Ghost's Super-Teriffic Happy-Time Awesomeness Advice

Dear Ghost:

I’ve just awoke from a 20-year coma. Of course, my first action was to e-mail you for some advice. Here’s my problem: back in 1988, I was up on all the great music- Bon Jovi, Whitesnake, Poison, Def Leppard, those guys ROCKED! I was totally tits, and up on all the rockinist bands. But now, twenty years in the future, I’m lost. I love and miss that music, but I don’t even know where to start with today’s bands. Help!

Eddie
Terre Haute, IN

First off, Eddie, congratulations. Not on coming out of your coma (anyone with regular-functioning brain activity could achieve that… in fact, what took you so long? I’m surprised your family hasn’t Terry Shivo’d your ass by this point), but on immediately e-mailing me with your concerns. It shows an inherent intelligence on your part to turn to an oracle like me, but sadly, the idiotic content of your question betrays your underlying stupidity.

Fortunately for you, Ninja Please is an equal-opportunity advice blog (sometimes), answering queries ranging from kick-ass ninja badasses (such as myself) to primordial fucktards (such as yourself). So in order to help you get up to date what the kids are listening to today, I’ve complied a profile of some of the shittiest bands I could think of, and helpfully graded them on some of the lame-ass things you loved about those other craptacular bands from the late 80’s. So now, instead of writing “RATT” with magic marker on your jean jacket and frizzing your perm with hairspray with your buddies, you can compare your tribal tattoos and talk about what kind of hair gel works best to get that “half my hair is spiked up in the back but my bangs are really greasy look” that every fan of these bands is sporting today. These bands are the suckiest of the suck- you should enjoy them immensely. This is what’s commonly referred to as “dude rock” nowadays, which was the eventual bastard child of your shitty hair metal. This is going to be painful. You’re welcome in advance.

Nickleback: If we’re going to start talking about music by douche bags for douche bags, this is the place to start. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? Check.
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? Some, but surprisingly restrained.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyrics? A sample:
If everyone cared and nobody cried
If everyone loved and nobody died
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride
Then we’d see the day when nobody died
Are you fucking kidding me? That’s got all the lyricism and poetry of a 14 yr-old girl’s D-minus English paper. Way fucking deep, man: What if nobody died? Think about it! DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND?!?! Plus, if we ever got to the point where nobody died, then we’d be robbed of the anticipation of the sweet release that would come with the lead singer of Nickelback’s death.
Bonus Douchiness: They’re Canadian, eh? Fuckin’ Cannucks. How dare you come to this country and spread the disease of your music. Most people think we’re friendly with Canada, but just look at the horrors they’ve inflicted upon us: Celine Dion, Bryan Adams, gravy on French fries, fucking Nickelback. We’re so willing to start wars unprovoked, but this seems like a clear and direct attack on our musical tastes. I’ve decided I’m voting for whichever candidate promises to declare War on Canada the soonest.

Hinder: If you loved the musical diarrhea that is Nickelback, then you’ll love the musical abortion that is Hinder. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? Check.
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? Not quite… but somehow worse.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyrics? A sample:
And I never wanna say goodbye
But girl you make it hard to be faithful
With the lips of an angel

It's really good to hear your voice saying my name
It sounds so sweet
Coming from the lips of an angel
Hearing those words it makes me weak
Oh sweet Christ. Where to even start with this one? “The lips of an angel”? So you took your lyrics from a bastardized version the shittiest pickup line even spoke in any language? Congrats. Also, her lips are what make you weak? What the hell is wrong with you? If this song was called “Tits of an Angel” that would be way better, because tits > lips. Also, everyone knows that angels have kick-ass tits, but are kind of butter faces. I was even going to make up some fake lyrics to pass off as theirs to hyperbolize their suckitude, but I couldn’t even make up fake lyrics as pussy as these. They defy imagination.
Bonus Douchiness: Their lead singer’s name is Austin Winkler. Just repeat that to yourself out loud for a second: Austin Winkler. Is he trying to make me want to hit him the face with a crowbar? Because nothing would make me happier right now. NOTHING.

Lifehouse: A band I hated and didn’t even know it. But god do I hate them. Their song “Hanging by a Moment” was playing every goddamn time I turned on the radio a couple of years ago. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? He did in the past, and one of the dudes in the band does, so I’m going with a “Check” on this one.
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? Not so much… more of an emo-we-think-we’re-sort-of-punk-but-buy-our-clothes-at-Hot-Topic look. Blech.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyrics? A sample:
I finally found a love of a lifetime,
A love to last my whole life through.
I finally found a love of a lifetime,
Forever in my heart, I finally found a love of a lifetime.

With every kiss our love is like brand new,
And every star up in the sky was made for me and you.
Still we both know that the road is long,
But we know that we will be together because our love is strong
Please give me a moment while I blow the remaining vomit out of my nostrils. There. That’s better. I almost feel guilty posting these lyrics, as this band provided a veritable smorgasbord of ridiculously cheesy lyrics. It was honestly hard to choose, but I couldn’t read these lyrics for any sustained period of time, on account of all the puking and eye bleeding. Seriously, their albums should come with a gas mask and a revolver loaded with a single bullet. You know, so you can play some russian roulette to pass the time.
Bonus Douchiness: According to their Wikipedia page, “The group first came together as a Christian band called Blyss…”. Seriously. This isn’t a joke or anything. THEY ORIGINALLY WERE A CHRISTIAN BAND CALLED BLYSS. The name “Lifehouse” is pretty terrible, but “Blyss”? Wow. Just wow. And I won’t even get into the insurmountable mountain of suck that is Christian Rock. OK, I will: it’s crap. All of it. Remember that one good Christian Rock song? Yeah, me neither. Let’s just move on.

