Don't worry, K-Fed. There's always Wal-Mart.

Well, it took her long enough.

Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.

In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."

Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.

Why I heart the Me-Thinks

Look to the links under the things that make my ears hurt and click on the Me-Thinks. On the FW Weekly's dime, I took them out last Wednesday and then tried to remember the details. It'll run in the Weekly on Thursday, but you can read it down below first.

An Evening with The Me-Thinks

If you drive east on Belknap, you’ll end up in Haltom City. You’ll know because the background scenery turns into a loop of pawnshops, used-car lots and shade-tree mechanics. It’s a little like being in a cartoon, if said cartoon were directed by T.S. Elliot. Sometimes the scenery is broken up by a Vietnamese or Mexican restaurant, but mostly it looks about as industrial as a suburb can be. It’s not bad; it’s just, you know, Haltom City.

This is where The Me-Thinks are from. When you hear them, it makes perfect sense.

Ever year, The Me-Thinks win the Weekly’s Best Hard Rock award. If you had to describe them in two words, I suppose Hard Rock would work, but it does no justice to the poetic inebriation that makes them my favorite band in town. Instead of Hard Rock, try these:

The Me-Thinks are the sound of smog, collected and sculpted into grinning, slaphappy gargoyles.

They are the sonic manifestation of the bong rip you took right before puking.

They are an ’82 Monte Carlo, painted by Earl Scheib and driven by Rat Fink.

They are talented burnouts.

They are perpetual adolescents who have extended their glory days instead of merely longing for them.

They’re funny, they’re loud, and they bask in self-deprecating wit, while remaining untainted by precious, cutesy hipster-irony.

And also, they bring their own fog machine.

The band used to be a three piece, but now it’s a quartet. Ray sings and plays bass. He’s also Fort Worth’s answer to Coop, as his subversive takes on pop art have advertised pretty much every rad show in town for the past three years. Marlin is lead shredder; he also operates the fog machine. When he plays, he looks like a statue of Bacchus, if Bacchus hung out with the Norse pantheon. Will used to play drums, but now he trades leads with Marlin. His other forte is biting wit. In any other band, dual guitarists would merit coordinated rock poses, but that sounds like a lot of effort for these guys. The latest addition is Trucker John, who has filled Will’s vacant drum throne. He’s in a billion other bands, most of which are some permutation of hardcore. They are buds since junior high, and they make their own fun. Whether it involves booze, pharmaceuticals or vintage amps, they still manage a good time.

For the past 800 years or so (by my estimate, anyway), they’ve been chronicling their good time on an upcoming album. It’s called Make Mine a Double, so named, because it’s actually a double-E.P. If making a double E.P. rather than a single album strikes you as a cleverly moronic thing to do, you’re absolutely right. It’s reason #108 why they are the coolest band in town. But now the record is finally in the can, and it’s awesome. I’m biased, but I defy anyone to find a better blend of stoner-garage-punk around. It’s like Motorhead playing Circle Jerks songs, or the Stooges fronted by Fat Mike. Songs like “Burnout Timeline” and “Permanent Krokus” perfectly encapsulate life in the HC in its entire gritty splendor. If there is a need for a soundtrack to a house party gone off-the-tracks (and I posit that there is), that soundtrack is Make Mine a Double.

People tell me that my band, Darth Vato, plays party music, and I always respond with, “you should listen to the Me-Thinks instead.” Our partying is bush-league compared to theirs. I don’t mean to sell Darth Vato short, but I’m okay with being second-string. We’re in illustrious company, after all. To be fair, I think some of the best nights I’ve had have been playing with the Me-Thinks at the Wreck Room. When the “Best Of” issue of the Weekly comes out every year, I am genuinely puzzled that “Darth Vato and the Me-Thinks, Any Time They’ve Played at the Wreck Room” is not a nominee. I realize that we were nominated this year for our shows at the Moon, but I think our shows with the Me-Thinks are way better. This is not to say that the Moon shows suck; I just prefer watching the Me-Thinks churn out Turbonegro covers while drinking enough to forget my own songs. But whatever. Opinions, assholes, etcetera.

So I love the Me-Thinks. Even though they claim to be “Fort Worth’s shittiest band,” everyone knows different. Sure they get ripped, but they also shred, and they usually do both at the same time. They have a funny rule, though. They don’t headline. I know because I asked. Darth Vato is playing with them on December 15th. Since I think they’re pretty much kings, I suggested they take the midnight slot. Ray said, “Nah, because we’re only functional drunks past eleven. By twelve, we’re totally useless.”

