Uncle Neil narrates the Apocalypse

After the garden

If you’re not the type whose All-Neil Young run playlist synchs up perfectly – and coincidentally – to the terrifying images of world news, suffice it to say, such is an unsettling occurrence. Not ’cause of Neil’s creaky tenor. Not for that hauntingly loud Black Beauty. But ’cause halfway through ‘Down By The River’, you’ll realize that the smart people knew this world was going to hell 30 years ago.

The rest of us are just now finding out.

Cue track four on Everybody Knows. See Caylee. See Casey. Next up, “Revolution Blues“. See Greek protesters trade hurtled rocks for riot-gear beatdown. “Ordinary People” for 15 minutes sends up the we’re-f*cked soundtrack to CNBC’s “Economics In America” report. Bad news. HEY! HEY! screams Neil. As if to say: wake up, stupid.

Cue “Rockin’ in the Free World“. Blast, blast, blast. Roadside bombs in Baghdad.

In times as these, you don’t know whether to run faster or hide in the closet. I wait for “Country Home,” but instead plays “Cortez The Killer,” and I’m reminded that the waterside Hard Rock I circled last AM in fact did Cortez’s deeds with whiskey tonics and gambling. And shitty memorabilia.

Sorry Indians. Sorry God.

I don’t have existential crises very often, but when I do, I’m listening to Neil. What was the one about “Bank Giant Buys Off Aggrieved Lendees”? No, seriously. I think it was on Harvest.

Is Norris Cole the missing piece? (And other similarly ludicrous observations)

Gratuitous power couple.

So I forgot to mention this earlier, but the other day I chatted up this Canadian dude John Bradley, who you may know as the expert forensics witness in the Casey Anthony trial. Bradley is basically the guy who started this whole ‘chloroform’ search fiasco that has Casey’s mother up on the stand lying through her teeth (allegedly) that SHE was actually the one Googleing the chemical that may or may not have been used to subdue her granddaughter. Um, because she wanted to find out what was making her dog sleepy.

Right.

Anyway, there seems to be some question as to how effective Bradley’s software, which reconstructs deleted search histories, actually is. It is true, for instance, that the only reason he was called to testify at all was because CacheBack (the program) crashed when first expert Sergeant Stenger had a go at it. Bradley then spent three days debugging his software, reconstructing the Casey family searches and, god willing, contemplating his career as a programmer.

I kid, kind of. Bradley seemed like a totally nice guy, but he also seemed like a totally nice guy trying to shill his own product. He was super pumped about the attention, which suggests there may be some credence  to this whole ‘prosecutors paid him to take the stand’ line of thinking.

Moving on, are you like me? Are you JACKED UP about the NBA Draft? Are you SUPER STOAKED Cleveland landed a guy who’s played eleven college games? Are you thinking EXACTLY what I’m thinking? That you get to look at Norris Cole, The Flat-Topped One Himself,  sit on the Heat’s bench 82 days of the year???

No?

Does this change your mind?

who has a quarter?

Thought so.

I really feel like this is the cat who puts the Frozen Ones over the top. Not cuz he’s a 22-point a game scorer. Not because Miami needs more Cleveland. Not even cuz of that Sam Jackson, Bad-Mutha-Watch-Yo-Mouth Shaft-lookin’ mug…

It’s the hair ya’ll. Hair like that swings franchises, shifts balances of power, gives LeBron a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Think of Cole as a Black, jump-shooting Samson. And think of me as his Delilah.

Als0, I listened to Angles for the first time in like 2 months this morning. And maybe it was the caffeinated Friday high or the treadmill speaking, but I cranked that record straight through and feel no differently about it than I did upon first glorious listen. It is bright (the critics who say they sound bored and tired are delusional), tight, melodic, anthemic, dancey and rolling its filthy little leather facade in a heaping pile of cool. Which is to say, it is a Strokes record. “Angles” counts to its title five legitimately great songs, but the fact that you can barrel right through it without hitting skip is the greatest testament to its awesome.

Now for this week’s edition of “Miami Hurricanes Who Kind of Look Like Recently Captured Terrorists”:

Yanathan Melaku...

