Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

I don’t know why the United States went through the trouble of coating blankets with cholera and giving them to the Indians. They could have just had the Indians handle toddlers. I went from phantom illness last week to chest cold today, courtesy of my little bundle of germs.

In fact, I had to explain to my daughter why it's not a good idea to lick random objects. We were in the post office last week, and the counter walls have some glass panes. My daughter decided that said glass was eminently lickable. I told her not to lick the glass, but that only seemed to increase the lick appeal of the glass, but also created a punchline to a joke she kept repeating over and over, laughing each time I pulled her away. I had to take her out of the post office and deliver a lecture about why we don’t lick glass.

--Libby, don’t lick things like glass or walls or anything else.

--Why?

--Because it’s yucky and you’ll get germs.

--What are germs?

--Germs are things that make you sick.

--Why do they make you sick?

Here we reached the three-question maximum most parents run into. I could have patiently explained the mechanics of bacteria transfer and the immune system and whatnot and turned this surface-licking incident into a teachable moment. Instead, I said:

--LIBBY, JUST DON’T LICK THINGS!

Because all I wanted was a) to have her not get sick and b) to avoid being the parent of a kid who licks things. Now, this behavior is perfectly normal among three-year olds. However, my daughter is the size of a five-year old, which is where random taste testing of counters, walls, and windows ventures into “look at that kid” territory.

Of course, this didn’t completely end our dialog. She quickly found a whole in the complete ban of licking. In the car, Libby asked:

--Can I lick suckers?

Which, of course, she could. We further elaborated that suckers were okay, as were ice cream and popsicles. Within 60 seconds my child had already found four large holes in the licking ban. I can’t wait for her to outsmart me on things like borrowing the car, dating that boy who needs a haircut and needs to look at me when he talks, and if drinking is bad for you why does Daddy seem so happy while watching football or gambling with Uncle Tickle?

On to the tunes….

1) “Rock the Casbah,” The Clash. I think that every time a pundit says “Arab Spring,” Thomas Friedman should have to take a drink, and then the lazy butthole who uses that phrase has to suck the moisture out of his mustache. It’s been almost a year, time to talk about this like big boys and girls and not parrots asking for a cracker.

2) “Ragged Wood,” Fleet Foxes. Makes me want to don a flannel shirt, climb a redwood, and yodel. Which is much better than donning a flannel shirt, climbing a redwood, changing into women’s clothing, and hanging around in bars.

3) “Beat on the Brat,” The Ramones. This song is the anti-“Luka.”

4) “In the Meantime,” Helmet. Fuck and yeah. Helmet’s re-entered my rotation a bit because I’ve been trying to get my doughy ass back into shape and songs like this make me feel like I can dead-lift a stack of Marshalls and carry them up a stair machine made of skulls.

5) “Weekend,” Smith Westerns. Chicago kids who do manage to inject just the right amount of Beatlemania into their songs. One of my favorite songs of the year.

6) “You Don’t Know What Love Is (You Just Do as You’re Told),” The White Stripes. I think this was written about Todd Palin.

7) “Three Days,” Jane’s Addiction. A band I would have liked a lot more if Perry Farrell didn’t creep me out so much. I have always found him unsettling, and that makes it hard for me to love Jane’s Addiction, even when they produce a song like this that’s a mind-blowing mesh of grunge, punk, progressive rock, and love oils. But it always makes me think of Perry Ferrell, his oversized head and aggressive nose and hair that alternates between bleached dandruff trap and greasy 70s porn helmet. Him singing a 10-minute song about a druggy threesome conjures the mental image of a funk so powerful even George Clinton would have run away screaming in fear. The papier-mâché album cover showing a little bit of shaft doesn’t help.

8) “Elevation,” U2. It’s like they got together and said, “let’s write a party song.” Not for some party after a Live Aid or the Concert for Grenada or Artists Against Excessive Restaurant Portion Sizes. An honest-to-goodness party where Larry Mullen, Jr. actually smiles and The Edge puts on a foam hat with two beer holders and Adam Clayton dyes his hair five colors again and Bono uses “party” as a verb. No donations are solicited, no guilt is issued, and they vow to not stop partying until Sting finishes having sex in the back bedroom.

