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I realize this is apropos of nothing, but I was doing an image search with the following query – “van damme jew” – and found an excellent assortment of embarrassing images of Jean-Claude Van Damme. Like a photo of a Mexican dog in a dracula cape, these are far too precious to keep to myself. So here:


Sometimes my dumb streak spreads wide, like the mighty Mississippi. How else can I explain my can’t-stop-hitting-repeat love of the new DMX single, “X Gon’ Give it to Ya”? As the thoughtful scribes at put it, here the artist is “in typical X form.” You know. You hear the song – the loud threats, tourettic shouts, military pacing – and you say with a wink, “that’s my X. so typical!”

Mark my words: “X Gon’ Give it to Ya” is poised to become the date rape anthem of 2003. Sorry, Mudvayne! Better luck next year.


Just catching up on last week’s New Yorker (i can so read. shut it.) and it was end-to-end good. I subscribe to the magazine because I find, other than the New York Times Magazine, it’s the one source that always comes up when people relate interesting stories. It’s never, “Did you read that story in this month’s Crack’d?…” And it is a good magazine although, on average, I only read about 40% of its contents. Financial Page? Never. Written by Jeffrey Toobin. Almost never. Modern dance legends? Forget it. Even “Shouts and Murmurs,” the section I used to most look forward to each week, telegraphs its tired punches so desperately that it usually gets abandoned about three unfunny jokes through. (in that sense, it’s not so different from this site.)

But last week’s issue was a POWERHOUSE – for me, at least. A surprisingly down-to-earth feature on Matthew Barney. A “Talk of the Town” mention (and illustration) of an acquaintance from the NYC comedy scene. (and that only made me a tiny bit jealous and wanting, but not enough to wish ill of demetri, who i still think is talented and very decent at being a human being.) And a nice, long piece of new fiction from George Saunders that gave me the same warm stirrings pre-teen girls get when the new issue of Frilly! magazine boasts a fold-out poster of Justin Timberlake or that guy from Smallville. Suffice it to say, my content ingestion average spiked at about 85%.

The best story, however, has been the history of Forrest Tucker, one of America’s most notorious bankrobbers and prison escape artists. I haven’t finished this piece yet, but it instantly gave me the feeling that some very ambitious and very lazy Hollywood producer just found his next story to option. With a speech like this:

“So what do you want to know? I’ve been in prison all my life, except for the times I’ve broken out. I was born in 1920, and I was in jail by the time I was fifteen. I’m eighty-one now and I’m still in jail, but I’ve broken out eighteen times successfully and twelve times unsuccessfully. There were plenty of other times I planned to escape, but there’s no point in me telling you about them.”

you’ve already got your opening voice-over. The article reads almost exactly like a great, epic film, spanning America’s 20th century through fashion, crime, pulp, style, and geography, and seen through the lens of a perfectly smooth, handsome outlaw with a penchant for politeness. My God it’s all right there.

Then, about 2500 words in, I remembered. The story sounded almost too familiar, and that’s because William Goldman had a similar thought. In his book Which Lie Did I Tell? he demonstrates how possible it is to build a story out of something ripped right from the headlines and uses the final (possibly!) arrest of Mr. Tucker as his example. He goes to great trouble to set it up, hypothetically, as an example to aspiring screenwriters. Wild. He provided the premise, but the New Yorker provided the outline.

And someone – and we pray it will not be someone like Brian Grazer – will provide the holiday film. The only difference will be that Tucker’s age will come down by at least 10 years, and his main accomplice will be a foul-mouthed space alien named Rolo. (after his hearty appetite for “Rolo’s” candies.)


When Ed Lover (innovator of the ed lover dance) compared Jam Master Jay’s untimely and tragic demise to the murder of John Lennon, I felt it was as earnest as an airbrushed memorial portrait of Aaliyah on the hood of a Lexus, and just about as tacky. Show the man respect within his genre; there is no need to undermine the importance of rap music through rock analogy. Plus, considering Jay’s place in the canon of hip-hop (i can’t believe i said that), and the genre’s many living legends, Lover’s eulogy didn’t leave room for analogy in the event of Kris Parker’s death (John F. Kennedy?) or the death of Grandmaster Flash (Mecha-John Lennon?), or Rakim (Abraham Lincoln?) or Biz Markie (Fatty Arbuckle?).

