well the answer is twofold: First, even a loving mother bird needs to know when to push baby out of the nest so she can fly away and waste her days coddling her new career and spend her nights immitating a magical machine that turns tequila into puke. Sometimes though, baby bird has a more blog-worthy lifestyle than even the great granddaddy of goodtimes, the deacon of diaries, the baron of blogs, and the world needs to hear what kind of chirps come from the retarded lil' baby bird.

However, for the real answer, we need really need to stop talking about goddamn birds and look to the wisdom of the ages: Mr Miyagi. In his role as Mr Miyagi, Noriyuki "Pat" Morita made a timeless and touching statement about commitment: "Karate do 'Yes' or Karate do 'No'. Karate do 'Guess So'...get squished like grape. Kwiiiiiisksh." Over the past several months, as you may or may not know Jay has had his own "instruction" from an elderly Japanese man. In addition to learning his own version of "wax on/wax off" (or so he calls it) Jay also learned the fundamental principle of blogs: Blog do Yes or Blog do No. Blog do Guess So, get squished like grape. KWIIIISHK!!!!!

So in short, Mr Jay GoodTimes Roll aka The Cumstain from Clearfield aka The Mo-L.E.S.-ter has gracefully allowed me (and others) to step in and assist in the writing of this blog. This is by no means permanent and never ever never will I attempt to steal Jay's thunder or mimick the style that he established as Time Magazine's 2003 Blooger of the Year. However, this will occasionally veer away from the downtown Indie music scene and will sometimes focus on tips for the house, home, and family: arts and crafts, crocheting, scrapbooking, and stay tuned for Grandma's secret cinnamon swirl muffin recipe. Just kidding, however once my comfort level and blogsperience increases, I may share a touching story about how NOT to use silly putty while engaged in a sex act with the homeless.

So Jay, I must now finish by quoting the band who we were listening to that magical night when you and I were one: Boyz II Men.

Said we'd be forever
Said it'd never die
How could you love me and leave me
And never say good-bye?

To Mr Jay, thanks for the chance to paint this canvas with my brown rainbow paintbrush and to the reader(s) please dont hesitate to let me know when I am a fuckerpants or incoherent.

Douchingly Yours,

Paul BadTimes

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You're cool. Fuck you - I'm out. Now my exit from NYU School of Law will be less climactic than Scareace's burger joint walk out, but a boy can dream. Actually, this afternoon we'll gather in the staff room to pass out some cake Office Space style, and I'll be forced to give a Lumbergh-esque speech. It should be priceless. As much bitching as I've done in regards to my life in Academic Administration, there will be a few things I'll miss. Well, actually just a few people. The rest of this world can suck it. My years here provided a good platform to build a New York foundation, but I'm ready to break out and begin a career. Here's to hoping that works out.

Anyway, did you guys read about the shitstorm surrounding the whole Nick Sylvester scandal regarding his cover story in this week's edition of the Village Voice? The poor kid is up to his neck in shitwater, and though I hope he doesn't drown, I could really care less. Sylvester always caught me as a shock value writer. Maybe he didn't always stand behind what he wrote, but it got reactions which is always a huge ego boost to a writer. Nick is what the English might call "proper fucked". Basically he fabricated sources in his story about New York pick-up artists. He will most likely be fired from both the Voice and Pitchfork. This just proves you can't fly to close to the sun - Nick definitely got a burned. (Update: Our man Mike just let me know Sylvester has already been removed from the Pitchfork masthead.)

So last night I worked the KT Tunstall show at Bowery. Besides my boss fucking with me a bit on the phone, it went pretty smoothly. On my way home from work, I saw Justin C-Money walk into the Pink Pony. I snatched him up, and we headed to the Mercury Lounge to take in the Man Man set.

This band never ceases to amaze me. Man Man is so bouncy and downright demented. The band itself is a bevy of scuffed up eye-candy that goes unmatched in the indie rock world. Forget bands like The Locusts who have costumes, the Man Man costume of grease and facial hair is enough to please any onlooker. As the lead singer belts out verse in a robust, blues style voice, he receives help from a cast of characters fit for fiction. The band sets up with a sit down organ (lead singer's thrown) and a drum kit at the front of the stage. Behind them lies a set of multi-instrumentalists including a bass player who could be the bastard son of a Hanson brother (think Slap Shot and not the douche-pop band). The sound is a breath of fresh originality. There is an underlying pop sensibility to the band (you have to dig deep), but on the surface they are a chaotic mess of bells and whistles that should appeal to the little-kid-who-loves-the-circus in all of us.

Tonight should be one of those rare form evenings. I'm going for it folks, and if you're at the Bowery for the Of Montreal, Grand Buffet and M's show, then you'll get to see exactly what "it" is.

But Nic(holas) and I were original members of the Miami Sound Machine.

Since someone forgot to get back to me in regards to a Strokes ticket (not even an email deny - c'mon), my night was spent on the couch with my old friend Ethan Hawke. Our friendship started at the beginning of my career in film. While PA'ing on the set of Dead Poets Society, we became friends and often bonded over women's professional tennis. Once the critical acclaim began pouring in for the film, Ethan (I called him E) and I had the chance to revisit our friendship at the European premier. We vowed to hang out and did so later that year in Queens. We attend the 1989 US Open and saw Steffi Graf take her revenge on Martina Navratilova who beat Steffi for the championship just two years earlier. With his newly found star power we were able to get decent seats, but this growing power would lead to the end of our doomed friendship. After the hit film Reality Bites, E and I grew apart. He turned to the superstar lifestyle that included beautiful women, designer drugs and bottle service. On the other hand, I was still a PA and Ethan could never accept it. Now over 10 years later, I spent the night with Ethan at my humble home on Norfolk Street. Yes, last night I watched Training Day and Assault on Precinct 13. It's funny to see how our paths differ.

It was a very sad night indeed. After the Hawke double feature finished, I caught back-to-back episodes of Project Runway. This morning I went to the courthouse and got my name changed to Santino Miguel Belino. Someone save me from television.