Saliva: Jesus this is getting tiring. You better appreciate this, you coma-having asshole. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? Not feathered, but Christ look at this guy. I think he might have a touch of dwarfism or even a bit of Downs. Or maybe both? Either way he looks like the world’s biggest Oompa-Loompa Metallica fan.
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? This category was pretty much made for this band. Double check.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyrics? A sample:

I always wanted to be president, I always wanted to be Superman.
I ended up a fuckin' superstar.

I'm better off than either one of them.

I wanna take you to a higher place.
Say all the things that you could never say.
I'll even help you try to make a change.
Before the whole world blows up in your face.
What? I mean… this is baffling. What in god’s name is this full-sized midget rambling about? You wanted to be President? Really? Do they let people with fetal alcohol syndrome take elected office? Not only that, but you think you’re better off than Superman? Really? Let’s compare: Superman can fly, has x-ray and laser vision, super strength and bangs ultra-hot Lois Lane whenever he feels like it. You: dwarf-looking overweight tattooed D-bag lead singer of a marginally successful band. You cannot fly, your eyes do nothing cool, you’re probably a total pussy and at best you bang the skankiest Hooter’s waitress in every mid-sized town you travel to. Hmmm… Lois Lane, or Krystal from the Fort Wayne Hooters? Tough call. Asshole. And are you really a “superstar“? Me thinks not. This is getting really irritating.
Bonus Douchiness: Here’s a quote from the lead singer himself: “We’re going to go in the studio probably around May and record our next record. It’s called Monster, and if you like “Ladies and Gentlemen” and “Click Click Boom,” and more dynamic stuff, it’s going to be an ass-whooping of a record. It’s going to be 45 minutes of ass-whooping!”
Do you even need to hear anything else about them? Case closed.

Daughtry: What happens when you give a no-talent ass-clown from American Idol his own band? This. This abomination against all that is holy and good happens. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? Unfortunately not, but he is a bald-ass bitch. Look at what a brooding bad-ass he is! Look at the intensity!
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? Mos def. Nice highlights, guys. Also, your lead singer is just like Vin Diesel, only dumber. Let that one sink in.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyrics? A sample:
The miles are getting longer, it seems,
The closer I get to you.
I've not always been the best man or friend for you.
But your love, it makes true.
And I don't know why.
You always seem to give me another try.
“Your love, it makes true”? What the fuck does that even mean? My god, I just read lyrics for several different Daughtry songs. I am truly ashamed of myself.
Bonus douchiness: This guy took 4th on American Idol. This proves the fact that if you’re a good karaoke singer, it doesn’t necessarily mean you have talent.

Fuel: The band so shitty, they offered Chris Daughtry their lead singer job, and he turned them down. Ouch. The rundown:
Totally nonsensical yet vaguely douchey-sounding one word name? Check.
Lame faux-toughguy vocals sung in an over-the-top gravely voice? Check.
Lead singer has feathered hair just like a girl? Who the fuck knows, they might not even have a lead singer at his point.
Tribal tattoos, unfortunate facial hair, or trying way too hard to look badass? Of fucking course.
Surprisingly lame-ass pussy lyri… ah fuck this, I can’t do it anymore.

I hope you’re happy, Eddie from Indiana, because researching these bands was less fun than having all of my pubic hair plucked out one-by-one. Now make sure you and your buds get your spiky highlights done in time for that big Puddle of Mudd show next week, you fucking ponce.

Stop the Stupid Bullshit

The man pictured here next to Sen. Barack Obama is the Rev. Jeremiah Wright. You’ve probably seen him in the news, as he has come under tremendous fire from politicians and media alike, in regards to some strong and inflammatory comments he’s made at his church, which just so happens to be the church of Sen. Obama, who just happens to be running for President.

The outrage machine has been working overtime to link Obama and some of the more insensitive things Rev. Wright has said, and the main-stream media is especially giddy about this- I think Sean Hannity actually had to hide his outrage boner last night on his show. It's been the lead in the N.Y. Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Washington Post, as well as on every major evening news network. This is the type of garbage that passes for news nowadays.

I’m willing to bet almost nobody knows anything about Barack Obama’s healthcare plan (here’s the link: http://www.barackobama.com/issues/healthcare/ -there’s some good stuff in here, especially the subsidies for people who can’t afford to pay for their own health care, as well as mandated universal health coverage for children- something Pres. Bush VETOED late last year, but I digress), but you know he’s a shitty bowler, and that he doesn’t wear a flag pin on his lapel, and his middle name is Hussein, and the pastor of his church seems like kind of a dick.

Does anybody give a shit about Hillary’s plan to help fix the housing market/subprime loan mess (some of the details are here: http://www.hillaryclinton.com/news/release/view/?id=4530 -she’s calling for moratoriums on home foreclosures for up to 90 days and possible rate freezes for people locked into subprime adjustable-rate mortgages- some solid first steps)? Nope, but I’ll bet you know she lied about landing in Bosnia under sniper fire when she was first lady, and how she cried while campaigning in New Hampshire, and how her husband got some BJ’s from a chubby bimbo ten years ago.

Or what about John McCain’s stance on Iraq? Does anybody realize that Sen. McCain advocates increasing the troop levels in Iraq and rejects unconditional negotiations with Syria and Iran (here the link to his official website, less you think I jest: http://www.johnmccain.com/Informing/Issues/fdeb03a7-30b0-4ece-8e34-4c7ea83f11d8.htm)? Maybe vaguely, but no doubt you know John McCain is hailed as a “maverick” in the U.S. Senate, repeatedly adorned with the false moniker of “Straight Talker” by the adoring press? I’ll bet you didn’t know how McCain voted on the last piece of legislation regarding torture (look it up, it’s quite surprising), but I’ll bet you knew is campaign bus is called the “Straight Talk Express”.