Last week, I found out that this is really only a half-truth. I took them out for drinks in honor of their double-E.P. release on Saturday. Predictably, their capacity for functional booze absorption is a lot greater than they let on. What follows is foggy record of my attempt to hang with them and their crew.

* * * * *

I guess I got the memo wrong, because I show up at Fred’s at 7:30. We’re starting early, but not that early. I kill my time with a Maker’s-and-Seven at 7th Haven. So really it’s more like two Maker’s, but whatever. I reason that with these guys, plus or minus a drink isn’t going to change the evening’s outcome too dramatically.

Eight o’clock rolls around, and I roll back to Fred’s. Ray, Will and Trucker John have arrived simultaneously, and a couple schooners go the way of the dodo as we await burgers. Will and Trucker John will later be mocked for sharing an order of fries between them.

We’re on our third beers when the burgers arrive. Between bites, I get a bit of Haltom City Punk Rock History from Ray and Will. I ask them about Hasslehorse, an old band of Ray and Marlin’s in which Marlin actually played keys. Hasslehorse’s history is given cursory treatment, because it quickly gives way to a more enthusiastic discussion of life in the early to mid-‘90s. This thread leads me to believe that those years were little more than a series of keggers rumbling between the HC and Riverside Drive. The stories are populated by heshers and whippets and a trio of pilled-out scenesters, three chicks who would barrel into every party like Andy Capp tussling with his wife. Nowadays, the radius of the party zone is a little narrower. For the Me-Thinks, the epicenter is now their rehearsal space, a non-climate controlled tin shack, where they claim nothing ever gets done, except for a lot of drinking and the occasional screening of a Vivid Video.

It’s now 9:00, and we’ve put away three or four rounds. I should probably keep better track of this, but whatever. We make plans to hit 7th Haven before calling it a night. I know this will likely never happen given the pace we’re at, but it’s good to have goals, I guess, the road to hell being paved as it is. The next stop, anyway, is the Shamrock. Prior to this, we sit in my van listening fIREHOSE. Weed may have been involved. I don’t really know; at this point things are already hazy. Marlin never made it, and his absence prompts Will to deride his bandmate’s affinity for cock-rock such as Poison and Cinderella. Ray defends him, as much as is possible, on the grounds that Marlin just really likes hot licks. This, I think, is a dubious argument, but I say nothing, since it’s now 9:15 and there are still drinks to be had. We amble to the Shamrock.

The Asian Media Crew is waiting for us in the parking lot. They are as much a component of the band as Marlin or Trucker John.

The Asian Media Crew is a two-man operation whose ostensible function is to accompany the band everywhere and record any ensuing hilarity. There is a video camera, and I’ve seen them use it before, but tonight it will be employed intermittently. The Asians are Rat and Calvin, and they wear matching jumpsuits. Mostly they just drink and crack jokes. This past summer, I asked Ray if he was coming to the FW Weekly music awards. “Maybe,” he said. “Depending on hangovers, we might just send The Asians.” Sure enough, Rat and Calvin were the only ones present to accept the Me-Thinks Best Hard Rock Band award. I asked Rat where the band was, and he said, “I dunno. Probably at home being lame or something.” I can think of no other local band that makes public appearances by proxy, and this is yet another reason why the Me-Thinks are my favorite crew in town.

Anyway, we bounce into the Shamrock, where Marlin has been patiently waiting for the past hour. Apparently he didn’t get the memo either. Marlin is soft-spoken and considerate, and like the rest of them, enjoys a lot of beer. It’s 9:30ish. Round one (or round five or six, if you’re counting), is a flight of Sierra Nevada that everyone quickly polishes off. By 9:45, we have emptied round two, and One-Fingered Will (front man for hardcore outfit One Fingered Fist) brings over a bunch of Patron shots. When my stomach gets wind of this development, it knots up in anger. Its relationship with tequila is at best stormy; most of the time it is one of pure hatred. But down the hatch anyway, stomach be damned. I notice that Ray, Will and Marlin toss these down without blinking. Same with the Asians. I hope no one catches my grimace.
I didn’t walk into the bar clearheaded, but now my view of the Shamrock looks like a Monet painting. The joint is kind of empty; in my current state, it looks positively cavernous. Like Bat Cave cavernous. For all I know, Batman and Alfred are picking the songs on the jukebox. Evidently, they like Black Sabbath.

I don’t know what time it is by this point. My phone is on the floor, probably because I am unable to make a convincing fist. Still drinking, Ray and Will are discussing the Pogues. There is one rule about this particular topic: you can never talk about the Pogues’ music, but only about Shane McGowan’s gnarly teeth. Like an idiot, I break this rule by saying something about how Flogging Molly sounds like the Pogues. Will graciously steers things back where they belong, in the realm of Irish punk band orthodontics. Someone buys some Jager shots. After these go down, Marlin says they can call me a cab later if I want. I don’t know when later is, because it feels like 3 AM. Though I’ve drank with these guys at a number of shows, I forget that I am a rank amateur. It’s like being proud of getting your orange belt and then sparring with Chuck Norris.