9) “Ace of Spades,” Motorhead. Makes me want to don on a leather jacket, climb a Harley, and yell at the guy in flannel who’s yodeling from a tree.

10) “The Flame,” Cheap Trick. I still can’t believe this is how I commemorated my wedding to The Lovely Becky. It’s a case study in being careful with what you play at the start of a relationship. It’s not like I could have made a mix tape of Ozzy or Dio songs when we started dating. I played with fire as it was by slipping “Closer to the Heart” in there. I couldn’t pick The Cure because I was actually happy (this is pre-happy Robert Smith), and New Order was too quick and dancy. Any kind of metal ballads were out, and I worried that going the Styx or REO route would make me seem like too much of a pussy. So I reached for the next “best” thing, because hey, they recorded “Surrender” and that song rocks, and this song was slow and it was about love and it would be perfect!

11) “The Boys Are Back in Town,” Thin Lizzy. I don’t go out of my way to play Thin Lizzy that much, but I’m always happy when it pops up. A great song for getting ready for the weekend.

Speaking of TLB, The Countess came out in paperback this week, and TLB has been doing quite a lot of great blogging about the book and the infamous lady who inspired it.

Have a great one.

Ancient and Modern

[The following is Special guest post by Zombie R. McDonald, Chief of Neurosurgery Buffet Tasting at Empire of the Senseless. ]

Welcome. Welcome to the Cheesehead Infestation Installment of Circle Jerk At The Square Dance. For those of you that know Brando, or worse, share his allegiances, this may... not be pleasant.

Because we did wager blog posts upon the outcome of the Bears-Packers game, and despite the “utterly random football stylings of Jay Cutler” the Bears did fall.

And I need to interject here that I totally liked the Bear’s throwback uniforms.

Hey, I ain’t gonna rehash the game here. You can get that elsewhere. I recommend calling Brando, if you don’t mind a lot of profanity. And some tears.

But I come here not to bear-y the Bears (see what I did there?). OK, I will leave the fucking funny to Brando. FACK, amirite?

I have to admit that over the first few games, the Packers have been lousy at pass defense. Also inexplicably, the Lions are in first place, mainly because they stomped the shit out of a couple of teams to result in a similar 3-0 record, but have a huge advantage in Points For. But in the end, the Packers are 3-FUCKING-0, the Vikings are winless, and the Bears....well.

Yanno, I grew up in Wisconsin. Probably saw a few Bart Starr games on the t-v, not that I remember. I know we saw at least one game when they still played in Milwaukee. I saw a finals game at Lambeau, the last game played before they finished the Big Remodeling.

But the Packers have always been known as a tough team, and one of the longest lived teams in the NFL; what the NFL won’t tell you is that the Packers are a SOCIALIST team, owned by a non profit corporation, with any number of cheeseheads holding stock certificates, but also unable to move anywhere else. No fucking wonder the NFL made it impossible for any other team to organize around the same ideals. But fuck you; we believe in blue collar workers in Wisconsin, and that’s what we do. Until, of course, Turdwaffle Walker slimed his way into the Gov, but my blog will cover that somewhat more. O, I digress. Also of some interest is the fact that the waiting list for Packers season tickets has topped 80,000 names.

Growing up in Wisconsin, with nearly-genetic sports allegiances, we viewed people from Minnesota, Michigan, and Illinois with suspicion at best. These are the people who have, with us, formed some of the most long lasting and legendary rivalries. They called us Cheeseheads. We not only wore it proudly, but turned it into money making opportunities; we aren’t stupid.

But fuck me, I ain’t here to talk about football. I am here to talk about friendship.

I have to admit that I have never been good at making friends. I have always been more than a bit of a geek, and kind of bookish; that did not bode well in high school and when I made friends, those friends were deep. That continued into college; I had acquaintances, and I had those I called my FRIENDS.

And I have always recognized that I don’t make friends easy, but I do it HARD. Few friends, but they are loved.