... meet Willis McGahee

And this week’s edition of “Mobsters Who Look Like ‘Love Actually’ Characters”:

Whitey Bulger...

...meet Bill Nighy

So earlier today, I told you I’d keep you abreast – luv that word – of developments with my as-yet-to-be-named spoken-word rap outfit with Pookie ‘The Punisher’ McLain, Ft. Walton’s own who was recently spotted drinking mojitos with the Motherfly. I’m not exactly sure how this Ice-meets-Coco collab will sound, but suffice it to say, you won’t hear a whiter cut this side of Alanis Morissette’s cover of “Horse With No Name.”

Richard Pryor will guest on single “Ain’t No Whitey.”

And finally, because as you can tell by my third post of the day, time is of the essence, I’d like to share with you a little thing I like to call ‘Julie Durda’. I assure you there is ZERO truth to the rumor I was exposed to said Fox meteorologist on a tip from QbyTheU, but had this been the case, I’d say, “God bless you, pops!”

Julie Durda, Eagle

Okay then. Excuse me while I go back and delete all internet searches for ‘hot pictures of julie durda’. John Bradley, lil help, bro.

What is a Fay Wray?

Ben, Eli

I like Eli Reyes not because he looks like a cross between QOTSA’s Joey Castillo and Hurley from ‘Lost’… but because his band f*cking rocks.

It is certainly true that most local acts you catch in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning deep in the heart of the Bay’s Mission suck a distorted microphone. The Fay Wrays, on the other hand, make such crampy dens of din their holy sanctuary of melodic wail. The band – a clinched-teeth progcore duo from Fresno – excels at two things: making noise and making melody. When the two are one, as is clearly the case with nearly every song on their gargantuan debut, Reyes (the machine-gunning drummer) and Benji McEntee (the guy severing his vocal chords and the strings on his assaulted axe) come on like an ill-tempered Kyuss jacked on caffeine to within an inch of ATDI.

Weatherman

But enough up-ass smoke blowing, lest I get carried away and do something stupid – like incite a mosh-riot in my boss’s office, which, no lie, crossed my mind roughly 30 seconds into first listen of “When We Storm The Gates We Sing This Song.” F*ck yeah, you sing this song: loud, fast, with dexterity, with balls.

So, to answer my own question, a Fay Wray is a dangerous kind of awesome. I haven’t listened all the way through yet, but I’ve heard enough of act two Strange Confessor to know  “Scottish Lad” and “The Word” and “Weatherman” and all the other gut-kicking songs I haven’t heard in months, though know by heart, weren’t just flukes. The new tunes sound a little different in my head, which is to say, unlike the the rest of bullshit clatter white-noising its way into my cubicle.

Do yourself a favor and join the band’s fan page. Then listen to this. Loudly, please.

When We Storm The Gates We Sing This Song

A Friday Agenda

Look, I know I’ve neglected this poor, lonesome little blog worse than Billy Ray his own two-year-old Miley, but I’ll be back later this afternoon with LIVE, LOCAL, LATE-BREAKING updates on the Channel 7 weather girl, the Strokes, the lead forensic witness in the Casey Anthony trial, this flat-topped jumper the Heat just drafted, an update on my new spoken-word rap album with Pookie ‘The Punisher’ McLain and maybe even a few lewd Twitter pics.

GIVE ME BACK MY KEYBOARD, WEINER!

In the meantime, there is no substitute for cool. Which is something I learned when A) listening to “Taken For A Fool” for the bajillionth time and B) listening earlier this AM – with speakers turned to ‘ear-rot’ – to “Let It Bleed,” the de facto greatest rock ‘n roll song of all-time.

Non sequiturs aside, we’re looking down the barrel at Mythical Post 500. No reason to stop now. Can’t wait to see you, Kittie Pot Pie. So much to say. So little time to dance. It’s gonna be a good one, ya’ll.

Word to all your mothers. Long live the blessed Zdeno Chara.

- Bryan

Just kidding. Robbie.

Some ginger is the next Tiger (Also, I love E! News)

Oscar Gamble fan Rory McIlroy

My father and I have long debated the merits of Rory McIlroy, the pasty Irish lad so prone to go low early only to predictably fizzle when the pressure’s on.