Then Public Enemy’s Chuck D took time away from uploading MP3s of his newest album to correct – or at least amend – Ed Lover’s statement. He claimed, “Losing Jam Master Jay to a murder was, maybe not John Lennon, but it was like as if Ringo and George both got hit at the same time.” Shit. Again, I see where he’s coming from, but Ringo? That’s like kicking extra dirt on Jay’s coffin.

And just when it seemed the honor that should have been reserved for the victim was in danger of being tipped over by clumsy elbows vying for mic time to “set the record straight”, two other recent events have managed to explode our collective memories of JMJ and smear the stinking remains across our upper lips.

Exhibit A*: The Jam Master Jay Tribute Shoe. When JMJ got his driver’s license, did he check the box to have his organs donated to Adidas? These shoes are screened with a tiny likeness of Jay’s face on the tongue, and a gentle reminder of his life span. They’re also the inverse of the color combination Run DMC was seen in most frequently, and immortalized on “My Adidas” – “they’re black and white / white with black stripes / the kind I like to wear when I rock the mic.” (granted, maybe Jay favored the white-on-black lowers, but his voice was seldom heard.) And they’re $100, just as Jay would have wanted. Nowhere on the site did I find any information indicating that a portion of the profits would go to Jay’s family, or to the purchase of spackle to fill those holes in the studio wall. If you want a fitting tribute linked to your wallet, go buy yourself a damn Snoop DeVille instead.

Exhibit B: Dr. P. Uh-oh. What happened? This hurts me more than a three car pile-up between Mike Love, Mickey Dolenz, and Tony Orlando’s Dawn. (coincidentally, ed lover compared the death of lisa ‘left-eye’ lopez to precisely this. chuck d later added, “well, peter tork maybe. but mickey dolenz? let’s be reasonable, everybody.”) I love Dr. Pepper. I love it like a junkie loves smack. Almost exactly like that, in fact. So I do not need a reason to boycott this sweet, spicy elixir. But Dr. Pepper is testing my threshhold of forgiveness with their new “JMJ Tribute” commercials. LL Cool J rapping at a computer-generated image of Jam Master Jay, scratching on his 1200s? The remaining members of Run DMC in their new oversized hats, not contributing much? Wait. Back to LL. LL HAS GONE LOCO! I’m glad he got back in the gym and worked that beef into lean. He has finally earned his right to be shirtless again. He even cleaned up that anti-perspirant residue from underneath his arms. Mama would be proud. But she should still knock you out for doing that commercial. You’re rapping to a ghost! Selling Dr. Pepper! What does this have to do with hip-hop, with JMJ, with alley ways or name plates or dooky chains or anything? I pray that someone will deliver LL from Eva and return him and his Flinstones head to Earth.

And while LL buries himself alive in a record time of 30 seconds, Jay’s ghost is resurrected for the express purpose of desecration. Even his CGI expression is mournful, as he silently scratches out Dr. Pepper’s orders. Pay attention, if you can, to the end of the commercial in which Jay’s digital self scratches out Run DMC’s signature message: “We’re RUN DMC and Jam Master Jay!!” and note the change. According to the executives at Dr. Pepper who fear black people have turned to PepsiBlue, it would be a fitting tribute to JMJ to show him scratching out the following: “Run DMC and Jam Dr. PEPPER!!!” It’s the perfect blend of eulogy and sacrilege.

