Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Tempus fuckit


(danke)

My extreme lack of time
management has caused some of these links to go staler than my sense of humor. Regardless, here goes...

Right now, I'm slummin' to finish this piece on The Magic Numbers for Rockpile. Good band. So very nice, too.

Mr. Skurge and Naledge pieces up at OKP. I like the dude Naledge and his producer Double O (who looks a whole lot like Sally Can't Dance from Con Air).

City Paper stuff on Philly's Transhealth Conference.

Morrison...Redick...exiled Lasallian
GARY NEAL? Shit.

Woke up the other morning to this
goat milk ice cream site open on my computer. I got nothing, folks.

Who would win in a fight--
prehistoric mini-beaver or giant bunny?

Miggi arrives at camp, apologizes to his teammates. Good job, I think. On a slightly related note, Melvin Mora lives in my hometown in Maryland. My good friend/Orioles enthusiast Justin ran into him at the supermarket deli counter one day last year, so he naturally attempted to engage dude in conversation. Justin got off to a good start with the "how's the team looking/I like your batting stance/American cheese, huh? Good choice--wait, I didn't mean it like that"-type banter. Then he said that Mora just started talking his ear off about a whole bunch of shit that was only borderline coherent. Justin was then forced to pull out the big 'uns: the classic "nod politely and awkwardly back away" Family Guy shit that's usually reserved for dudes who clean your windows with toilet paper at the gas pump. I like that; it's a testament to Mel's reputation as a genuinely nice dude.

I caught some of this flick at Kib's the other night. Soooo fucked up.

Write an e-mail to your future self. I set one to reach me a year from now. I chastize myself for still being unemployed.

It's always a little metaweird when Google News links to
web stories about itself. I think they do it on purpose to make it look like they're super objective.

Best band ever:
Why? with super weird/dope "Rubber Traits" vid.

LEFThandSIDE. Hot. I gotta go wash all the pencil smudges off my southpaw now.

If you need to create more time pressure for yourself, you can now
download YouTube and Google videos to your hard drive (via Catchdubs). Thank God. I was getting fucking tired of opening up Firefox every time I wanted to watch this. YouTube is the best website on the Internet, no question.

Behold--the
Bananaguard (thanks McGrath).

Page 2's been really solid in the past few weeks. Read a great Skip Bayless piece on
Larry Brown as well as a Scoop piece on Etan Thomas that is slightly over the top. I know what you're thinking--Scoop Jackson over the top? It can't be. Anyway, his thesis is that Thomas is an intelligent, incisive thinker with lots of opinions on touchy subjects; but, since the former Orangeman is far from a star (or even a role player), no one really cares. Point tooken, Scoopy. But your "lookie, I like hip-hop" hyperbole isn't always necessary: [He's] an NBA ball player who is more Saul Williams and Malik Yusef than Sam Cassell and Ron Artest. A man who, if he averaged 30 points per game, might be dead. Don't know about all that. Also noted: this is probably the very, very first time anyone has managed to work italicized block quotes from Paris and Immortal Technique into a piece on ESPN.com. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Becks can't do first-grade math, but I bet he knows enough to tally how many times my girlfriend swoons after seeing a two-second shot of his perfectly symmetrical face in a razor commercial. That fucker!

This is choice, despite it being on College Humor.

Mos Def acting kinda gully about paying child support. Him and deadbeat close like Bethlehem and Nazareth.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

The Vomit Comet



I turned 22 on Monday. Due to the fact that I had a metric ton of work to do, I decided to postpone my get-really-drunk-in-the-city plans until later in the week. Instead, I opted for a low-key night at the quaint Bill Murphy's in East Falls, a Collegian staff favorite. "I'll just sit around with some good friends, take in a bit of Olympic ice dancing, drink a few beers, and call it a night," I said to myself. Most inaccurate prediction in the history of alcohol.

Although I enjoy the whiskey once in awhile, I'm far from a liquor dude. This mostly stems from what is now known as the Jagermeister Kristallnacht, an evening this summer that started innocently when I decided to imbibe the better part of a large bottle at Paul's house. After I got all sauced, I thought it a good idea to toss the empty container off his eighth-story balcony. I threw the shit, and it hit the ground. And bounced.
And didn't break (in retrospect, calling it the Kristallnacht doesn't make one bit of sense; so damn catchy, though). This incident served not only as a metaphor for the Reichian potency of Alemania's most infamous death elixir, but also as a valuable learning experience. On the way back to the house, I puked out of the back window of Lou's Corolla. The next morning, I woke up at 7:30 feeling like I just been stomped out by 1,000 Manchester United hooligans. I swore off Jager that night, and haven't had a drop of frat juice since. Uh, until Monday night.