May I suggest the blue pill?

Nah, but all dirtiness aside, McIlroy is always good for a crooked number or three come Sunday at a Major – his was the final-round 80 at Augusta in April, which is perfectly acceptable for a pimply mugged, relative newbie taking on ’01 Tiger… not so much when facing the vaunted likes of Jason Day, Jason Day’s wife, and some other rando.

This is the point of contention. We – my father and I – both agree that Rory swings an all-world stick, looks like Bobby Jones in a Sideshow Bob wig, and possesses the talent, in theory, to win approximately 38 major championships.

But I say he’s a LeBron choker. And so far, the 22-year-young has done nothing to prove me wrong, unless you count that 4-jack victory over Fat Phil at Quail Hollow last year.

Just sayin, win me a major.

“I thought it’s been 5 hours already. It’s only been 5 minutes,” screams out some random voice in the office, referring either to this never-ending Friday or, more likely, my pops’ defense of McIlroy. Translation: the kid’s young, give it time.

Fine. I’ll give him this weekend, one he’s – as of 2:23 – entering with an 8 shot lead over a slew of nobodies and, if he’s any fun, about three pints of Guinness to drown away that double on 18. Mac’s already touched the lowest US Open score ever (-13) and if he’s, in the words of Dennis Green, “WHO WE THOUGHT HE WERE,” this gracious loser from Holywood (that’s right) will shut me up for good, probably in route to dropping the final tombstone bouquet on Tiger’s career.

Also, E! is captivating the nation. And by the nation, I mean THIS GUY.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Seacrestian, maybe. But not gay. In fact, I’ve taken to watching E! News mainly for the women – Kim, Kourtney, Beyonce, the chick that dumped Hugh, the one who’s whipping Leo, Pink and her lil whittle baby, pics of a maybe-fat-but-maybe-just-bad-angle Jessica Simpson in hot pants. Say what you will. Gossip amongst yourselves. But I’m 305 now, and the only way to up my fab is to lift fashion tips from whichever skinnier-than-she-is nob courting Christina.

No sound. No Seacrest blabbing. Just me, myself, the treadmill, the other 7 a.m. gym rats, Yeezy on the phones, and a Manolo Blahnik-clad celeb-TV it-girl rockin the flatscreen. Just spare me Guiliana Rancic. And tie her to a pebble before she floats away. In conclusion, eat a McNugget. Happy Friday.

Game 6: The Stakes

Laugh it up, boys

If there is a God, he watches basketball. He is a Mavericks fan. He gave Mark Cuban the idea of streaming video. He is good. He is sovereign. He has touched the gold mane of Dirk Nowitzki.

If there is a God, the Miami Heat will not win this series.

The Miami Heat cannot win this series. Unless the universe as we know it is in fact completely devoid of rhyme, reason, good, evil. I cannot live in a system like this – be part of a humanity in which the punks on South Beach upend the feel-good story of the year with their brazen hotdogging, sophomoric in-jokes, low class, pimped-out three-piece suits, fake coughing, pre-season parades, party planning, 4th quarter no-showing. Winners do not act like this. Champions do not act like this. People with dignity do not act like this.

Dallas must win.

And if they do win – and they might – my faith, your faith, your children’s faith in humanity will be restored. We can go on living in a cosmos with cause and effect, with consequences, repercussions, with supposed tos, with karma. Whatever you want to call it. Miami – that smug, self-aggrandizing crew of premature showboaters with fat coffers and fatter egos – will go back to the cosmic drawing board, reassess this ‘me first’ attitude, take a lump, eat a plate of crow, take their medicine, maybe trade Chris Bosh, and know for sure what the 60-year history of professional basketball has long proved to the rest of us: titles don’t just happen. They’re earned.

The Miami Heat don’t deserve to win this title. Their “fans” don’t deserve to win this title. And this glitzy city doesn’t deserve Mr. O’Brien’s trophy, if only because we’d boil it down to make rimz for J-Lo’s Bentley.

Dallas, on the other hand – they have the long-suffering Cuban, the longer-suffering Dirk, the still longer-suffering Kidd. They’re built of castoffs, shoulder chips, smurfs, guys whose prime’s filed papers some time at the end of last decade. This is a team that seems to give meaning to cliche – wanting it more, playing your own game, having the heart of a champions, etcetera.