I started with Rev. Wright because he embodies the epitome of the stupid bullshit that not only passes for news with our lazy, sycophantic mainstream media, but also the motivations of our votes as Americans. Much was made in 2000 when George W. Bush “beat” Al Gore (not even going to get into that one) by appealing to regular folk- many voters perceived him as the guy they wanted to have a beer with, the guy who loves baseball and golf and isn’t a big reader and who clears brush on his ranch on his days off, as opposed to the seemingly elitist Gore, a robotic lifetime bureaucrat who probably drank cabernet sauvignon and threw like a girl. But look at what this got us- this “regular guy” got us balls deep into an unwinable, costly and deadly war in the desert, neglected our national security and economy, and generally fucked things up as much as one human being could possibly fuck something up. It’s fair to say that if the effete, boring wine-drinker were elected, we wouldn't be in this war, almost 4,000 of our soldiers would be still alive, and our federal deficit wouldn’t be higher than Willie Nelson (hey-0!).

So, do you think, America, that possibly, maybe, this stupid bullshit we read in the papers and obsess about, the crap we allow to substitute for debate about actual issues, might not the best judgments of how our leaders will act and carry out their duties? Do you think that maybe just because a politician names his fucking bus the “Straight Talk Express”, it means he’s actually a straight talker? If I chartered a bus and had “World’s Smartest Man” emblazoned on the side and traveled the countryside giving speeches about how I was indeed the World’s Smartest Man, would you believe a word of it? Hopefully not, because if you met me for ten seconds you would know this wasn’t true (I drool a lot), but I’m willing to be there are some assholes that would. They would tell their friends they met the World’s Smartest Man, and it had to be true because it said it on the side of his bus.

Herein lies the fundamental problem with us as a voting electorate. We’re extremely fucking intellectually lazy. We'll take the word of the side of the bus. We don’t want to take the ten minutes to log onto Hillary Clinton’s website to find out about her plan for withdrawing our troops from Iraq, but we’re sure we’re not voting for her because she seems like kind of a bitch. We are sure we aren’t voting for Barack Obama because here’s a picture of him in a turban, and Muslims are our enemies, and he might secretly be one. In fact, here’s a perfect illustration of this, its an article about some bumblefuck pastor down in South Carolina who tried to raise the question on his church sign of whether or not Obama is a Muslim: http://www.wspa.com/midatlantic/spa/news.apx.-content-articles-SPA-2008-04-20-0005.html

The best part about this is his quote: Pastor Byrd says the sign is not meant to be racial or political but rather to make people think. "His name is so close to Osama I have a feeling he might be Islamic therefore he doesn't recognize Christ," Pastor Byrd said.

No, you ignorant dickhole, Obama isn’t “Islamic” and if you had taken one second to search this on the interwebs you’d have found out that yes, he is in fact a Christian, and no, you shouldn’t make assumptions based on things as frivolous as people’s names, and yes, your parents probably are related you slack-jawed yokel. Only this guy apparently isn’t as much of a slack-jawed yokel as a representative sample of our voting electorate, as displayed by the fact that his church voted unanimously to keep this sign up, and as much as most people don’t want to admit it, these are the kinds of things that go through our minds as we walk into the voting booth.

It’s too difficult for us to research the issues, investigate the candidates and come to our own independent conclusion- we need things pre-packaged for us, we need it black-and-white, good vs. evil, we need the Black Guy vs. the Bitch, we need it all wrapped up neatly in a bow. We rely on rumors and hearsay and our gossipy neighbors-that’s why we know that Obama bowled a 37 but don’t really remember John McCain’s role in the Savings and Loan scandals of the 80’s (here's a primer: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keating_Five).

I hate to say it, but we deserve exactly the leaders we get, and if a smirking, faux-cowboy trust-fund baby, a legacy Yale and Harvard failed oil tycoon convinces us he could possibly have any of our best interests at heart, then whatever happens is our fault. If you don’t want shitty, ignorant leaders, then we need to stop being shitty, ignorant voters, and we need to reject the crap about flag pins and sniper fire and make the effort to educate ourselves. If all you know about John Edwards is that he allegedly pays $400 for his haircuts, then shame on you.

As the great philosopher Daniel Plainview might say: “I… drink… your… MILKSHAKE! I DRINK IT UP!” Right now, the political and economic elite are drinking our milkshake, and we’re way, way too lazy to do anything about it. They distract us with stupid bullshit, and while we’re sending each other YouTube clips of Obama’s pastor saying disturbing things about 9/11, they stick the long straw of stupidity into our milkshake. They drink it up.

* UPDATE: Elizabeth Edwards, wife of Sen. John Edwards, wrote a wonderful (and incredibly more eloquent) Op-Ed in the New York Times talking about much of the same I covered here, only, you know... better, and with much less profantiy and boner jokes. Check it out: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/27/opinion/27edwards.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1#

The Sweet/Weak List, Vol. 2

I’m like a bear awakening from hibernation. I’m just starting to pull out of the sleepy funk that is the gawd-fucking-awful winter of Michigan, and I’m ready to start hunting small animals and eating them. And by hunting small animals and eating them, I mean getting drunk on a boat, huffing ether and shooting guns at fish into the water, stuffing the ether rags into the empty beer bottles, lighting the rags and throwing the booze-ether bombs at the fish carcasses floating to the top of the water. I’d say the metaphor is pretty clear, you unimaginative jackass. Plus, how else do you fish? With a pole? Not high on ether? Whatever, Quaker.

So, to celebrate the impending horrific sight of my pasty-white albino skin roasting in the sun, here’s an all-new Sweet/Weak List: Summer edition.