And so, what happens when the Internet intervenes? Through luck, chance, and the fact that I just became an obnoxious presence at several blog sites, I came to know some people: Jennifer. Snag. Von. Fish. Pinko Punko. MenD. Plover. Thudner. Chuckles. Kathleen. mikey. Righteous Bubba. Those fuckers who live upside down. I am sure I am missing someone, and I blame it on the drink and the tears. And I came to know those people, and I call them my friends.

They are as much friends as anybody I have ever known, and not the less because I haven’t met them all.

Wife Sublime and I refer to them semi-sardonically as “imaginary digital friends” and she is is always bemused when we travel somewhere and inevitably meet some of them. (It is surely a random happenstance that whenever this happens, there is drunkenness)

I really looked forward to meeting Brando when his wife did a book reading up here, and unfortunately child sickness prevented it; perhaps Brando might get over his Wiscons-aversion long enough to visit Summerfest next year.

Brando and I share a number of weird, geeky commonalities; not the least of which is a love of the band Rush. We both wave that banner in the face of daily ridicule and uncoolness. And rock on.

But here; One of my first ever concerts, as a weedy highschooler, was Rush on the Permanent Waves tour. And a couple of years later, I took a young lady to see the Moving Pictures tour; it was her first real rock show, and apparently the noise, the crowd, and the lasers disrupted her higher cognition to the point that she eventually married me.

There are all kinds of ways to find friends. And if they mean something to you, then the interface----digital, music, or meatspace--- what’s the difference?

There are two ways to end this post. One would be to talk about how much I love all the people who read the shit I sometimes write, and the other would be:

Hypochondriamatic

I woke up in the middle of the night with a blinding headache and sweating from head to toe. I had felt fine before bed, but my head throbbed and I felt a wave of nausea that was on the fence of stay in stomach/sprint up the esophagus. My first thought was that this must be what menopause feels like.

I tried to go back to sleep, figuring it was just a fluke, but I couldn't shake how much my head hurt and how much I was sweating. I started thinking about how I had missed my blood pressure medication this week. Yes, I have high blood pressure. The doctor believes its from family history and my practice of strapping a bag of chips to my face and eating like a Cool Ranch mule all day long. I like to think it's from being so hot that my blood just boils. Either way, I have to take pills to control said gluttony/hotness. There was a screw up with my refill this week, causing me to miss five days of pills, until I finally got them yesterday.

So my brain switched from menopause jokes and sleepy nonchalance to what if I'm having a heart attack/stroke/lycanthropy episode? I quickly ruled out the latter, as the only thing I've been scratched by recently is a cat, and werecats tend to just sleep all day and lick themselves, which makes it an attractive disease. Regarding the heart attack/stroke angle, I told myself in my best Balkie inner voice, "Don't be ridiculous." But I kept thinking that I'm old enough to not completely write it off. Unlikely, yes. Impossible, not at all.

I thankfully fell back asleep and woke up before work with the same symptoms but a clearer mind. I figured if I was going to die, it would have happened already. I also told my symptoms to TLB, who assured me I was indeed overreacting and probably ate some bad leftovers the night before. Laughing at my paranoia, I asked her if she thought when she'd met me that she'd wind up with the neurotic version of me for the rest of her life.

"No," she said. "You were pretty cocky back then. You felt like you were hot shit having lived in San Diego, you were tan, you were in really good shape...."

I began faux-sobbing, although a part of me was crying a little inside.

I debated calling into work. When you work at home, it's hard to justify taking a sick day because you lose the "don't come in and infect everyone" excuse. Usually if I'm not horking, I'm working. But my mind pulsed like house music at a night club, so I decided to take the day off, sleep, and soak in the aching joy of the sick day, when I feel like I'm 12 again and home from school.

In lieu of the random 11, I'll just do one song today:

Incidentally, the Zombie and I have a little wager on this weekend's Bears/Packers game: the victor gets to post whatever he wants on the other's blog on Monday.

Top Ten Thursdays: What should we be getting a MacArthur genius grant for?

10) Pheromone that causes men to become aroused when their female companions shop for shoes and handbags.