LeBron can’t backdoor his way into history. He can’t talent his way to greatness. He can’t give us this hokey show of contrived emotion and expect us to think it’s real. He can’t fake Michael Jordan. He can’t goof his way into the pantheon. And he can’t score 11 points in five 4th quarters and go expecting this whole godforsaken shebang to work out in his favor simply because he’s King James.

Now is the time for the forces that be to show who’s boss. Now is the time for should to conquer, for perseverance to prevail, for Flash to hit the links, for Cleveland to rejoice. Fate is on the side of Texas. Here’s to the Heat freezing over, lest hell, come Tuesday, do the same.

fridge harboring hipster

…why is Kim Deal on the back of my apple juice?

FML, ya’ll

this/every day

damn, yall

been rough around these parts lately

rougher than larry johnson’s patchy, fug-ass beard

rougher than a pinecone up yr hindparts

rougher than ‘ball chaffage’ on the ‘12^th hole’

rougher than a

you get the point, yall

it’s been ‘rough’

maybe I should reconsider my lot in life

ppl tell me ‘oh, yr living the life broskee’

‘makin straight cash money’

‘dropping gees 4 foie gras’

‘rollin cigs with dolla dolla bills’

‘smokin the highest quality crack’

but I think they’re wrong, yall

life ain’t all about ‘cash money/goose liver/crack’

life is about drinking cheap beer during the nba finals w/o

having to worry about ‘waking up at f*cking 6 a f*cking m’

and also, moving in2 yr apt on-time b/c yr a normal person who’s able to take lunch breaks

instead of crushing 2 f*cking sandwiches in 90 seconds during some stupid f*cking meeting

with lots of hot air and flailing of limbs and blustery b*llshit.

not that I’ve ever experienced that.

but if I had I’d say, ‘damn, yall, what a waste of life’

think this whole ‘work’ thing may be  ‘4 the birds’

think maybe the ‘mickeyD’s worker’ ‘hit it on the head’ when he said, ’8 dollars an hr is totally worth a 40 hr week with lots of free time to ‘smoke meth’/shop at Wal-Mart/swipe a 24-pack of natty on my ‘debt-ridden’ credit card.

feel like the fast food worker may be this generation’s ‘da vinci’ yall.

all ‘enlightened’ and shit.

feel like maybe 52 hours/week at work plus 5 in traffic

may not be ‘healthy’ for ‘me’ or ‘you’ or anybody aspiring NOT 2 be ‘in a serious funk’

all. the. time.

just want 2 have time 2 watch ‘housewives’

maybe spend another 5 mins at the gym

maybe work on my ‘already ripped pecks’

maybe talk some more 2 the gf at night

maybe ‘throw some massive party’ when my neighbors are in Tahiti

maybe chill with phil kates

maybe stay up for the 4^th quarter of a basketball game

maybe watch a half inning of baseball

nah, jk about that last one

but maybe ‘sleep till 7’?

maybe not ‘kill sports casualties’?

I don’t know yall

they talk about the ‘american dream’ and whatnot

but the American dream is ‘tweeting pics of yr D 2 hot ladies’

and ‘not getting caught’ but then ‘getting caught’

and then ‘denying denying denying’ but then ‘admitting admitting admitting’

shit, yall… THAT’s the American dream

the American dream is blogging @ work on the reg without

fear you’ll get ‘tossed out the second story window’

THAT’s the American dream

American dream = blogging on the reg/chillin on the reg/workin on the reg

but not OVER the reg for some ‘not as bill gatesy as u think’ salary

America has failed yall

America is just a place 4 ‘welfare mothers’ and

part time pirates

and failed lion tamers

and dirty politicians

and unemployment

and loan defaults

and prime mortgages

and cheaters

and teen moms

and 4.7 APR financing

and double dip recessions

and groupthink

and ‘yes men’

and scoundrels

and shitty American bands

like ‘the hives’

jk, yall, they’re Swedish

… and they kick ass

but like ‘animal collective’

gawd I hate them

except that 1 good album they put out that had ‘my girls’ on it

that song was legit in an ‘entry level alt’ kinda way

but whatevs yall, point is ‘work eats a bag of ds’ as the kids like 2 say

I mean, the pressure and the stress and the long hours and the sweaty palms/pits

dude next 2 me ‘gots an ulcer, or 2’

dude’s thirty.

hope I don’t have an ulcer when I’m 30 yall

that’s like bleeding out yr ass or some similarly nasty sh*t

2 young 4 that yall.