Sweet

1: Drinking- What did you think was going to be first? My favorite summer drinks:

Oberon- This beer tastes like summer. Sunshine in a goddamn bottle. Mmmm. Now if everyone would stop naming their fucking dog after it, everything would be copasetic. Really- you named your dog after your favorite beer? How awesomely original yet subversive of you! It’s named Guinness because you drink Guinness! HAHAHAHA! Douche.

Corona- The only beer it’s acceptable to put fruit into. Ever drink a Corona without a lime? It tastes like piss. Mexican piss to be exact. And how do I know what Mexican piss tastes like, you ask? I won’t go into the story here, not only for brevity but also to avoid incriminating myself, but let’s just say it involves a shotgun, a potato chip shaped like the Virgin Mary, several bottles of absinthe, Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA), the NASA space shuttle program, another shotgun, and a church trip gone awry.

Long Island Ice Tea- Whomever Mr. Long Island is, the man is a certified genius. He discovered one day (no doubt after years and years of exhausting experiments and liver damage) that combining every liquor known to man, then adding a touch of lemon and cola adds up to one tremendous mind-screw of a drink. Bravo, Mr. Long Island, bravo. Still, if you could figure out a way to make me not black out and punch a nun after drinking seven of these in the sun, that would probably work out great for me and the local convent.

2: Baseball- As you can see from the previous posts, I care about baseball. Maybe a little too much. I also enjoy gambling on baseball. Again, maybe a little too much. I don’t care. There is no better way to spend a day than tailgating before a game, then marching up to the right field bleachers, soaking up the sun, sipping a cold beer and watching Jason Grilli give up seven runs in 2/3 of an inning. Wait, Grilli, how did you get into this? I can’t even romanticize baseball without you ruining it. GRILLLLLLLLLLI!!!

3: The U.P.- If you’ve never been in the summer, I feel sorry for you. Wait… never mind. It sucks up there. Don’t go. More spacious sand beaches, crystal-blue water and pasties for me. You would hate it up there. Trust me.

4: Camping- Hemingway I’m not (working on the beard), but I still love a good hike into the woods and a few nights spent under the stars. God I really hate Detroit sometimes.

5: Herman Hesse- I’ve been reading as much of his writing as I can get my hands on, and he has to be the most eloquent and thought-provoking writer from the early part of the century. A little hung up on Jungian and Freudian dogma for my taste, but still, wow, what an incredible talent. Note: contrary to what this picture may suggest, he was not a bronze statue. He really turned on the Creepy for this pic, though. I think that's his "come-hither-and-let-me-overwhelm-your-sense-of-faith-and-logic-with-my-German-postmodernist-nihilism-and-despair" look. Drove the ladies nuts.

6: Obama for President: He should have the nomination wrapped up by early summer, and thank god, because I really can’t take much more of the campaign coverage. I’m supporting him because of a couple things: I think he will pull our troops out of Iraq, I think he will negotiate with hostile nations and attempt to repair America’s image and perception abroad, his health care plan is decent (although Hillary’s is somewhat better), and I love the way he’s handled the bullshit flung his way so far. On the ABC debate the other night, the first questions were about why doesn’t he wear a flag pin on his lapel, asking him if he thinks his ex-reverend “loves America as much as he does”, and how he said some rural white voters are “bitter”. He addressed them directly for what they are, stupid petty bullshit distracting us from the larger issues, like oh, I don’t know… the fact that everybody is losing their jobs, if they had one in the first place… Or the fact that home foreclosures are skyrocketing at an incredible rate… Or the fact we’re caught in a quagmire of a clusterfuck in the desert, dangerously stretching our military, putting our soldiers in harm’s way for dubious and shady reasons? Whew.

Point is, I honestly think Obama can make some substantive headway into these issues- I make no illusions, I know he’s not the Political Jesus, but I think he’s in the best position to make progress in those areas.

* Political Jesus is a registered trademark of Ninja Please, a subsidiary of the Hanso Corporation.

Weak

1: Work- In college, I had a roommate who was from France. He was stinky, constantly smoked, a ridiculous misogynist, and a degenerate drunk. We got along great. Anyway, when we were moving out of our dorm, he asked me what I was going to do with my summer. I told him I was going back to my hometown to work for the city (which ended up with me being a part-time garbage man) to try and earn some cash for next school year. He scoffed in the uniquely French asshole-ish way, blew some smoke at me and said “We have no zuch zing as ‘zummer jobs’. I will be returning with my family to ze Mediterranean for our zummer ‘oliday.” I asked him what the fuck he was talking about, and he let me in on the little secret that his country practically shuts down for long stretches of the summer, so everyone can go on vacation and wear bright-colored Speedos and drunk drive little scooters. Also, they only work like 35 hours a week, and take giant breaks in the middle of the day to have a huge meal with wine. I was ashamed, intrigued, but most of all furious that I live in a country that doesn’t shut down so I can go tan in a disturbing little thong and hit on chicks with armpit hair. Fuckin’ America, with our stupid ‘work ethic’ and ‘consumerism culture’ and ‘capitalism’. Instead, I’ll be trapped in my shitty cubicle, workin’ for The Man. If blended socialism can give me six weeks off in the summer, I’ll get a tattoo of Lenin on my left asscheek and Marx on the right. Workers of the World, Unite! Also, Take A Vacation! In the Summer! Seriously, You Need a Break! I’m so totally a commie now.