Dr. Pepper must have used some Jedi mind tricks, combined with levitating blank checks, to convince the artists involved in this commercial that it would be a fitting tribute. And according to their press release, they’d like to dangle a spinning hypnotic disc in front of consumers’ minds and repeat the following passage (for the subtext-impaired, i will bold-face certain key words):

“After some deep thought and discussion about how appropriate it would be to air this commercial, the surviving members of RUN DMC, as well as members of James Mizell’s family, felt it would be a fitting tribute. A brief memorial to Jam Master Jay will appear at the end of the commercial for six to eight weeks after its debut during the professional footbal conference championships, as well as on the Golden Globe Awards. Because this commercial is a tribute to RUN DMC’s pioneering work in the hip-hop music genre, the timing is perfect to honor Jam Master Jay. Like Dr. Pepper, RUN DMC and Jason Mizell were one-of-a-kind.”

I know what you’re wondering: did I accidentally forget to include the maniacal laughter at the end of this quote? No. Shockingly, it was absent to begin with. I can only assume a public relations representative excised it for brevity. Dr. Pepper thought carefully, and decided 6-8 weeks was a fitting tribute, especially on the heels of the Golden Globe Awards, Jam Master Jay’s favorite television event. Also, in marketing-speak, the words “perfect timing” rarely, if ever, refer to matters of dignity, grieving or respect. And leave it to Dr. Pepper to carefully reverse the order of honor. Run DMC are strategically compred to the product, and not the other way around. I’m sure “some members” of Jay’s family are very proud, and very rich.

What can be learned from all of this? For fans of great men and women, be careful how you honor your heroes. For advertisers…forget it. It’s far too late for you. And for everyone else – write your last will and testament EARLY. And be sure to include a clause about the posthumous use of your likeness. And a second clause indicating all your actual favorite products. And one more clause requesting that RUN and DMC start wearing their little hats again.

*my friend zeina came through with research into the JMJ tribute sneaker, and i am eating my oversized hat. here’s what she found: “of the 5000 pairs that were made 100% of the profits
are going to the scratch DJ academy started by JMJ last year…the academy’s “goal is to unify, legitimize, validate and extend the role and importance of the DJ into new arenas. An organization that focuses on the documentation of the art form as well as the extension of its services into completely new and untapped markets.” it’s really nice to be proven wrong this way, actually. and double-nice because adidas didn’t make a big deal about it on their own site, as far as i can tell. but guess what? you should still switch to mr. pibb.


Buying me the new Crooked Fingers album* won’t save the world, or your life, or even the life of that frog you accidentally sat on in third grade, on your way back from a field trip to the reservoir. It won’t do any of those things. But it will make me smile. And that hasn’t happened since 1983. Imagine the power you now possess. If that doesn’t work, maybe you should buy it for yourself and smile for me.

*It is not this site’s policy to solicit gifts from readers, by direct request, or through the inclusion of an Amazon wish list filled with stuff that interests me but can never serve to satisfy the way your continued readership does. Plus, I don’t have any boobie pictures to share in exchange for your gifts. Just these words. And one blurry pickle shot. But just one. And the lighting isn’t especially flattering. But you can sort of make out the edges. So there’s that.


Be on the lookout for a new comedy concert film named The Blue Collar Comedy Tour, coming like an entertainment tornado to blow away the trailer park of your mind. From the looks of the trailer, this film doubles as some kind of white person’s reparations for the success of The Original Kings of Comedy. (or perhaps The Queens of Comedy or The Original Latin Kings of Comedy or maybe, just maybe, The Original Laotian Kings of Comedy.) It’s basically the same structure – 4 touring comics, one host, live concert mixed with panel-style “riffing”, material about how different it was to grow up poor – and nearly the same name. The only difference I could see was when they cut to the audience reactions. Instead of a vast sea of highly macked-out black women and men from the American South, it’s just a large Klan rally. But the Klansmen are having just as much fun. You can’t actually see them laughing but you can kind of tell they are by the way their hoods shake. (bam! zip! pow!)