9) Hemp-powered engines that make everyone hungry for green energy sources.

8) Genetic crop research that causes Brussels sprouts taste like donut holes.

7) Discovering a new element, Sheenium, that is impervious to toxic levels of stimulants, sexually transmitted diseases, and film roles.

6) Creation of eGarlic app that protects e- readers from bad vampire fiction.

5) Our pioneering work in rabbit and roadrunner control studies.

4) Digital video recording technology that takes our recorded programs and automatically just shows us the good parts.

3) Our application of string theory to the study of feline behavior.

2) Holothin® technology that makes us appear svelte to others without having to sacrifice our love of Ding Dongs.

1) Political platform that successfully convinces millions of middle class voters that their dwindling salaries are less of an issue than the tax burden of the wealthy businessmen who likely laid them off.

Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

I am using Skype today for the first time (sadly for work rather than anything naughty). I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long, because in retrospect it would have been nice to use during the three years I was in the UP's Overlook Hotel. (All snow and no sun make Brando go something something.) I also feel rather silly because, while I am not necessarily a cutting-edge tech guy, I tend to adopt fairly early in the new tech progress. I jumped into e-mail back when I had to go to the computer lab at school to access it. Of course, I used this newfangled technology to e-mail D&D trivia questions to my old Dungeon Master and best friend, Tom. Yes, Al Gore built this system with his bare hands so I could send messages like “How many hit dice does a Mind Flayer have?” Seriously, how have we survived as a society?

Speaking of Tom, he is coming to visit this weekend. Our D&D days are decades behind us, but as I’ve mentioned before, we still play an old board game called Grav-Ball that is like hockey set in zero gravity with a heavy lead ball and a killer robot for a referee. We are intensely competitive about it and have saved all of our sheets listing the players on our teams from the ages of 14 to the present day. It is ungodly nerdly but we love playing it. In fact, should the two of us ever find ourselves spending the shower portion of our golden years in a nursing home, we would probably spend our days playing Grav-Ball and yelling out things like “assault!” and “strike with ball!” until the orderlies sedated us.

However, this does remind me that I’d best make any attempts to romance The Lovely Becky before my friend arrives, because there is a minimum two-week loss of attraction after she watches me play this game.

1) “Hurt,” Johnny Cash. Who’s ready to slash their wrists this weekend? Love the song but it’s harshing my impending nerdgasm.

2) “Mr. Tamborine Man,” The Byrds. It’s appropriate that this was released in 1965 because it really sounds merger of both ends of the Sixties. There’s the poppy British Invasion sound in the ringing 12-string guitar, but a flowers-in-your-hair vocal delivery that foreshadows said flowers in said hair.

3) “Game of Pricks,” Guided by Voices. The recorded version sounds like 90s lo-fi Byrds, although they tended to Who it up when they played it live. I was listening to a lot of GbV for the first time in a while yesterday, including the entire Live From Austin City Limits where they sounded completely drunk. Seriously, Robert Pollard is well on his eighth or ninth sheet near the end of the show. That’s the “aw, fuck it” attitude that made them so entertaining and also prevented them from being huge despite writing some of the catchiest rock songs since the British Invasion.

4) “Mystery,” Dio. Really, really, really not very good. I loves me some “Rainbow in the Dark” or “Last in Line,” but the last thing Dio ever needed to do was slow things down and reflect on the mysteries of life. It’s a good illustration about sticking with what you know, which in Dio’s case was dragons and demons.

5) “Back in the U.S.A.,” MC5. The things we learn from Wikipedia. Since iTunes showed this was released in 1970, I wondered if it was written in response to The Beatles “Back in the U.S.S.R.” So I consulted our truthiest online resource to find out, no, it’s a cover of a Chuck Berry tune and that The Beatles song was a bit of a parody of the Berry song. The more you know…. I also have to take this moment to admit (if I haven’t before) that I am a Wikipedia junkie. When I was a kid, I used to go to the library a lot and read encyclopedia entries (control yourselves, ladies). I’d be looking up something for school and then find myself looking up everything but what I needed to look up for school. That was especially true if the encyclopedia had anything about the occult, tanks, rock music, pro football, or female anatomy (not necessarily listed in order of interest). That would often spur a trip to the stacks to find out more about Aleister Crowley, the firepower of a Panzer versus a Sherman tank, or something called the G-spot. And now I can do all of that on one site right from my desk, with the addition of not being burdened by boring facts or the library’s fascist requirement to wear pants.