2: My ‘02 Pontiac Grand Prix- Yeah, this is the shitbox that I drive, and just listen to the litany of problems I’ve had with this turd in the last couple of months: broken windshield (2nd time), broken tie rod (2nd time), punctured break line, blown transmission (a $2000 repair- AWESOME), loss of power steering, and now a leak in the intake manifold something or other (not a big car guy as you can tell), all I know is it’s going to be another several hundred dollars to fix. FUCK YOU GM. I will never, ever EVER purchase another one of your automobiles. And don’t give me that bullshit about how I have to buy American, I can’t fucking afford to buy American. Make better cars and then I might buy one.

3: Gas prices- wasn’t the real reason we invaded Iraq to steal all their oil? My God, the Bush Administration can’t even carry out their nefarious ulterior motives with any sort of competence. We’re hemorrhaging billions of dollars, thousands of our soldiers are dying, and I still have to pay $3.50 a gallon for gas? Way to go, assholes. I’m working on a car right now that is powered by burning $20 bills, I figure pretty soon that should be an economical use of paper money. In fact, I’m still waiting for my flying car that runs off of garbage, so I can take it to the future and buy a sports almanac in order to bet on games and become a zillionaire. Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. Um… what was I talking about?

4: Iron-Man not being out yet- This is unacceptable. I have been waiting for this movie forever, and I want to see it. NOW. Let’s go. Chop chop.

5: Waiting for Lost to return- C’mon… daddy needs his medicine.

6: Quakers- They know what they did. Fuckin’ Quakers. They’ll pay. They’ll ALL pay.

Drew Sharp is a Colossal Jackass

http://www.freep.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080407/COL08/804070379

Check out sports "writer" Drew Sharp's article from today's Free Press ripping the Tigers apart. Sure, the post I put up here last night ripped the Tigers too, but I didn't say "This isn't a good team." No, actually I think this is a good team, but for whatever reason they've gotten off to a slow start. It's irritating, certainly, but by no means is this turning into what Sharp describes as "... a season crashing in flames before it has even begun."

Crashing in flames? Really? Sharp qualifies his "analysis" by stating "They won't panic just six games into the season and nobody's suggesting they should. But they don't grasp the distinction between panic and urgency." What the fuck does that even mean? What do you want them to do, start breaking their bats over their heads after every strikeout, punching themselves in the face after ever error in the field, Jim Leyland giving each pitcher twenty lashes with the wet noodle after every earned run? (Actually, that last one might work... I'm looking at you, Jason Grilli.)

How does a baseball team play with urgency? Swing at every first pitch? Only throw strikes? Cheat by rubbing pine tar on their pitching hands... um, bad example. Still, I'm sure the players are doing the best they can. The truth is they were soundly beaten by two teams playing at the very top of their abilities. It's disappointing, certainly, but for Sharp to say "nobody's suggesting they should [panic]" and then a few paragraphs later say their season is "crashing in flames" is ridiculous, plain and simple.

Let's put things in perspective: The Tigers losing their first six games is roughly the equivalent of the Lions losing the first half of their first game of the year, or the Pistons losing their first three games. So every time the Pistons were on a three-game losing streak this year did Sharp post a column talking about how their season was "crashing in flames"? No sane person would jump to that conclusion. And if the Lions were a real NFL franchise and actually were competitive in some crazy bizzaro universe, if they were down at halftime of their first game anybody saying they "weren't very good" and lacked urgency after ONE HALF would be branded a shrill reactionary, which is exactly what Sharp is.

I will admit I have a bigger problem with Sharp in general and the lazy, cliche-ridden contrarian sports columns he shits out on a regular basis. Check out the pre-season puff pieces he did on Curtis Granderson being "a perfect fit for the Tigers", or raving about Miguel Cabrera's "booming bat". Sharp was as optimistic as anyone to start the season, but after six games he's ready to jump ship? Bullshit. Either he didn't feel that way to start (thus making his US Weekly-ish spring training pieces that much more embarrassing), or he is the one filled with panic now.

Sharp isn't the only one- Jay Mariotti, Skip Bayless, Woody Paige, et. all fall into this category. They're like the equivalent of Sean Hannity (theoretically) going on Fox News and saying "hey, the city of Denver had a record low temperature today, so where's your global warming now, you tree-hugging hippies?" It's trash, and not even worthy of the ghetto that is opinion-based journalism. None of them take the time to research the topic, put it into a larger context, and come to a reasonable conclusion based on any type of logic or reality. No, since the Tigers lost their first six games, they're not playing with urgency and their season is crashing in flames. I'm willing to bet that "article" took Sharp less than fifteen minutes to write. Sharp calls the Tigers "pampered fat cats", but I wonder how much money he makes to drool out this crap (answer: way, way, way too much). I can picture Sharp distractedly banging this out on his laptop on his way from his day-time radio gig en-route to one of his book signings (just to reinforce what a cliche-monger Sharp is, the title of one of his books is "Razor Sharp". Seriously. That's the best title he could come up with). Talk about mailing it in.

I honestly feel the Tigers will bounce back. Not sure if they'll make the playoffs, but by the end of the year they should be back on track and at least in the picture. Unlike some sportswriters, I can enjoy sports for what they are, and not turn them into a life-or-death, black-or-white epic battle for all of humanity against Losing and Failure and Terrorism (made that last one up). It must kind of suck to be that dispassionate about something so fun.

Dear Tigers: Get Your Shit Together

I sit here, Sunday night, a week after opening day, and the Tigers have yet to win a game. In fact, I'm gritting my teeth through a 9-1 beat down at the hands of the Chicago White Sox, and it's every bit as bad as it sounds. Justin Verlander gave up 9 runs (4 earned), and the Tigers hitters are making Mark Burhle look like Sandy Fucking Koufax.

I know it's only the first week of the year, but something about this team doesn't smell right. The lineup I was so excited about has amounted to a big pile of fuck-all. In fact, Brandon Inge, the guy they were going to trade away, has been by far their most consistent bat this year. Magglio Ordonez looks like a little girl flailing away, Miguel Cabrera just looks scared of the cold Detroit spring, and Gary Sheffield hurt his widdle pinky. Awwww. If I see them hit into one more double play my head is going to explode.

