Angel Dust: An Album for the Ages

This year marks the 17th Anniversary of Faith No More's best-selling album and is a perfect time for reflection on what this album has meant to me. First of all, just because it's their best-selling album, doesn't mean it gets the respect it deserves. Secondly, this album is hard hitting where it needs to be, catchy without being the sort of radio-friendly that makes you want to tear your teeth out, surreal and complicated enough to be appreciated more and more after multiple spins on the old compact disc player.

I was introduced to Faith No More in my last year of high school ('98-99) by my buddy Pete. Pete was a fan the way Cindy Crawford was a pretty lady, that is, very.

Says I "Say man, that's a pretty cool tattoo of an angry red dog on your arm."

Says he "That's the Faith No More dog... dog. What's up?"

In short, my initiation.

I bought Angel Dust a year later on a whim in Kingston from one of those CD sales they used to have on Campuses with the expressed intention of establishing my "alternativeness" to an army of peers. That night I commandeered the CD player after U2's "One" made its third trip on the rotation, it played about a third of the way through when one of the gals rolled her terrible eyes, the host ran with it and said "Yeah Jer, what the hell is this". Philistines. Anyhow, my defense of the music wasn't enough to steer the room from the "lets talk about our high school boyfriends" vibe so the album got shelved and I think thrown out the window by my friend Cam, though I've never been able to confirm my suspicions. The important thing was I knew fundamentally then and there that me and Faith No More were right, and they were wrong. When all my CD's were stolen out of a car my girlfriend bought me a new copy along with The Downward Spiral and some Mudhoney Bootleg. Yes, I went on to marry her. A few months after that, I finished a double shift at the ole' Mac's Milk with this prototypical townie coworker who had hours earlier snorted "found" drugs he scammed from the toilet of the punk bar across the road and summoned the energy to keep me company in the latter half of my shift. We walked home, and after rousing my roommate for a wake n' bake I mentioned casually that I had been listening to Angel Dust lately, to which he replied "That is the best fucking album ever made". So there you have it, a second authority on the matter.We listened to the entire album and played Tony Hawk, and I'm pretty sure he got arrested shortly thereafter. Some years later a track (Midlife Crisis) showed up on the radio in San Andreas. I was slowly drawing a bead on Ryder as he tried to swim away. Ryder was a friend and I felt bad doing it, but somehow Faith No More made it ok.

The point of all this is that knowing about Angel Dust has been like a secret handshake for me on a whole bunch of occasions. But not a cute badminton club sort of handshake, the sort of hand shake you could expect from David Lynch, or the guy covered in tattoos just before it was cool to be covered in tattoos, or maybe even the guy working the midnight shift at Mac's Milk in the 3D glasses. So go and buy the damn thing. It might open the door to a world full of kicks you never knew you wanted.

Call Me Ted: Call me impressed

I haven't read too many autobiographies. I got a signed copy of Chretien's book for christmas from the missus a while back and my buddy Paul at work gave me Trudeau's so Ted according to Ted makes 3 I can think of.

If those three are representative of the genre, then methinks the autobiography is none too nuanced a platform. That said, you get the story of the person straight from the horse's mouth and where the author and his helper\writer does and does not place their emphasis tends to be pretty telling and helps one sneak a peek between the lines.

This fellow Skipped the Courageous to an America's Cup, owned the braves and got a world series ring, owned the WCW (that curiously went unmentioned), started CNN, gave the UN a billion dollars, became the largest American land owner and had sex with Hanoi Jane (in her fifties albeit, but still no small potatoes). All this goes to show what a tremendous thing an education in the Classics can be.

But back to Jane Fonda. In an effort to use up more virgin rainforest the book is peppered with anecdotes written by his friends and foes, and a good chunk of them are stories about the totally inappropriate ADD shit Turner pulled that ended up being really smart in retrospect. The best ones though, are concerning the bozo move that was merging Time Warner with AOL. Turner says before he made the move, he asked four fellas for advice, and immediately afterwards all four of them have a half a page to deny ever having done it. The narrator himself is self-admittedly missing that muscle employed in introspection, having traded it for the hyper-distinguished mustache gene. So the only real digging is done in Jane Fonda's paragraphs, where she talks about his inability to do whatever he had to do to fulfill her spiritually because of his personal tragedies (of which there certainly are some).

This book is a must read for anybody who cares about TV and the cats who run it. The better part of the book is dedicated to the moving, shaking and ultimate vulnerability of networks, studios and cable. The big theme he pushes is the rise and fall of the little guy. To a point I guess I'll buy it though to say he bottomed out would be a bit of a stretch. This guy is absolutely gifted at making money and is a hard worker the way Usain Bolt is a quick runner. He accomplished all this stuff and had people stepping on his head the entire time. At times he reads like an Ayn Rand hero on speed, but the guy actually cares about the issues and spends his time shelling out his cash and making a difference, which is more than I can say for you. But above all else, he had sex with Jane Fonda. Probably over and over. Maximum respect.