6) “Seether,” Veruca Salt. During the 90s, while I enjoyed a lot of the music coming out, I definitely looked back longingly on the 80s—the bubblegum of the pop, the politicalness of the punk, and the pomposity of the power metal. During the first decade of the Aughts, I found myself looking straight ahead as the Web opened up a cornucopia of indie rock that I might not have otherwise overlooked had a Wikipedia entry on Winston Churchill not mentioned that his favorite band was The New Pornographers. But now, with 2011 nearly in the rearview mirror, I am going through a bit of 90s nostalgia. I’ve been combing eMusic for 90s alternanuggests like this, fun blasts of distorted Nirvana-esque pop that were the popcorn shrimp of alternative radio. I just find it funny that my nostalgia skipped a decade.

7) “Come on Eileen,” Dexy’s Midnight Runners. I was about 12 when this song came out, in that mid-point where my interest in dragons still competed with my interest in girls. On top of that, I came from a conservative Catholic family and went to Catholic school, which meant I was well acquainted with the word “fuck” but not necessarily well educated on all that went into said word. I remember talking about this song with a pair of female classmates who were a little more world wise than I was. They kept making a comment about “come… on Eileen” and I kept saying, “Yeah, that’s the name of the song. What’s so funny?” They repeated it a few time and laughed at my inability to get the joke. Let me tell you, there are few things more emasculating at that age than being out-dirtied by a couple of girls, and the psychological fallout is probably that I go out of my way to know the slang for every possible organ, act, and occasional felony.

8) “Born Slippy (Nuxx),” Underworld. One of those songs that can only be listened to while dancing or driving, and even driving is a stretch. Like a lot of electronica back in the 90s, it’s stretched by endless percussive repetition, which is great if you’re drunk at a club, not so great if you have to, say, focus on something. Plus it makes me think of Trainspotting which makes me think of creepy babies and appalling toilets.

9) “Calgary,” Bon Iver. I never expected “snow-blown Wisconsin folk” and “Kanye” to go together, but the autotuned falsetto works really well on the new Bon Iver album. I even get a little bit of a Daft Punk vibe when the drums and synths show up. He managed the tough trick of still sounding like himself without repeating himself from the first album.

10) “Back of the Van,” Ladyhawke. Love, love, love. First, it manages to sound of the 80s without sounding like a pale imitation of much better songs. More than that, it really nails the nervous excitement I felt when I was a teenager and finally had left those dragons behind. The first time I ever kissed a girl (avert your eyes, TLB) was in the back of a friend’s van—and not just any van, but one of those conversion vans that could quickly be converted to a heavy petting zoo. My friend and his girlfriend were in front, while I and my date were in the back, riding to the beach at night. I had never done more than held hands with a girl, primarily because I had the romantic self confidence of a frightened ostrich. I was now poised for my first kiss, and I was so nervous, it’s a wonder I didn’t piss all over the futon cushion in the back (seriously, this van was a hotel on wheels, it’s a miracle that my friend’s parents let him drive it). But said kiss happened and every bit of nervousness and memory of previously missed opportunities and razzing from my friends melted away into just pure happiness. The funny thing is, while I was way more confident in myself by the time I met TLB the following year, my first date with her was full of the same nervousness, until we broke the ice and found a warm bliss center inside. This illustrates again why music kicks ass; as much as I love reading and movies and games, no other form of pop culture lets me personalize it as much as music.

11) “Walking to Do,” Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. Great, great tune, one of my favorites by him, with a breakdown in the middle before he comes back with a louder version of the chorus. I listen to a lot of Ted Leo at the gym and I always think this sounds like the perfect concert closer, so it’s a fitting way to end the list today.

