Bob Dylan Still Sucks. Listen To This Instead.

Just wanted to inform alla y'all about the fact that The Avalanches, who brought us this masterpiece over SEVEN YEARS AGO, haven't converted to Catholicism and sworn off music as the Devil's Tool like we'd all suspected, but in fact have a new album coming out and you can hear the first track here and holy crap it's good.

Also: this has been out for a while, but I rediscovered it last night, and I have to thank the Always Awesome Jeannette Sullivan for bringing it to my attention oh-so long ago: Broken Social Scene Vs. Purple Ribbon All-Stars, Kryptonite+Cause=Time. It's a mash-up, so most of you will turn your noses up at it, but it makes me forgot I'm white for about five minutes or so, so screw y'all. (Oh, and while we're thanking people: Amelia, I just found my copy of Big Business and I'm ever so glad you worked at Megawhatsit with me, even if it was only to introduce me to this lovely bludgeoning disc, although I'm sure you have fond memories of a certain older gentleman with a prominent moustache and a penchant for shitty blues, so maybe it wasn't all a waste of your time...)

Also also: I work with this lovely young lady named James who has this band called Jane Vain & The Dark Matter that I was so hesitant to check out, because I kinda get tired of telling people things like, "No, your poetry DOESN'T make me wanna shoot myself in the head, you're really DEEP, y'know?", when in actuality all you wanna do is stop making friends so that no one can disappoint you any more, but anyway...I finally listened to it last week, and it's GOOD. Like, fucking good. It's one of those things that makes you view a friend in a new light, because as wonderful as you thought that person was, you never suspected that they had something as beautiful as this in them (I know that sounds like a backhanded compliment, but it's not, I'm just really surprised at how much I like this CD, so shut it.); I don't have a link, so just go buy the damned CD so that James can stop working at a coffee shop for minimum wage, okay? Thanks.

Also Cubed: y'know who's NOT good? At ALL? Anyone who's on the Juno soundtrack. No, really, fuck you. Those are songs you sing when you're making yourself a sandwich, or taking out the garbage, or adjusting the temperature before stepping into the shower. Those are songs you sing while taking a shit - "...well, I ate me an apple and it tasted kinda sour/now I gotta take a dump and I'm sittin' on the crapper/I might read the paper but I'm not sure I can reach it/and something smells in here!!!". Those are NOT songs that you record in a studio and then mix onto a CD and sell for $20 a pop at your local record store. No sir. I hate you, Juno Soundtrack, and I want you to die NOW. Thank you.

Also x 4: The Herbaliser featuring Trap Clappa, Cheech Marina, Daddy Mills, AK, MacGuyver and Jean Grae, Generals.

...oh, wait, no, my mistake - that's ALL Jean Grae, because she's SICK, that's why...

That's all for now; another former co-worker of mine (Jim Brown aka Rank Nubah aka what are you calling yourself this week?) dropped off his new CD a couple days ago, so now I gotta go listen to that, but it's okay because I've heard his stuff before and I like it and I'm sure this will be no exception. Plus, I gotta make mixes for both Amy and Rich because EVERYONE'S SO DEMANDING, so, go away now.

I love you?

"Angie Dickinson could suck the sorrow off a recent widow..."

Right now, the couple who live beneath me are having very loud sex, and seem to have climaxed at least four times in the ten minutes that it's taken me to open the door, take off my shoes, beat the gimp, check my mail and then wonder what kind of satanic nipple-chewing was going on downstairs. I'm torn; see, part of me thinks, "Yay, team! Have lotsa sex! It's fun!", while another part of me thinks that if I'm not having it at this moment, then NO ONE ELSE IN THE WORLD gets to have any.

Of course, the next question is: do I put on the headphones and listen to very loud music in order to drown out the she-banshee below, or do I find the spot in my apartment with perfect acoustics and join in on my own?

I didn't say that...

Anyway: I have triumphed over the Evil Sickness that tried to take root in my sinuses (sinii?), using ancient methods of healing involving self-flagellation, rabid monkeys, a steam room and a picture of Alan Alda smoking crack. All of this has left me weak and feeble and unable to spoon my mashed-up Pop Tarts into the dry, filth-encrusted maw I use as a mouth, but I am Clean and Whole and No Longer Retching In Pain, which is a good thing.