An Immodest Proposal

The story of Caster Semenya and her clear persecution at the hands of the track and field powers that be shines a clear light on the greatest of all barriers in human sport. In her instance, because her body's intersex mutation presumably produces hormones and body structure that give her a perceived advantage over her more normal competitors, the sore losers cry foul. The simple truth is that her opponents did not try hard enough, and the nut sack hiding somewhere in there is only sitting a foot or two lower than a heart as big as a room. This entire argument is only scratching the surface of the real problem, the sexual segregation of athletics. It started in the backwards era of false modesty, when "the weaker sex" sat on the sidelines confined to the role of nurses, widows and hapless victims whilst the men would go a'warring with cavalier abandon, thumbing the noses at bodies just as ripe for cannon fodder left to lay fallow. In what we call more civilized times, even as children we are indoctrinated, sent to changing rooms cruelly separating boys from girls.

We as a sport loving populous need to tear down this wall between male and female competition. There need not be an WNBA, only an NBA, where men and women alike are free to compete and thrive together. Finally women will have access to the major sponsorship dollars available to the "boy's club" of professional football. Think of the money University athletic departments would save when there are no woman's and men's clubs, only "the team". Usain Bolt is fastest man in the world sure, but what about the fastest human?

For that matter, down with the special olympics, let those kids compete with their brothers and sisters who have as much right to be there as they do. There can be nothing more honest and more pure than a completely level playing field, and we all have a responsibility to help overcome these artificial and bigoted boundaries. There will come a time, perhaps in our lifetimes, where a man, a woman, or anything that walks or crawls in between can just pick up a discus and let 'er rip, and by god let the best creature win.

The Road: The Bummer Side of Post-Apocalyptic America

Cormac McCarthy makes his bid for the biggest buzzkill of the english language. Something horrible has happened to the earth and as far as the two protagonists in the story are concerned, there is no sanctuary. A son and his consumptive father make their way to the coast in an effort to escape the cold winter, fighting almost constant starvation and hiding from roving bands of rapist\cannibals (or is that cannibal rapists?). There is no hope and and they both see death as slow creeping certitude. There are a handful of extraordinarily horrible moments, and another handful of heartbreaking tenderness brought to you by the good people at Coca-Cola and Honest Jim's Bomb Shelter superstore.

One of the sparse moments in the book that feature other characters has the father explaining to a shriveled old man to whom they just fed some of their precious stores that his boy is something special. He fights despair even whilst coughing blood like it was going out of style because his boy would give a spiteful dying bastard some food that meant an extra day of starvation less than a week later. Mr. McCarthy paints the power of devotion between father and son in even the most bleak, and I mean bleak, circumstances. Their proposed idealism, "carrying the fire" as the boy calls it, is chipped away by compromises that tear schism after schism between the two that are healed over with sad sparse conversations. The broken father who will kill and loves his boy all the more because he won't punched me right in the gut and if you've got a dad or a son you might feel the same way.

This book was one serious trip and enough folks have said as much. The cultural landscape is armpit deep in apocalypse porn, from Mad Max to Waterworld to Mother Abigail's corn bread. Always it seems surviving the big one is a sexy sexy time filled with repopulating duties, free Cadillacs and the subtle perks that come with being amongst the chosen. Maybe the nuts who pine for the end times as a chance to shake things up had better read about the bag of shit the world might turn into and start sorting their fucking plastics properly. The book is pretty overwhelming, short and sad. Read it yourself and see.

CRASH BANG BOOM: Zen and The Georgetown Fall Fair Demolition Derby

I end up pulling all those WWF adages out of the repressed subconscious. It was a slobberknocker, It was a vicious beating. No quarter was asked and none was given. It was as prototypical a demolition derby as one could conjure from imagination. Pulling from such exotic locals as Toronto and Bolton, brave men and one woman faced off to see whose twisted metal could best stand the taste of chaos. Three rounds of small car figure eight races. One special fox and hound match brought to us by the good people at Moffat, and one blistering eight cylinder slugfest that went on through fire, explosions, and gentlemanly madness.

I couldn't be happier with my town. A crazy accident in the dirt bike showcase earlier held back the show some two hours, but when they finally got going the crowd was no less fun and no less there. There were babies (mine included) asleep on their parents shoulders, teenagers from all of the sects, a healthy mix of the tax brackets, gear heads, straights, off duty cops, math teachers and a handful of fellas taking enough sips from sentimental silver flasks to add to the ambiance without taking away from it.