Have a great weekend and let your nerd flag fly!

Top Ten Wednesdays: What will we do if elected president?

10) Will permanently shift the U.S. government’s official position on sex education to “missionary.”

9) Will change the social safety net into a real net that will hold the unemployed in place until there are jobs available.

8) Will support a strict originalist interpretation of the Constitution that will make it illegal for anyone to be president if they only count as 3/5 of a person.

7) Will save money by putting social security funds into a lockbox that old people will never figure out how to open.

6) Will vow to keep gay romance away from the church altar and instead leave it in the confessional where it belongs.

5) Will support the right of Americans to die whenever and wherever they choose to fall into a coma.

4) Will require schools to strengthen the counting skills of children by using Bible verses and ammunition calibers.

3) Will strengthen faith in science by making science faith-based.

2) Will cut taxes so that the rich can stimulate a robust American recovery by creating more jobs for Guatemalan housekeepers, Mexican greenskeepers, Brazilian waxers, African adoption officers, French restaurateurs, Italian designers, Dutch jewelers, German automakers, and Swiss bankers.

1) Will promise not to trigger the Rapture until our second term.

Friday Random 11

It’s one more random than 10!

Months of the football lockout, of worrying about how I would feel the void left by no Bears games and no fantasy leagues, were swept away last night after one of the best season-openers I’ve ever seen. That happiness makes me feel dumb, and I should feel dumb, because rooting for sports teams is stupid. All summer, I read about the lockout, hoping that a group of billionaires, millionaires, and thousandaires could resolve their differences so I could watch enormous men assault each other and then listen to Terry Bradshaw try to use his words on the post-game show. Added to the gnawing feeling that this was a colossal waste of time was a twinge of guilt that the sport I love to watch may be destroying athletes’ brains faster than a gallon of turpentine being passed around the parking lot before a Judas Priest concert. The only thing missing was a Sarah McLachlin song playing in the background while a bunch of concussed football players look blankly into the camera.

But then the lockout ended, I drafted my fantasy teams, and Green Bay once again found a reason to exist. Huzzah to distractions! I was even able to forget the pants-soiling idea that the Mayan prophecy of the world ending in 2012 could be coming true thanks to the Perry campaign. Hey, at least I’ll get to see one more Super Bowl before that happens.

1) “Celluloid Heroes,” The Kinks. Will we ever walk down Hollywood Boulevard and stand on top of Snooki’s star? We might not recognize it at first because the name will be partially obscured by vomit, but there it will be. Think it won’t happen? Well, they gave one to John Stamos, so anything is possible.

2) “Barely Breathing,” Duncan Sheik. I can’t tell if this is a guilty pleasure for me. It wouldn’t be if I was female, it would just be romantic. But for a dude to like this…well, it might even be too wimpy for a scene on Friends where Ross is pining for Rachel but can’t have her because he came out to Chandler, but only because he swore off women because he didn’t want to get divorced again, but just as he decides to take a chance and tell Rachel the truth (around the time the bridge of the song kicks in), he sees Rachel kissing Joey, except they are just practicing for Joey to kiss Phoebe, and then Monica shows up and tells Ross that Rachel would have him if he’d pick music that didn’t make his balls shrink. That’s a shame, because I like this song, but I’d also feel more comfortable requesting the Goo Goo Dolls before asking for this.

3) “You’re Only Human (Second Wind),” Billy Joel. I don’t even know why I have this. I fucking hate Billy Joel. I had my period where I found his singalong stories interesting and I may have even belted out “The Piano Man” a few drunken times in my life. But now, it’s a level of hate probably only surpassed by The Goonies and Brett Favre. And yet I will not delete this, because I don’t delete anything from my music collection. I even have Volume III of Joel’s greatest hits, which makes me want to fill my ears with gasoline and use a lit match for a Q-tip. I’m like a music hoarder. Becky would have to intervene with me, and just as we’re about to delete it, I’ll start crying and saying, “But I might want to hear ‘Uptown Girl’ someday! He and Christie were so happy!” And then they’ll sedate me and agree that we won’t permanently delete the files, just keep them in the Recycle Bin.