Anyways, I'm just minding my biz at Murphy's, but people kept buying me shots. "It's your birthday!" they said. "Drink that shit Drew!" they insisted. "I'm just trying to watch ice dancing," I pleaded. "You're a douchebag," they told me. So I drank them. About nine or ten times over, on top of multiple pints. I remember Chwastyk handing me a shot of Old Grand-Dad at the bar (thanks for nothing, former Polock friend) and someone else giving me shit called the Redheaded Slut. It was liquid chlamydia on the way down (not that I've ever had/currently have chlamydia), and I immediately realized that something was wrong. "What the fuck was in that?" I asked. "You've never had a Redheaded Slut before?" someone responded. I avoided a number of too-easy jokes regarding several girls I dated in high school and answered no. "It's Jager and something else and something else," my still-unidentified-but-now-blacklisted buddy replied.


It was all over. Moments later, I got in the back seat of my own car, thankful that my straightedge roommate was manning the Civic. He drove. And it sucked. We were about two seconds away from the crib, and I reached for the automatic window button. I puked. Out of my own car. Well, mostly on myself and the upholstery. From then on, I recall stumbling into my living room, shedding vomit-soaked articles of clothing as I waxed and waned like time-lapsed footage of the moon. I was wearing a collared shirt, a hoodie and a jacket over a tee-shirt; the first three landed in a neat (albeit toxic) pile at the bottom of my stairs. My Intercourse, PA tee somehow ended up in the tiny vestibule between my outside and front doors. At 7:30 (on the fucking money), I woke up on my suede slip-covered couch, feeling like I had just been stomped out by 2,000 Manchester United hooligans. My roommate Taylor was sitting at the kitchen table, typing up a Hunter S. Thompson report on his laptop. "Did you have a good time last night?" he asked. I don't exactly recall what I said in reponse, but it was surely a well-mixed cocktail of still-wasted jibberish and misplaced ire towards his sober status.


I only possess a nominal understanding of the scientific process, but I think my experiences can be parlayed into one simple equation. Drew + Jagermeister (wittingly or unwittingly) = becoming faced beyond all recognition/yoafing out of a moving vehicle/ruined friendships/a ghastly laundry day/a hangover that could make Pete Doherty wince with glad-it-ain't-me pain.


Thanks to everyone that came out.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Give a pound to my lawyer



I've been running on fumes of fumes this week. Bear with me.

As for the picture...a little late, I know. But shit was just too choice not to share. Can't remember where I got this (off someone's MySpace, I think). To whoever you are, thanks. I just found it appropriate after watching the E! True Hollywood Story on Whitney and Bobby. Am I the only one who finds Whit's descent into drug-addled Israel-repping psychosis is really, really fucking sad? I (unironically) enjoyed listening to "I Will Always Love You" in the car the other day (I've officially reached the summit of a certain mountain, no?) and it got me thinking how far she's plummeted. What the fuck happened, girl? Saying it's solely Bobby's fault is a copout. Had to be more than just that.

Also slightly VDay (but mostly Bronson Pinchot/bipolar/bipolar Bronson Pinchot): this genius. Thanks, Kibby.

One more VDay-centric link courtesy of CP mensch Brian Howard.

Arts piece on Slaves of Christo. Cop the book here (cutest art collective name ever).

Sports talking heads have really been hitting the "don't sleep on" device super hard lately. I don't know where it's coming from. It's used at least once or twice in every SportsCenter (don't sleep on the Grizzlies, don't sleep on Ohio State, don't sleep on the US men's curling team, etc etc) among other programs. Don't sleep on the possibility that it's growing increasingly weird to hear Linda Cohn say this shit over and over again.

You can't help but admire the optimistic pluckiness of psychotic hippies.