And as bad as their hitting has been, their pitching has been even worse. The bullpen was considered to be their weakest area this year, but their starting pitching has been atrocious. Dontrelle Willis walked 7 fucking batters yesterday. A couple days before that, I swear to god I saw Nate Robertson throw under-handed because he couldn't find the strike zone if it was hanging out of his pants.

To make matters worse, my annoyance levels are being stretched to new and excruciating heights because of the cosmically idiotic commentary of the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball crew, Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. Two dipshits of this nature not only meeting each other but announcing baseball games on National Television has got to be one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. Joe Morgan just said this: "The good thing about losing this many games is that the odds are in favor of you winning your next one. The more you lose, the more you're due to win." Really, Joe? I might not be a fancy tee-vee announcer, but I'm pretty sure your odds of winning each game are 50/50, regardless of what happened the day before. I can just picture Jim Leyland addressing his team: "Great loss today guys! With a crushing defeat like this, we're gare-un-fucking-teed to win this next one!"

Speaking of Leyland, the only real good thing that will come out of this losing is the inevitable Jim Leyland public media meltdown, due sometime within the next couple of days. It gives me genuine pleasure whenever I see Leyland on the evening news, half-drunk with a Marlboro hanging out the side of his mouth, scaring the piss of a room full of reporters. I really am excited for this.

Oh look- the Tigers just brought Yorman Bazardo into the game. FUCKING AWESOME. Nothing could go wrong here. When I think of quality relief pitching, I think of the name "Yorman Bazardo". Excellent- he just gave up a three-run triple. Kill me. Kill me now.

Before I finish this up to go cry in the corner, I would be remiss in mentioning the all-encompassing ass-suckitude of my arch nemesis on this team, Jason Grilli. On Friday he came in to a tie game and gave up hits to five consecutive batters. I said some truly horrible things about him, some involving his mother and a coat hanger, and I feel a little guilty about this. But only a little, because Jason Grilli truly is not good at what he does. If I was completely incompetent at my job I would sooner or later get the hint and quit. But not Grilli, no, he powers through. Every time I see his stupid face jogging in from the bullpen a little piece of me dies inside, because I know he is going to fuck up. I wish I could place bets on this. Guess what Grilli's ERA is right now? If you guessed twenty-point-fucking-two-five, you win a lifetime supply of Jason Grilli nightmares. Fuck.

ANYWAY, Tigers, get your shit together, because I'm not going downtown to the crime-ridden, hepatitis-infested shithole that is downtown Detroit just to watch you lose.

Ok, maybe I will, but I won't like it.

So maybe I will like it, but I'll have to be drunk. Like, really drunk.

Mmmmm, beer.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah: the Tigers. Get your shit together, because your losing is making the baby Jesus cry.

My Decline

I’m not too proud to admit that lately I’ve been going through an existential crisis of sorts- nothing to make me lose my mind, but still enough to keep me pre-occupied and often times paralyzed with apprehension and, in momentary but terrible flashes, outright fear.

I think it may have to do more with identity than anything- the age I’m at and the station in life I find myself seems to be pulling me in an infinite number of directions. I actively live a life of contradiction: I run, lift weights and commit to an hour of cardio exercise at least three times a week, but I find myself three nights out of the week (ok, sometimes five) in a smoky bar with a Wild Turkey in hand, stumbling home sloshed at 3 AM and barely making it in to work on time. Several times a day I’ll feel nostalgic, bordering on homesick for the place and people I grew up with, wanting to return to them and have my life coincide with theirs, yet several more times a day I’ll catch myself daydreaming about drinking wine and running with the bulls in Pamplona, or hiking ancient Mayan ruins in South America, fantasizing about hunting wild boar on the plains of Africa or riding out into the Outback on top of a fast horse, pushing it to see how far it can take me. I enjoy reading Hemmingway, his literal, choppy , coy and under explained prose challenging and rewarding me with his experiences and ideas, and at the same time I can read back issues of Iron Man comics never realizing six hours have passed by. I love TV and obsess over “Lost” and “The Wire”, yet I have periodic urges to sell all my possessions, build a cabin in the middle of the woods and live out my own Henry David Thoreau experience. I work an office job, I care about my work and success there, yet every time I think of living the rest of my life sitting at a desk with a tie around my neck bile rises in my throat. I want to move somewhere where it’s warm and all the people are happy and tan, but I enjoy ice fishing and the epic snowstorms that the Midwest brings. I’m being pulled in a million different directions, and I constantly have a feeling I’m missing out on something, missing out on great times and quasi-religious experiences I can’t quite seem to locate. I’m a man and a boy at the same time, and nothing has caused me to grow up, but nothing is preventing me, either.

Case in point: last Thursday I went to a NOFX concert. For those of you unaware, NOFX are the greatest punk band of all time, touring for over 20 years and have almost as rabid a fan base as you’ll find on planet Earth. They’re crass, loud, hilarious and unapologetic. Their music is filled with tales of twisted sexual deviants and junkies and politics and epic benders. One thing I love about them is how they can make the most disturbing, scary and anti-establishment ideas seem downright friendly, even fun.

On my way to meet a friend at the concert, I was listening to their album “So Long and Thanks for All the Shoes”. I’ve heard this album so many times singing along to it is second nature, but at one point I found myself singing along to the song “It’s My Job to Keep Punk Rock Elite”. The lead singer, Fat Mike, has made a point to mention this phrase several times in interviews in the past, and he means this literally, that he sees himself as a guardian of not only the music but the way of life, keeping it uncorrupted and as pure as possible. NOFX lives this in their careers- their videos don’t play on MTV, they’re not on a major record label, they don’t get much of any sort of mainstream radio airplay. Yet they’re probably the most popular punk rock band in the last 20 years, constantly selling out shows and selling very respectable amounts of albums.