Speaking of good things? The Assassination Of Jesse Jame By The Coward Robert Ford. One of the few cases where the movie is just as good as the book. See it now, or I will beat you with a wrench. I also forced the Ladyfriend to watch the first Die Hard movie (because she hadn't yet, which really bothers me, because everyone should see Alan Rickman as a brooding German corporate thief/terrorist...), and I think she liked it, but she's got a good poker face, so I can't really tell, but I'm still gonna make her watch the rest of the series, because John McClane, that's why.

Oh, by the way: Live Free Or Die Hard? RIDICULOUS. But, in a fun way, y'know? Bruce Willis punches a stealth bomber until it cries, but it's great because Kevin Smith plays the sheltered nerd we all know him to be; and also: Justin Long, who is funny just standing still.

That's all for now. I need to listen to this shiny new Patton Oswalt CD, which is what you get when you bring hot chocolate to the nice people at the record store.

OHOHOHOHOHOH!!!! I totally forgot to tell you guys! There's a computer they found in a Roman shipwreck, or something! It tells time better than a Rolex!

If any of my friends are within earshot: bring me meat and lots of it.

In Case You Were Wondering How I Felt About Mr. Zimmerman:

I STILL think someone should invent a time machine for the sole purpose of going back in time and making sure that Bob Dylan's parents never meet. Met.

No, seriously: fuck that guy. Ya'll are just foolin' yerselves. He's a waste of your time; you're much better off listening to Van Morrison - who himself should be beaten with a piece of wood wrapped in barbed wire, but I can only work on destroying one undeserved legacy at a time, so we'll leave it at that.

Yes, I am still sick.

Now I must go eat pepper chicken and watch the tv stare back at me.

Still Somewhat Sick.

My only comfort now is that everyone else seems to be suffering, too. Nothing beats cold sweat, constant shivering and involuntary diarrhea as a Great Equalizer.

This is just me whining; I figured that if I had to put up with this crap, so should the rest of you. I'll get back to posting more entertaining material soon, but in the meantime: if you haven't seen Paprika yet, you should, as it's nothing short of ASTONISHING, as you can probably tell from the opening credits here:

That is all. I have eaten many dried apricots, and must now go and befoul the bathroom.

No one will kiss you on the bus.

Heylook stuff is actually happening in the world that has nothing to do with Brittany Lohan or The O.C.:

1. Kosovo declares independence from Serbia (which means that System Of A Down will probably be putting out three albums this year).

2. 14-day-old baby dies while held in customs in Honolulu.

3. Princess Diana's become the new JFK.

4. I'M SO SORRY I GAVE YOU THE HIV.

Now I must go to work, even though it's my SUNDAY, on my WEEKEND, because The Ladyfriend's feet have apparently disappeared. (It's okay, because I get to watch Pirates of the Caribbean 3 tonight, and she don't get to whine; oh, and guess what? Last night I made curry even though curry is, has always been, and will always be, GROSS.)

Okaybye.

Guh.

Okay, so I seem to have fallen prey to The Clench once again, which means I expect the next eight hours to be filled with nothing but puking and shitting and generally feeling as though God stepped on me, causing me to get lodged into the treads of his New Balance Extreeeem cross-trainers (cuz, y'know, he wants to lose the love-handles...), so he's currently trying to dig me out using a rusty screwdriver which keeps jabbing me in the brain and triggering grand mal seizures that last for about thirty minutes and deprive me of any control over my bodily fluids.

Oh, and spiders. Always spiders.

So, um, until I find a holy man to beat these demons outta me, I'll be incommunicado for a couple of days. Don't come near me unless you know how to perform an exorcism.

(Ohbutlook it's the most amazing movie to come out this year even though it's still a couple of months away.)

Nobody mispronounces "Sodomania".

I was gonna regale y'all with further tales of our prenatal class, as well as letcha know that I STARTED A CAR ALL BY MYSELF (it's a big thing for me, trust me...), but I've just finished watching four hours of non-stop Aqua-Teen Hunger Force, and I'm not sure that the human psyche was designed to survive such abuse. My brain feels as though it's trying to squeeze itself out through my pores like toothpaste, and I think that there are tiny salamander finger-puppets smoking crack in my ocular cavities. Also, I cooked a mean chicken dinner for the Ladyfriend earlier, but I'm pretty sure THAT actually happened, odd as it may sound.