After seeing Barry Melrose rocking a double-breasted, jet black, pinstripes-as-thick-as-jumpropes suit on SC last night, I've drawn the conclusion that hockey folks are the strangest-dressed within the realm of mainstream sports. Most all basketball heads wear tailored suits very well, baseball managers are forced to rock the uni and football coaches mostly floss like my/your dad. Maybe it's just the prevalence of wet look hair products or something, but I feel like hockey boasts more poorly devised formalwear per capita than any of the other majors. Or, maybe it's just Barry. Dude exists in his own exclusive sartorial caste.

Thanks to Joe for this animated GIF. I dare you to not smile/call one of your siblings to reminisce after looking.

Cam's latest scheme is amazing. I can't even think of anything to say about it. Nastack and Emynd with more cogent thoughts.

Have you thanked The Onion lately?

More (poorly) self-penned Penn Charter vs. Chestnut Hill Academy mundanity. Only notable for one reason: I have the feeling that the kid Sam Zeglinski is the next Redick. He's only a junior and has already committed to UVA (so maybe he's the next Staples?); he can literally shoot from anywhere on the court. It's unbelievable. One of the best high school players I've seen in a long time.

I found this bookmarked on my computer (I think by Michelle). She titled it "scary!" Can't argue with that.

Shot the shit with Be Your Own Pet over pizza the other day for some Rockpile ish. Very nice kids. I was giving one of their demos a listen the other day and roomie Taylor demanded to know why "Sleater-Kinney was coming out of my room." Don't worry man, you haven't lost me.

In honor of this earth-shatterer, Free Darko looks to the future. Beautifully done.

He'd get my vote.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The moral's I'm immortal



I'm definitely going to do this "five disturbing things about yourself" sometime soon, but it's really hard to narrow it all down when you're this deluded. Lo siento, Liz.

Check Heath, who just started over at Of The Wasteland (so many consecutive prepositions).

Coachella lineup seems so hot this year.

It's been seen by any and all, but there's no Rothlisberger like a drunk Rothlisberger. I like how his shirt advises to "drink like a champion today." It's like some Christian personal affirmation shit, but for bearded boozehounds. Can't deny that guy is a winner, but several things will keep me from every really liking dude. First off, he speaks with a blaccent, which in reality is not that uncommon. The problem is his inconsistency. Sometimes, he lays it on thicker than J. Will haggling at a swap meet (Fathead commercial/when Hines is around), while other times he rocks the hard-to-tell-whether-or-not-he-digs-NASCAR shit. People claim it's just a "Southern twang," but dude is from Ohio. I know they have regional speech tendencies, but not like that. The other thing that bars me from ever sticking Ben's borderline homoerotic lifesize vinyl likeliness on my bedroom wall is a terrible occurence at a bar back before the new year. The Steelers were playing on MNF. Benny tosses this bomb to somebody, and the 'Burgh fans erupted in drunken dude cheering. Then, all of a sudden, a girl wearing a baby-sized Rothlisberger jersey screams "GOOOO ROTH-BERGER!" at the top of her lungs, at a near-rape whistle volume level. I still don't really know what to make of it today.

Can't really be salty towards Hinesie for crying a lot--his story has Lifetime movie starring Ziyi Zhang before she was famous written all over it. I'm sure they'd find a way to work Pat Morita into there, too. Blog expands on it a little bit.

I listened to/reviewed Slay's Look Both Ways Before You Cross Me the other day and shit's not bad at all. Aside from Jim Jones hosting the entire effort (Jimmy like talky), shit manages to feature a few alright moments. Faves include Cam/Juelz track where In The Flesh makes his partner look foolish, a Fishscale leak and some sort of Grambling State marching band-type Cassidy song. I consistently hate/hate on Cassidy, but slightly feel him on this nonetheless. Tracks forthcoming, hopefully. Wrote it up for these dudes, so check them (don't think that the Slay piece is up on there just yet).

The (fake) story that succinctly descibes my entire life.

Anyone catch this on MTV this past Monday? 'Twas amazingly funny, especially for something created by Axe.

Hello, my name is Drew and I feel terrible that you're being completely serious.

I've been rocking to "Check On It" in the car for awhile now (it's only a guilty pleasure if you feel guilty), but could never nail down what the shit Beyonce was saying at the very end of the chorus. Lou, of all people, pointed out that it is something to the effect of "dip it, pop it, twerk it, stop it," which couldn't make more sense. Thanks man. This shit would normally ruin my opinion of the music because I have a problem with imperative lyrics--I just don't like anyone (especially Fat Man Scoop) telling me what to do through the power of song. Beyonce can, though, because her song is an incurably listenable disease that perpetuates symptoms every five minutes when I'm driving.