The concert is headlined by Jeff “you know you’re a redneck” Foxworthy, and ordinarily that would be all you’d need to know. However, I feel it’s important to highlight a new face in the world of unapologetically-white-guy comedy: Larry The Cable Guy. That’s his name! Just ask him! And be sure to check out his self-written bio! In which he adds exclamation points to the end of nearly every line! Ensuring us all that it is some hootin’ hollerin’ hilariosity!!!! It’s as if Larry is saying, “hoo-dog! I myself cannot even believe the crazy things coming out of my mouth! I’m all serious for a second and then – what? – here comes something straight outta left field!” Each one of his jokes has a lethal punch not unlike the last panel of a Bazooka Joe comic strip.

As you read his bio, it becomes increasingly libertarian and, therefore, increasingly fascinating. Larry gets his steel toe booted foot in the door with a quick barrage of alcoholic mother jokes, then slowly shifts his tone from Mr. “Laugh A Minute” to Mr. “I Got Some Opinions, Too, Y’all, and This Here Interweb Is a Right Fine Place to Air Them”. Check out this excellent trick in disarming the reader before dropping a conservative bomb: “I believe all the telletubbies is queer, not just the purple one! I believe in the right to bear arms! Not only against scumbag criminals, but also against a tyrannical government!” Larry is one-part Hee-Haw, two-parts NASCAR, four-parts Militia Separatist Movement, and forty-parts PRECIOUS!

I think Larry has built himself a fine niche. He really does call himself “Larry the Cable Guy” at every possible juncture, and I’m sure that’s how he presented himself to club owners and prospective talent management. The easy nail he uses to hang himself on is similar to the way many Chitlin Belt comics call themselves things like “The Wildcat” or “Doo Doo Brown” or “Stricklee Funnin”, and produce headshots reflecting their “wild” or “doo doo” nature. Larry’s headshot is S-M-A-R-T. It shows him wearing the requisite baseball cap, Ted Nugent t-shirt and, in case you are a casting agent who doesn’t quite understand what Larry the Cable Guy is All About, he was also kind enough to wrap some cables around his neck in a style suggesting Early Hysterical. Larry ain’t some stinking plumber or landscaper. He’s straight-up cable guy and don’t you forget it. Something tells me Larry has already made an appearance on Reba in an episode where the cable goes out just before a big Travis Tritt pay-per-view event. And something else tells me he’ll be making another appearance very soon…in your heart! Now go GIT-R-DONE, whatever that means.

P.S. Larry the Cable Guy is not gay. I’m just saying.


I realize things are going really well for nerds lately. Several years ago, various mainstream media channels heralded the “Rise of the Geek”, and graced their covers with various computer nerds-a-leaping, costumed with all the naturalism and subtlety of an extra from Saved by the Bell. Nerds were everywhere you looked, except at cool parties or underneath attractive women because, let’s face it: unless those headlines read “Rise of the Multi-Billionaire Geek,” the only velvet ropes you had any hopes of getting past with those steel-frame glasses, tennis shoes and trench coat were at Club Bizarro Universe. It was false advertising, but no hard feelings.

Well, even if you couldn’t sincerely thank Bill Gates and that Asian guy from Yahoo!, the same cannot be said for Peter Jackson. You see, his outstandingly deft handling of JRR Tolkien’s Nerd-tastic trilogy has legitimized all of your bookish fantasies and vindicated decades of unsubstantiated physical abuse at the hands and feet of Jocks™ worldwide. The tables have turned, and Lord of the Rings upset them.

Everyone loves the fantasy that Jackson – and, by extension, Tolkien (the original he-man woman-hater) – has wrought. Suddenly, your insight into elvin lore is a much-desired commodity. Jocks are bringing their own nerd sherpas to the movies, and hanging on their every thin-lipped utterance. “Give us safe passage through Middle Earth,” their eyes beg, and you comply more than willingly. You’re pointing out mistakes in the subtitles for scenes spoken in Elven, an act which would ordinarily elicit a swift and severe beating, but now caresses “oohs” and “ahhhs” and sweet eyelash fluttering from your tormentors. Maybe they even throw a beefy arm around your shoulder and chuckle along when you make a joke about the generous size of Gandalf’s staff, and take no notice when your skepticism and newfound cavalier spirit cause you to mutter, “Auta miqula orqu*” underneath your breath. Yes, the world seems to be tilting according to your whims but believe me now: BE CAREFUL.