It’s this dichotomy that I started to think about, and for the first time I honestly started to wonder if Fat Mike was talking about me in that song: a late-twenties office drone working a 9-5 job who golfs and is really into baseball with a 401(K) and a cat. Am I the type of person he’s trying to keep out of his shows, have I been singing along to songs and going to concerts where the joke has been on me?

This question was on my mind as I parked and got out of my car. In walking the few crowded city blocks toward the theater to meet my friend, these feelings were only reinforced. Groups of four and five kids would pass me by, almost skipping with anticipation and excitement to see the show. Punks who wore their lifestyle literally on their sleeves were abound- giant ironed green mohawks, shredded stained jeans, Doc Martens and Chuck Taylors, safety pins through cheeks and studs and chains hanging from every available spot. Leather jackets with Propaghandi and Op Ivy and Social Distortion patches pinned on, and even the occasional chick with the shaved head. Walking by a storefront window, I snuck a glance at myself: baseball hat with the brim pulled down low, a red hooded sweatshirt I probably got at Target, blue jeans and dirty shell-toed Adidas. No tats, no piercing, no blue hair or shit-kickers on my feet. In high school, I dressed like some of them, but I always kind of thought that was all a bunch of bullshit anyway. I was stone sober having just gotten off work, and I would be willing to wager that 90% of the people at that concert were either drunk or on some kind of narcotic. To say I was self-conscious walking into that theater among the Disillusioned and Tragically Punk would be an understatement.

Getting into the doors and meeting up with my friend, we got our hands on a couple cold tallboys and shot the shit for a few minutes, waiting for the opening act to come on. We chatted about nothing, but we were both thinking the same thing: Look how fucking young these kids are! What appeared to be fourteen and fifteen year-old kids stood huddled in the semi-darkness, smoking cigarettes and scheming on how to get their hands on some of the tallboys we sipped on. A kind of nervous anticipation floated about, everybody sizing each other up but careful not to stare, and it was at that moment that I realized one of my worst fears may have become true: I might be the old guy at the concert. You know that guy, hair a little thinning, second chin just creeping down, a little thick around the edges, out of place and making everybody uncomfortable.

The show finally starts and the opening act is what appears to be teenagers from Canada. Decent songs, nothing really jumps out. We stand towards the back, sipping our beers. Next up, No Use for a Name starts, and the tone of the concert changes. People rush to the front, the crush of bodies to the front intensifies, and I remember why I came. No Use are a solid band, and they play some of their older songs. When I hear “Justified”, I sing along and start to feel a little less self-conscious.

After about a half-hour, NOFX finally comes on. The crowd is on the verge of bloodlust, and they deliver. They seem to be in a good mood and drunk, and sound great. At one point, they give the crowd the option of picking their next set of songs: they could play seven consecutive songs from “So Long and Thanks for all the Shoes”, or they could play “The Decline”. The crowd overwhelmingly chanted for the Decline. They obliged.

“The Decline” is NOFX’s masterpiece- an 18-minute open rumination on, as a collective people, the lack of intellectual curiosity, corruption and indifference we suffer- the path that leads to ultimate acceptance of the situations we find ourselves in. It’s my favorite song, and what I believe to be their ultimate manifesto. I’m standing with my friend, finishing up my third tallboy, singing along, and Fat Mike steps up to the mic and trades off the last two verses with Melvin:

The human existence is failing resistance
Essential. The future written off. The odds are
Astronomically against us only moron and genius
Would fight a losing battle against the super ego.
When giving in is so damn comforting

And so we go on with our lives
We know the truth but prefer lies
Lies are simple. Simple is bliss.
Why go against tradition when we can
Admit defeat. Live in decline.
Be their victim of our own design
With status quo built on suspect.
Why would anyone stick out their neck
Fellow members of club. We've got ours.
I'd like to introduce you to our host.

He's got his and I've got mine.
Meet The Decline.

These last words hung in the air as El Hefe jumped up with his trombone and they came together to finish up the rest. Standing there watching them play, I suddenly became aware of where I was and what was happening. I scanned the crowd, watching the punks and the losers and the addicts and the drunks and the kids, happily jumping into each other and enjoying the moment.

I smiled to myself, because then I knew. And come to think of it, I already knew, but I had forgotten. The joke wasn’t on me- the joke was everything and everyone, and it only wasn’t funny if you forgot to look for the humor and the absurdity. This is why I grew to love their music- they had a singular ability to capture the absurd, exploit it for what it is and enjoy it. This is what I realized- it’s all one big fucking decline, we’re all headed down the same slippery slope, picking up speed as we go, and if you don’t enjoy the ride then you might as well be at the end already.

Here's video of the end of that performance:



The things I had been worrying about- the bullshit that kept me awake at night and distracted me from my work and the people I love- was all part of it. There is no separation, and the seemingly contradictory life I’d been leading up to that point was my slow decline. I had stopped enjoying it, enjoying the ride, and I think this is where I went wrong. It’s ok to forget sometimes- it’s easy as hell to do, but once it happens, things become unclear. Decisions seem harder to make, lines of morality and conscience seem to blur, and the world seems to take on a muddled, opaque tint. But if you can occasionally find ways to cut through that bullshit, whether it be through a hobby, a hike, rough sex, or balls-out Punk Fucking Rock- it’s quite grand.