4) “Russian Autumn Heart,” The Church. That’s better. This is one of my Songs I Love Despite Having No Idea What It’s About. I mean, I think I’ve owned this album for 20 (!) years and I have played this song hundreds of times. If you asked me what it was about, I’d take a minute and then say, “A girl, I think. And maybe the foliage around St. Petersburg.” But who needs lyrics you can understand when you’ve got a great ringing riff on your Rickenbacker?

5) “Up on Cripple Creek,” The Band. In my Admire but Don’t Listen To folder. Great band, that’s why they are The Band. But like Dylan or jazz, I never get into them.

6) “Dominion Road,” The Mutton Birds. Fantastic guitar pop from New Zealand, with a great chorus that stutter steps from the verses and jumps into a nice guitar line.

7) “Subdivisions,” Rush. I got a package from my mother for my birthday, opened it up, read the card, and then unwrapped the gift: a Blu-ray copy of Rush’s Snakes and Arrows Live concert. The only Rush video I do not own. From a woman who referred to Rush as “that Chinese music” when I was growing up and blaring “By-Tor and the Snow Dog” out of a boom box. It’s the greatest gift she’s ever given me (or second greatest if you want to get picky and count life) because it was not only perfect, it probably burned her fingers to even touch it. That’s love and also how I’ll probably feel when I give Libby the Bieber Box Set.

8) “I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll,” Nick Lowe. What Mssr. Lowe is implying here is that he knew the bride when she used to have sex, which seems so quaint now. Who doesn’t know a bride who used to rock and roll? Even one of those little purity pledge pains in the ass probably has a few dry humping skeletons in the laundry hamper. Don’t get me wrong, I generally applaud the openness of our society, but we probably have gotten too open. Today, this song would be “I Knew the Bride When She Used to Flash the Blackhawks Bench” or “I Knew the Groom When He Used to Tweetpic His Junk.”

9) “Livin’ in the Jungle,” Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears. The end of summer means the end of summer songs, which is a shame, because there are few things I love listening to more than a great summer song. Case in point, this booty-shakin bit of James Brown’s chicken that just begs to be played on a hot day while drinking a case of cold ones and watching attractive 20-somethings dive into your backyard pool (okay, so maybe that doesn’t happen to me, but it’s what I see when I close my eyes). You just won’t feel that while listening to this when wearing a sweater.

10) “Once,” Pearl Jam. Three studio albums from Nirvana, 20 years of studio albums from Pearl Jam. There is no justice in the universe. (Plus Scott Weiland hasn’t had the good manners to die of a heroin overdose, but that's a rant for another song). Still, I do like the original PJ album, but I’ve never seen the point after Ten and maybe Vs. If you’ve heard one grungy set of mumbling from Eddie Vedder, you’ve heard them all. Also, video shows PJ playing this at a Seattle band competition.

11) “A Little Respect,” Erasure. I feel like I should butch this up by playing some more Duncan Sheik, but fuck it, I’ll throw my hands in the air and wave them like I just don’t care about people questioning my sexual preferences. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you should never avoid listening to something because you care what people will think about you listening to it (how else would I have remained a Rush fan?). Another thing I’ve learned is that it’s fun to dance like a gay guy. That’s why gay men always look so happy while they are dancing. It’s the guys dancing like they are straight who look awkward and miserable.

Have a good weekend!

GOP Nearly Sets Record for Most Number of Dildos Displayed During a Debate

Controversy erupts over downgrading of Ron Paul to “butt-plug” status

WASPTOPIA, CA – Herman Cain. Rick Santorum. Jon Huntsman. Newt Gingrich. Ron Paul. Michele Bachmann. Mitt Romney. Rick Perry. As the candidates for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination filed into Ketchup Hall at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Foundation, Library, and Sanitarium, the enthusiastic audience applauded what they thought was an historical occasion for the GOP: The largest number of dildos ever displayed during a presidential debate.