There is something very creepy and insincere about the kids on Welch's juice commercials. They're far too well-spoken and doe-eyed and seem to be fully aware that they're acting. The fuck? They probably all have headshots and agents and are developing civil suits against their moms already. Go eat some bugs and crap in the woods or something, because you've been robbed of your childhood.

Anyone who knows me knows that I literally wet myself with sheer excitement when I saw this during the game. Still haven't cleaned it up.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Link Bonanza '06



Your boy's still not interesting. More links!

Bizarre shit: Spiro Agnew (B'more! like Carmelo!) portrait done with feathers. (Catchdubs)

Joe and Koehler introduced me to this shit down in the office the other night, but it's surely made the 'Net rounds by now. Fucking ridiculous. Cymbal...cymbal cymbal cymbal right there. This dude seems to have put out a KFed diss, which is something like putting out a track criticizing genocide or something.

PW had What's Up With Saigon last issue. Weird picture of him...he looks like somebody there, but I can't quite figure out who.

Kid in Pittsburgh gets ridiculed for wearing a Broncos jersey to class. I initally felt bad for him, but then I saw the picture. I wonder if Elway's mad. Probably not.

You can use Play-Doh to trick fingerprint scanners. And I've just been eating the shit this entire time.

Consistent brilliance from The Onion.

Jersey and Delaware, two of the most the two most irrelevant states in the Union (feel the warm love, Rhode Island!) are having a good old-fashioned border dispute. That shit is so original 13 colonies.

McDonald's with some weird shit. "By giving our employees the freedom to manage their shift commitments, we will increase their motivation and enjoyment of work," says VP. Still McD's, buddy. British McD's at that.

Insert marginally sad news story with laughable/pitiable opening sentence here.

Denise is back with The Tightened Corset. She hates men.

Look for me in DIW sometime soon. Hey, Lindsey Lohan's a fan. Doesn't chick with her (is that her sister?) look like she's in the early stages of mummification?

Bill Brasky on Wikipedia. The OG precursor to all the Norris facts (actually, a few facts I've seen blatantly rip off Brasky quotes). Personal favorites: "He did all the make-up on the Planet Of The Apes movies."..."I once saw him scissor kick Angela Lansbury!"...and "He hated Mexicans! ...And he was half Mexican!...And he hated irony!" Doesn't surprise me that Ferrell and Adam McKay wrote this hotness.

Adam Riff with constant updates on all the low-culture shit I love. Dudes are great.

Check my CP editor on Philebrity. What a perv. Also, thanks to her for the Awesometown link, which is totally...zero cool. You know you do it too, don't lie.

I rescind my previous comment about Liz being the only contact I have in the Pacific Northwest. I forgot that Ed Mahon, my mahon from the Collegian (hey ladies, he looks like Eli Manning, but always comes through in the clutch) is currently doing a crazy internship thing in the Tacoma area. Ed runs a newspaper written almost entirely by the homeless. This means that even if he murders 50-60 people in his lifetime, he is still going to heaven. Congrats buddy.

Lou found this Abe Vigoda Firefox notifier the other day. Amazing.

When I read this, I collapsed facedown onto the floor laid there stone silent for 10 minutes. Seriously.

Thanks to Emynd for GQ's 10 Most Hated Athletes link. The AJ Pierzynski entry is particularly ridiculous. Check the blurb: "The most telling of the many, many (seriously, you wouldn’t believe how willing people were to talk about this guy) Pierzynski anecdotes we heard took place during spring training in 2004. Pierzynski, crouched behind the plate, took a pitch to the groin. Rushing to his aid, trainer Stan Conte asked him how he felt. “Like this!” Pierzynski grunted, then savagely kneed Conte in the balls."

The Worm signed up to play with Brighton Bears of the British Basketball League. There' s a British Basketball League?

I usually avoid linking to College Humor like the plague people who like Evanescence, but this was too good to pass up: Bears QB Kyle Orton bent as fuck at the club, clutching what looks to be a bottle of shiraz. Reminds me of this multiculti white-but-not-American debacle.

I promise I'll stop sucking very soon. Hopefully.