I’m a bargain bin hunter, and when I’m hunting for snipe (rare old jazz or blues records) I come across a lot of…well…let’s say varied material. And while the prices at my local Goodwill store are indeed low, you gotta have a decent reason to crowd your place with excess wax. That said, my general rule of thumb is to purchase only LPs that I care to listen to or that I think may be collectible/valuable. But lately, I’ve been surprisingly intrigued by a third and often overlooked category–that of the sonically useless and wholly uncollectible but definitely sporting a hilarious cover genre. So my promise to you, dear reader, is that I will keep my third eye open for gems such as those below. When I uncover these rare slabs, I will periodically post them here along with some hysterical snarky commentary, all for your ultimate humor pleasure, in this newest STOTU series Fun With Album Covers (FWAC). Continue reading
As one of the millions of Americans ‘searching’ for work and finding the apparent pickings so slim as to even warrant a pick, I have, like my fellow millions, thus far failed to find much by way of constructive hobbies. Of course I could lay down that six album rock opera I’ve always dreamed of recording, the one about the misunderstood teenage computer gamer who gets his revenge against some vague negative life influences; or I could finally take up woodcarving, exposing my lack of patience and artistic flair in equally quick and conclusive manner; or I could (continue) to amass the world’s (okay, local area’s) greatest collection of golden era pornography (early 2006 to mid-November 2008). But none of these seemed anything less than a whole bunch of work. So instead, like my millions, I decided to medicate my dying brain with a little TV. Continue reading
Everyone knows booze and writing great books go hand in hand like opium and penning your memoirs. After reading the bios of such heavyweights as Hunter S. Thompson, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Edgar Allen Poe, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, and Hemingway, to name just 8, I found there was one common denominator—yep, that’s right, the juice.
NOTE: THIS POST CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE & CONTENT Continue reading
Living in Singapore, a land with no seeming interest in or knowledge of NFL football, presents a challenge for me, and that is how to see the big game! Luckily, my gal found a solution—the All Sports Network, or ASN. Still, even with an ASN subscription, coverage is spotty and in any case oddly timed. With the most recent game, today’s critical early season Monday night tilt between my beloved Minnesota Vikings and the plucky but annoying New York Jets, the game would be televised live, but at 8:30 a.m., the precise time when I needed to head toward school and “learn something.” Argh is right, y’all! Luckily, consulting the local cable TV guide, I saw that a replay of the game would air during evening programming.
So…I don’t particularly mind seeing the game after the fact, so long as I have NO idea, NO clue, NO miniscule inkling as to the outcome. For today, that means avoiding Facebook, Yahoo, and a host of other media outlets (notably my favorite the New York Times) where the news could be leaked. It also means steering clear of ANYONE who might know I am from Minnesota and also a loyal Vikes fan.
Generally, this is where the Singaporean indifference to American football pays dividends. But it occurred to me upon my stroll to school that I have a classmate who dates a guy from Minnesota, who I have seen wearing local sports regalia, who tends to peruse a laptop during class, and who generally sits right in front of me. Clearly I would need to brief her on the do’s and do not’s of checking the box score and blabbing her big mouth all over the classroom.
As it turns out, she’s not a fan, and could readily guarantee she wouldn’t spill the beans. But as I described to her the intensity of my position, how badly I longed to watch the game free of bias, my mind raced with alternate and highly unlikely scenarios that, even if they were to occur, would not compel me to seek the results.
With that, the Top Ten Highly Unlikely Scenarios for Today’s Vikings Game that Still Wouldn’t Make Me Want to Hear About It
10) If President Obama attends the game, decides he would like to play, laces ‘em up, and throws 50 touchdown passes, one for each state in his beloved union, I do not want to hear about it.
9) If Aliens descend from outer space and proceed to administer rectal probes on each player, which, naturally, the Vikings players would object to but the Jet players would enjoy, keep it to yourself girlie.
8 ) If the Vikings cheerleaders preempt the game by taking the field in sexy lingerie and hold a three-hour pillow fight, I’ll just wait to see it this evening. Zip it.