Don’t push it too hard. Remember that Tolkien’s rich, female-free universe of dragons and dwarves and homocidal trees has been your province for many, many years, but is virgin territory to the rest of us. Take it slowly. Learn to hold your tongue. Leave your cape and cardboard scabbard at home a little while longer – at least until the reviews are in for the next chapter in the trilogy. Perhaps you can show people your armband tattoo of the Ring’s unforgettable inscription, but don’t share your Hobbit fan fiction just yet. Choose your battles, or you will upset this wonderful but delicate victory. Don’t start wearing ear points. Don’t refer to your cubicle as “the shire”, except in private emails to your closest and most trusted friends. I know it doesn’t seem fair, but please trust me. I’m just trying to protect you.

You’ve got a year left, maybe even more. Just hold your breath and pray the critics don’t smite The Return of the King next year, or you’ll have to retreat back to Middle Earth (i.e. your mom’s basement apartment) for another three thousand gleems, or whatever you nerds call years.

(*if you were able to recognize this phrase and/or translate it, it’s already too late for you. sacrifice yourself with silence for the sake of the rest of the nerd race, please.)


Making and ordering a list makes things nice. This year being so great for music that a “best of 2002” list was so easy it actually became difficult. No single album by an artist knocked me out completely, but many artists made knockout singles. (see what i just did with language??? why hasn’t entertainment weekly scooped me up into its loving arms yet?) Here’s a list, of my favorite ones from last year, in order of my memory’s ability to recall them:

  1. “The Boy Looked at Johnny,” The Libertines
  2. “Stay Don’t Go,” Spoon
  3. “Ivanka,” Imperial Teen
  4. “Work It,” Missy Elliott
  5. “Dig a Hole,” The Rogers Sisters
  6. “Rock You,” The Roots
  7. “Roland,” Interpol (notable mention: “PDA”, “Obstacle 1”)
  8. “The Leanover,” Life Without Buildings
  9. “Lose Yourself,” Eminem
  10. “Oh Goddamnit,” Hot Hot Heat
  11. “Oh!,” Sleater-Kinney
  12. “Hate to Say I Told You,” The Hives
  13. “One Sailor Was Waving,” Ballboy
  14. “Hot in Herre,” Nelly (notable mention: “Air Force Ones”)
  15. “Die Another Day,” Madonna (shut up!)
  16. “One with the Freaks,” The Notwist
  17. “Lost Cause,” Beck
  18. “Huffer,” The Breeders
  19. “Promising Light,” Iron & Wine
  20. “Hey Ma,” Cam’ron
  21. “You Know You’re Right,” Nirvana (can’t help myself)

Phew! Now, after reading everyone else’s TOP 10 lists from the year, I wonder if I’m required to buy Solomon Burke’s comeback album. It’s a funny thing when an album becomes the aesthetic intersection between Mojo Magazine and the “Music We Love” rack at Starbucks Coffee.


Until this morning, I hadn’t seen a bona fide celebrity up close in a while. I think it’s mostly because I’ve been sticking close to my own neighborhood and, honestly, I don’t think most people would consider Paul Auster and the homeless guy who looks like William S. Burroughs bona fide celebrities.

But today, as I was walking past a Blimpie’s and a Gentleman’s club (imagine that. my two biggest cravings – egg salad and pussy – right next to each other!) I almost walked right into actor Peter Gallagher. (perhaps you’ve seen him in sex, lies & videotape or mr. deeds I’ve said it before, sometimes at the risk of getting punched in the eyes or politely ignored, and I’ll say it again: Peter Gallagher is the thinking man’s Billy Zane. And Billy Zane is the certifiably sentient man’s The Rock. I’m not going anywhere in life, am I? (don’t answer!)

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