Maybe part of the draw is that the whole scene feels like it's on borrowed time. It's pretty easy to see a future where this sort of thing has gone the way of pitbulls, indoor smoking and riding in the back of pickups. It's wasteful and it's silly and everytime I visit one I feel that Norman Rockwell incandescent glow and put kids to bed just about as happy as they get. It is that perfect mix of nostalgia, community and the appeasement of a more carnal instinct anyone worth their salt has sloshing around in their guts. Milton is throwing one later this month. If you haven't been to a small town fall fair, do it. Take a big long whiff of the sort of life that won't exist forever.

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test: Off the bus and scratching my goddamn head

I started Tom Wolfe's novel without knowing it was actual makeshift journalism but with the expressed understanding that it was the end all and be all of hippie acid lit. I suppose maybe it is. Find me a man who can write a better stream of consciousness and I'll read him with bells on. Wolfe was in top form in that respect and the book goes a long way (and I'll suspect did also to his straight contemporary audience) in explaining just what the fuck these long hairs were running around like lunatics for in the first place.

The book covers the adventures of Ken Kesey and his merry band of pranksters as they push the hallucinogenic gospel through raves they call "acid tests" to the who's who of California always pushing FURTHER. When the scene actually takes off in San Fransico his message evolves into going "beyond acid" and is consequently shut down by the team of Judas purveyors cleaning up catering to the heads digging the ambiance Kesey had spearheaded.

If this was journalism, then Wolfe had abandoned objectivity and played acolyte for the gospel according to Kesey. That's fine, his contemporary and detractor Norman Mailer's Armies of the Night played that same sort of game a few months earlier and they threw a Pulitzer at it. But whereas the pretenses, personages and especially the hero in the latter were challenged, critically analyzed and aired in public, Wolfe paints Ken Kesey as modern day Siddhartha, generally flawless even as he bolts ridiculous along the ditch beside the freeway trying to evade the feds..

Kesey and his bus on the east coast pay telling visits to his movement's most direct parents, namely Tim Leary and Jack Kerouac, neither or which seem to enjoy their company. The former, working in a prosaic estate and bent on reflection, meditation and all the rest of it have no real use for their loud and revolutionary guests, and the latter is bewildered and doesn't connect anything with them. Wolfe's answer for both cold receptions is simple; They don't get it. Hubris at is most pure and stupefying.

Both the kids on the bus and the chronicler himself were after the same thing; The pranksters wanted it without acid and Wolfe wanted it without dizzy spinning-discoball prose, transcendence. Both end up falling short. The line between yahoo drug addict and vanguard spiritual initiate is a lot thinner than four hundred and sixteen pages, but I'm far enough removed from the sixties to call it falling short with a measure of objectivity.

Masterpiece? No. Worth a Read? SSSSSUUUUURRRRREEEE. But no big rush.

Inglourious Basterds: The best 15 bucks I ever spent outside of The Fabulous Forum

*Spoiler alert* Nazi's are a bunch of dicks

Man, I am telling you, this cat just keeps getting better and better. Much has been made about the spouts of the ole' Ultra Violence in Basterds; it's just pretty window dressing if you ask me. This is an movie that throws around a lot of scenes that politely insist they belong to the annals of film history without alienating the masses of the golden plated demographic or abandoning the respectful art of homage that has always been Tarantino's calling card. The obvious screen stealer is the personage of Christoph Waltz in his turn as Nazi no-good-so-and-so. He did a real real good job mastering that self-satisfied shit-eating giggle that seems to belong solely to Nazi's, bureaucrats, and Nazi bureaucrats. The Tarantino bump is sure to land this fella on the red carpet for a decade of overpaid turns that try and reclaim this precipice. I've heard, from my buddy and fellow movie goer amongst more professional opinions, that Brad Pitt fell short in his role, but I don't buy it. He was the cartoonish ingredient the movie needed to transcend melodrama, and I don't think anybody else could have married bloodlust with whimsy and guffaws so tightly (certainly not Eli Roth the Bear Jew, the Jazzy Jeff to Quentin's Fresh Prince).

For all the incredible scenes, the groovy showdown in the pub, the countryside ethnic cleansing and the theatre ka-booming (and one could say the plot pushes pretty hard just to get over to the big scenes), you could fall asleep for them all and not feel bad about your fifty dollar popcorn, if you only saw Melanie Laurent doing her minimalist gut contortion over fluffy dessert with the butcher of her family. If Mr. QT has bonifide genius, it is tapping genius performances out of his ladies, and with Laurent he makes everything else he's done look like learning experiences.

I endorse this flick. The Beal seal of approval. You'll leave the theatre walking on air and if you don't we probably can never be friends. Quentin, never stop, never ever stop.