7) Should the NFL announce that today is “Fans Get to Play Day” and this leads to a spirited but dysfunctional and lopsided matchup between beer-bellied tradesmen and MILF-ish soccer moms, I’m sure I’ll still enjoy the game.
6) If both teams, depressed about global warming, world poverty, or the relative diminishment of old school “smashmouth” football in today’s NFL, commit suicide in a communal act of protest, shush it. Shush it!
5) In the unlikely event giant earthworms should tunnel up from beneath the turf and ravenously gobble up players and fans alike, I’m sure there will be extended coverage throughout the week, and I can catch up on the full set of events this evening.
4) If People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) suddenly convinces the NFL that playing with the old “pigskin” is inhumane and the game should instead be played with a NERF ball, but the game is cancelled because nobody can remember where their NERF football went but they’re pretty sure it got stuck in the kid down the street’s gutter system, I consider this a compelling human and animal interest story, one about which you should just keep your fat trap shut.
3) If Vikings coach Brad Childress and Jets coach Rex Ryan break up the coin toss, grab the Ref’s microphone, announce they are gay lovers, and proceed to make sweet, sweet man love on the 50-yard line, that’s something I might not care to watch but still don’t need to know about until game time.
2) While I would be disappointed if the league declared that football in its current state is too violent and institutes starting today a two-hand touch or flag football system, I’d still watch and be interested in the outcome. Clamp down your pie hole, cupcake.
1) If Vikings quarterback Brett Favre throws 20 touchdown passes to his newest weapon, wide receiver Randy Moss, and puts the icing on the cake by kicking three field goals and driving in 10 runs including a grand slam, I’ll watch it on my own time, thank you.
When the schlocky ‘70s action series Charlie’s Angels debuted in 1976, I was a tender and impressionable boy of five. I responded immediately to the show’s good-gals-always-win plots, whereby the three foxy angels (magnificently played originally by Farrah Fawcett, Jaclyn Smith, and Kate Jackson, though Diane Ladd would replace Fawcett by season two), tackled crime with the force of specially trained super-agents and the style and panache of the most refined debutantes. These hard-working ladies of law and order did triple duty: protecting Southern Californians from the dregs of society, providing incredible eye candy, and breaking down conventional gender stereotypes for one of the first times in television history. Young as I was I had no conscious awareness of any larger societal theme, but as it turns out, those darned Angels have persevered in me while other wonder women have come and gone.
During the show’s five year run, my interest grew larger and larger. I was intrigued by the mysterious “Charlie,” the never-seen but richly-voiced proprietor of the Charles Townsend Agency, for whom the angels went to work after growing frustrated by their drab police desk jobs. There was also Bosley, the angels’ liaison to Charlie, who didn’t often get into the thick of the action, but was always available to have a good chuckle after another plot was busted by the buxom threesome. But mostly I was fascinated with those angels…how they managed to keep such perfect hair regardless of the situation, how they were able to perform incredible martial arts moves in high heels, and the way their derrieres looked in their tight-around-the-butt but flared at the ankle synthetic slacks. Continue reading
For the uninitiated, the show is basically a televised sting operation, where would-be child predators are courted in chat rooms, invited to a phony minor’s home, and GOTCHA! Out pops NBC’s Chris Hanson, host of the show and Interrogator General for the evening.
The format and flow is always the same. First, Hanson encourages the suspect to have a seat on a kitchen stool and begins grilling him as to his intentions, whether he knows how old the girl (or boy) is, and just how that picture of his exposed genitalia ended up in her (or his) email account. Once the host is satisfied he has thoroughly humiliated (and rightly so) the dirt bag, he encourages them in patronizing fashion to leave if they so choose (I believe “go ahead and go right out that same door you came in in” is his phrasing du jour). Almost invariably, they thank Mr. Hanson, gather any belongings they were asked by the mark to bring to the “date” (sandwiches, candy, booze, condoms, marijuana, etc.), and scuttle out the door just to be thrown to the ground by a waiting police force. The charge is typically “Attempted Lewd Contact Upon a Minor.” I find the use of “upon” as an odd choice of words, but there’s no accounting for legalese.
In watching the show, I’ve noticed a number of commonalities among the slime-bags, small traits that seem to hold true for each and every one of ‘em. For example: Continue reading