A controversial, last-minute reclassification would put the record out of reach and leave the Ron Paul campaign complaining of a conspiracy to “make Ron Paul pull out of this race.” Nevertheless, most pundits agreed it was as impressive a display of conservative political dildos as the Republican party has ever witnessed.

Certainly the diversity of the dildos on display was the most varied the GOP had ever seen. Newt Gingrich and Mitt Romney represented the traditional crooked and white dildo wings of the party, which historically have driven the Republican presidential process. Rick Santorum, once part of the traditional dildo wing, isnow firmly lodged in the bent anal dildo camp that appeals to certain hardcore members of the Republican party but is too painful for most Republicans to consider.

However, four very unorthodox dildos have been thrust into the Republican limelight. Businessman Herman Cain is only the second black dildo to ever be considered for president by the mostly white party. While not a frontrunner, he is seen as a smoother, sleeker version compared to the bumpy dildo that was former African American GOP candidate Alan Keyes. Unfortunately, Cain has not only bucked tradition, but he has courted controversy by inserting himself into some sticky debates, such as whether he would consider a Muslim for his cabinet.

Jon Huntsman of Utah was perhaps the most realistic dildo of the field, one representative of the modest stature and appearance of the average middle-class Republican voter. Huntsman did not try to force his way into the debate or pound such popular issues such as whether global warming was real. Yet, while admired for his approach, the former governor is considered too unimposing and veiny to appeal to many voters, and the audience seemed less than satisfied with his performance during the debate.

Ron Paul is by far the least conventional of the GOP dildos, a squat, inflexible candidate whose hard-headed approach is his main draw to like-minded voters looking for a more freewheeling, unrestricted governmental lifestyle. But like Cain, Paul lacks broad appeal and seems only able to fill a libertarian niche in the race.

Michele Bachman came into the debate standing tall and erect after her performance in the Iowa straw poll, and she clearly looked ready to ride the momentum generated from that climactic victory. She is the pink strap-on of the field, feminine and yet masculine at the same time. But while she appeals to both male and female voters, many have wondered if she was simply a temporary stand-in for a larger male candidate.

That certainly seemed to be the case as the focus shifted to the biggest dildo in the race, Governor Rick Perry of Texas. Perry is considered by many to be the ideal representative dildo for the GOP nomination: big, white, and sporting a large base. He is also a man who revels in his dildo status. “He doesn’t try to hide what he is,” said John Harris of Politico, one of the moderators. “Furthermore, Perry did what smart dildos do: He waited until there was a clear opening and then pushed his way in.”

The buzz around Perry caused a clear vibration of excitement among the audience, as they routinely applauded and cheered his performance. He scored the most when he engaged the other frontrunner, Romney, in direct swordfights, tussling with the former Massachusetts governor on job creation and health care. His blunt discussion of what he would do to Social Security, income taxes, and the direct election of senators—talk that until recently seemed far too risqué for mainstream political discourse—only seemed to excite the crowd that much more.

Moderator Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News also garnered a cheer from the crowd when he said that the eight dildos simultaneously on televised display was a presidential record, breaking the old one set by the second Democratic presidential debate of 1988. However, that enthusiasm was quickly quashed when it was determined that Ron Paul was technically a butt-plug and not a full-fledged dildo. The classification came at the behest of the Republican National Committee, which explained in a press release that, “while we appreciate the important role Mr. Paul plays in the act of nominating a presidential candidate, his stature, appearance, and constant state of being a pain in the ass make it clear he is more of a rectal plug than a true dildo.”

“That’s a lot of crap,” Paul said when reached for comment. “The whole thing stinks, and it’s indicative of how I’ve been buried in this whole debate. But at the end of the day, categories don’t matter. All that matters is that I represent the real desires of Americans. You may not see me as much in this debate, but you will definitely feel my presence.”

Despite the controversy, the debate was considered a successful display of the varied dildoship of the party. It was also a clear victory for Perry, whose campaign seems to be gaining stamina as the rest of the field flags a bit. After the debate, Brian Williams summed up Perry’s performance in one statement, “He’s clearly the Jeff Stryker Monster Cock of the field.”