2 young 4 my ‘face 2 b breaking out’ b/c of stress

haven’t had non-perfect skin since 10^th grade, yall

feel like I’m in a effing proactive commersh

probs with diddy/some hot babe who doesn’t need it like

avril lavigne… no wait. I mean

katy perry.

Kevin Durant needs proactive, yall.

real bad.

I think beck said it best: ‘cell phone’s dead’

I want my cell phone 2 be ‘dead’

never have 2 ‘chew the fat’ after work with the boss

never have 2 ‘break my blackberry’ by throwing that shit ‘off the dock’

never have 2 ‘field automated messages from my congressswoman’

beck also said it best when he said, “runner’s dial 0’

as in ‘emergency’

as in ‘operator, I’m seriously f*cked right now. I can’t move in2 my apt til next Monday’

Beck is the true alt sage.

Confucius can suck it.

can’t wait 4 the weekend, yall

can’t wait 2 ‘get crunk’ by ‘taking a long-ass nap’

and maybe ‘reading 4 work’

those’ll be some crazy times, yall

just me + sleep + malpractice suits

can’t spell ‘party’ without ‘pty’

which is ¾ of ‘pity’

Lebron james needs yr pity, yall

bros takin ‘heat’ from fat ppl

like chuck barkley and brian bratworst

I mean, ‘windhorst’

But not me. Don’t want the pity.

just need 2 peace out of this joint

4 eva.

take a trip 2 aukland

chill with the gnomes

sing an immigrant song

hit the pipe

under the midnight sun

that’ll be the day, yall

till then,

keep it real

the realest

<3, hilson

Inside the mind of a Heat fan with 8 minutes left

"Basketball?"

“It’s ‘Na-WIT-ski’. With a ‘W.’” ~ random Heat fan

88-73, Heat, 7:15: “Did I tip the valet on the way in?”

88-73, Heat, 6:32: “I wonder what D-Wade’s doing after the game? Let’s see… Thursday night… I mean… Probably going to the beach… that’s what I’d be doing… Why do they make these games so damn late? Hope Carrabas is still open…”

88-75, Heat, 5:52: “Please tell me Dexter Pittman isn’t getting a ring for this. Played 2 games all year. No. Effing. Way… Sh*t, outta give me a damn ring… One that says ‘pimp’, maybe.”

88-77, Heat, 5:47: “DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE! Blah, blah, blah. Where’s the best medianoche in a five mile radius?”

88-79, Heat, 4:56: “I guess if we could do it all over again, I’d take Amare over Bosh… I mean, unless we could’ve gotten Dirk.”

88-81, 4:34, Heat: “‘Marion’… I think he played for us once… Tommy, does that name sound familiar? Marion?”

90-81, 4:10, Heat: “M-V-P! M-V-P! M-V-P! Really don’t understand why people hate LeBron. He’s such a classy individual.”

90-84, 3:55, Heat: “Where did I put my f*cking car keys?… And when did Kidd start shooting threes? Is that normal for him? He was the Nets guy, right?”

90-86, 3:12, Heat: “790 for the post game or T. Pain????? T. PAIN, BITCHES!”

90-88, 2:49, Heat: “There’s no f*cking way I’m standing in that line. Let’s go to Brickell.”

90-90, 0:46, Heat: “Hope my boss isn’t a prick about parade day. I’m gonna be there. He can kiss my ass.”

90-93, 0:34, Mavs: “15 text messages. You cannot be serious right now. Get a life, people.”

93-93, 0:25: “Oh shit.”

95-93, 0:03, Mavs: “Not. Another. Line.”

mug for the camera

Two Splendas. Two spoons sugar. Extra creamer. Gonna be one of those days.