Fat Mike wasn’t trying to keep me out- he was inviting me in, but he’s making sure it remains a safe place- a place for a bunch of people who think just a little too much for their own good to go to make fun of themselves, to enjoy getting drunk and sweating and slamming into each other without having to worry about all of the other bullshit seeping in.

I think the same thing was going through my friend’s mind, because pretty soon he was dragging me down into the crush of people in front of the stage, a swirling mass of unadulterated physical expression and symbiotic celebration. There’s no talking down there, just people crashing into each other, lifting each other in the air and passing them along, jumping and pulling and elbowing and bracing and sweating, enjoying the camaraderie of knowing that we’re all headed down hill, that the sled is picking up speed but look at us, by accepting it we’re able to celebrate the slide for what it is.

Meet my decline.

Shamrocks and Shenanigans

Ah, St. Paddy's Day... It's like Christmas, my birthday, an orgasm and Mardi Gras all rolled into one, but only if the holiday was held in honor of King Awesome and powered by Irish car bombs. There is no greater day than St. Paddy's day, for the following reasons:

1- Booze- One of the only days during the year it's acceptable to start drinking before noon (the others being birthdays, funerals, weddings, tax day, tailgates, and of course Abraham Lincoln's birthday. That wiry fucker could drink. You think he freed the slaves sober? Puh-leeze). Granted, drinking before noon being "acceptable" never really stopped me from sneaking a pull or two off of my flask of Wild Turkey on the way to work in the morning (just for an eye-opener), but this day I don't have to hide it. I love booze, I love all the different forms it comes in, and in fact I shall rank acceptable St. Paddy's day drinks right here, for your reading pleasure:

A- Irish Car Bombs- the best of both worlds, because it contains the three things
listed under it, all combined into one unholy shot of pure Irish deliciousness. If
you're out drinking for St. Paddy's day and you don't take at least one Irish Car
Bomb, then you are a pitiful fucking excuse for a drunk. For shame.
B- Guinness- the lifeblood of the Irish. Pints of Guinness make you strong.
C- Jamison whiskey- if Guinness is the lifeblood of the Irish, then this is what
is in every dirty mick's baby bottle. I'm normally not rich enough to drink it on
a regular basis, but once a year I'll bong this shit. Mmmmm, whiskey.
D- Bailey's Irish Cream- I know what you're thinking "Hey, isn't that the shit my
Mom pours into her coffee when she thinks noboby's looking that allows her to
cope with the utter debacle of a failure of a meaningless, shallow life she
leads?" Yes. Yes it is. It's also distinctly Irish, and not everyone can stomach
Guinness and whiskey all day. It's ok. This one day a year, you get a free pass
for drinking this all day. Just remember, mix a car bomb or two in there to avoid
complete pussifiness.
E- Green Beer- a step down, but still acceptable. Effort to die gallons of beer
green for no reason is to be respected, but don't forget it's still a shitty
American macro brew you're drinking. Bonus points for you poop being green for
three days afterward. Plus, projectile vomiting from your every orifice looks WAY
cooler when it's bright green.
F- Everything else- if it's booze, you're on the right track. Just make sure no
drunken Murph spots you sporting a white-wine spritzer, or you might end up with a
blarney stone up your ass.

2- Drunk girls- This can be summed up by one of my best St. Paddy's day stories: a few years ago, I woke up and started drinking whiskey at 6 AM, was into the bar by 7 AM, ate a breakfast of green eggs and ham, then teamed up to down (literally) 5 gallons of green beer between six friends. Later in the afternoon at a party, I took a shot of whiskey and it set me over the edge- I was standing on their front porch, I leaned over and tossed my Irish confetti all over the bushes, really an impressive display of vomiting acumen, controlled spray and stream, clean follow through, minimal clean up, did get a little on my shamrock sweater. Around twelve people were standing around and all started cheering congratulating/making fun of me, but I persevered and kept drinking. I’m a trooper. Still on the porch, no more than a half-hour later, one of the girls that was on the porch watching me puke my guts out made out with me. There is no way she would have given me the time of day sober. God, I fucking LOVE St. Paddy's day. And drunk girls. And booze.

3- Fighting- The Irish are known as a bunch of temperamental, irrational drunks, and they certainly live up to their reputation on March 17th every year. I’ve been blind drunk and had knock-down, drag-out fistfights with some of my best friends, and we’ve always ended the night toasting each other again. Which brings me to…

4- Blackout drunkenness- The perfect excuse:

You: “Hey, Ghost, you were a real asshole last night… you drank all my whiskey, made out with my sister, peed on my TV, puked on my dog and punched a hole in my wall. You’re an asshole.”

Me: “Yeah, sorry, but I blacked out, I don’t remember anything, so I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Except for making out with your sister, which was sweet. “

You: “I can’t stay mad at you. I wish I could quit you, you loveable blackout drunk Irish scamp.”

Me: “Word.”

5- The Music- St. Paddy’s day gives me the perfect excuse to stand on a chair in a bar and drunkenly blare “Kiss My Irish Ass” at the top of my lungs. What’s better than that? It also is a great excuse to play some of my favorite bands: Flogging Molly, The Pogues, Dropkick Murphys, really every Irish punk band is appropriate on the Day O’th Irish.

6- Booze- Did I mention this one yet? Can’t remember. I’ve had a few. Anyway, here’s a great quote from the prophet Homer Simpson: “Alcohol- the cause of - and solution to- all of life’s problems.” ‘Nuf said.

7- Shamrock Shakes- Why are they mint? Why do you ask so many questions? Shut the fuck up and drink the goddamn shake. It’s green. A very appropriate breakfast for a day of drinking other green liquids.

8- This video from a St. Paddy’s day parade. A microcosm of the spirit of drunken idiots. Watch for the old guy.



Happy St. Paddy's day, you drunken bastards!