Seriously; you could make a fortune selling this shit on the streets. I haven't felt this effed up since high school.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go smack my head against the wall until the hurting stops.

I AM NAMING MY DAUGHTER AFTER INDIANA JONES.

I just have to point out here that after watching both 'Planet Of The Apes' and 'Beneath The Planet Of The Apes' last night (AWESOME, yes), I got to thinking about the Tim Burton version that came out a few years back that everyone dumped on, and y'know what? Screw y'all. That movie rocked. That last scene (I'm not gonna spoil anything here, as I've already spoiled the big reveal in Twin Peaks for my Ladyfriend and I feel like a big jerk for that...) was PERFECT.

Anyway.

I just wanted to throw this out there: am I completely crazy, wanting our daughter's middle name to be Indiana? See, it's not just that I think Indiana Jones is one of the coolest adventure heroes EVER (which he is...); it has more to do with the fact that he represents the idea of adventure itself, a concept that seems to be sorely lacking from modern life, the idea that the world can be mysterious and strange and dangerous, but also that it waits eagerly to be explored. I certainly don't expect Hazel to carry a bullwhip while fighting off zombies in ancient Mayan tombs (although, admit it: that'd be pretty effing COOL...), but I do hope that we can instill within her some curiosity towards her world, as well as the courage to step forward into whatever fray presents itself, and the foresight to know that the payoff is always worthwhile; and while I really don't put much stock in the whole "Mystical Naming Ritual", I think naming her (partly) after a college professor who PUNCHES NAZIS (always cool) in the name of scientific advancement and cultural understanding can't really be such a bad thing.

Plus, as the Ladyfriend puts it, Hazel Indiana Janzen sounds kinda pretty.

So, feedback please. I really need to know if I'm being entirely unreasonable here. Let me know if I've joined the ranks of nerds worldwide who've decided that their children are the new incarnations of Jedi Knights, dress them in robes and have them answer to silly multisyllabic monikers while practicing their FORCE exercises. If I've become that parent, then someone needs to hit me in the head with a shovel.

(Andy, for the last time: we're not naming her Shackleton.)

Childbirth Essentials Part 2: "I Am A Giant Ball Of Rage."

That title's just a bit of creative visualization on the part of the Ladyfriend, who's been car-less during this whole prison-rape-masquerading-as-cold-weather debacle, as we sat in Bryn's car trying to hide the fact that we were eating fast food in the hospital parking lot from the other couples in our class, all of whom are PERFECT and FINANCIALLY BETTER THAN ME.

Anyway; stuff I learned this week:

1. No one wants to hear that the moment in your child's life that you're looking forward to is when you teach her how to ice up the parking lots in shopping malls.

2. Childbirth is all about PAIN.

3. We want our vaginas to become French Doors.

4. Childbirth is all about PAIN.

5. I am not allowed to faint; if I DO faint, I am not allowed to be a father anymore.

6. Did I mention the thing about PAIN? (Oh, and this week's Childbirth Essentials acronym is: Powerful/Purposeful, Anticipated, Intermittent, Normal. I know, it's nowhere near as funny as TACO.)

7. We are all Birth Tigers. Rawr. (No, really. Tigers. 'Cuz they can stop labour anytime they want by eating their young, or sumthin'...)

...and of course, the best line comes from the Ladyfriend, who, when noticing that our instructor had set up various stations around the room for practicing all the different massage positions that help with childbirth ("Woman sits straddling the chair, facing the wall; partner stands beside and/or behind while holding a duck. Woman puts right leg behind partner's left ear, eats a hamburger. Remember to breathe."), commented, "Christ, it's like the Kama Sutra meets The Stations Of The Cross."

Now I must go to work, while the Ladyfriend yells at the Wii for another eight hours.

Shh! My girlfriend is sleeping!

Oh, fuck me silly.

Jeremy Davies is now on LOST?

This is the best television show EVER.

(Yes, I watched the premiere on the internet. I cannot wait another year and a half for the next season to come out, only to have all the surprises ruined for me by idiots who can't keep their mouths shut.

Which I have become, apparently.)