My phone says it’s 10:42. I think it’s a fucking liar.

At this point, Rat is animatedly talking about grilling fish. He’s so excited that I think he has won the lottery. It turns out that he just really likes fish. He schools me on where to eat pho in the HC. I go to Tu Hai, which he says is good, but I’m supposed to go someplace else, which is better. I’m not sure, but I think Calvin is taping this exchange. He’s cracking up, regardless. But the whole table confirms, that yes, whatever this other place is called, it’s where you go for pho.

It’s 11:05. I’m trying to ease the booze-throttle back a bit, not that it matters a whole lot now. Will says he has to check out around midnight, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. Same for Ray. While some more beers arrive, he tells me a story about being sixteen and sneaking backstage at a G.B.H. show in Dallas. I think this is about the coolest thing in the world, until he tells me about being a kid and showing up to skate a pool only to be overrun by the Zorlac Skateboard guys. Marlin gives me a burned copy of a Peaches album. I unsuccessfully try to stuff this in my shirt pocket. The three of them duck in and out of encyclopedic music debates, gently giving me crap for being a relative lightweight and giving each other crap over Rolling Stones songs. I wonder if it is midnight yet. It’s only 11:15.

The next time I check my phone, it’s almost midnight. I think the Asians have just left. Something about work the next day. Marlin has taken tomorrow off so his booze-cruise is still merrily afloat. Will and Ray are comfortable with loping into work beneath clouds of staggering hangovers, though Will leaves shortly after this proclamation. Something about driving home before he gets too gone. Eventually, Ray and I remain. When he leaves, I follow. I will nap in my van. My fortune is such that I have to make 9:00 flight the next day. I’m pretty sure I won’t notice any of it. I figure I won’t remember too much of the night anyway. Hopefully someone will, and I think this is pretty much par for the Me-Thinks course. It makes me wish I had my own Asian Media Crew. Too bad I didn’t grow up in Haltom City.

--The Robo-Pirate

Win Ben Stein's Vote

So I'm in Lodi, waiting to go to Davis to watch my little brother play water polo. Since he wants to transfer, this may be the only collegiate game I get to see. I'm disappointed, but that's a whole 'nother post.

Anyway, in case anyone who lives outside of California is interested in who Ben Stein supports for Governor, it's Schwarzeneggar. I just answered my parents phone, and he told me so. I'm a big fan of Ben Stein, not only because his game show was one of my all time favorites, but also because he is Jewish AND politically conservative. That juxtaposition fascinates me in the same way that a black dude fronting a hardcore band does, or a cat nursing a litter of abandoned puppies.

--The Robo-Pirate

The Google

If you look at the comments in the previous post, the fourth one takes issue with my and my friend Lauren's fun at the expense of the President's assumed lack of geographic knowledge. Okay fine. For all I know, George Bush is a geography wizard. It could be that he knows exactly where Carmen Sandiego is at all times, and if he doesn't, he can find her with the most basic clues. If that's the case, than I'm being unfair. I seriously doubt it, but whatever.

Regardless of what George Bush does or doesn't know about foreign capitals, it's obvious that his public articulation is laughably confused at best. Yesterday, he he told this lady on CNBC that he "occasionally" uses "the Google." Reread Lauren's first comment, and then say "the Google" in a generic foreign accent out loud; it will further prove her point. I used to know a kid from the Czech Republic whose favorite Nintendo game ever was "the Excited Bike." He probably uses "the Google," too.

But really, I'm just belaboring a point. Making fun of George Bush's elocution is an easy and tired target. Everyone has a slip of the tongue now and then, and some more often than others. Usually, though, those in the latter category don't fumble and backpedal their way into the Oval Office. In my previous post, I cited plenty of instances in which our disarmingly befuddled president has had dubious reign over the words plopping out of his mouth, but today I have video. I know it's not like Bush is the first President to sound confused, but at least Ronald Reagan* had an excuse, given that he was developing Alzheimer's. For Bush, what might have once been folksy charm has long since degenerated into country bumpkinism. In light of "the Google," I maintain that it's probably safe to assume that upon first hearing the word "Tbilisi," George Bush probably thought it was something he would be eating for dinner that night.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
And I see your most recent comment, Oh really?, but I maintain that he's still an idiot. If you read any of the articles I linked to, you'd find that he doesn't appear to think through what he says before making it public record. For a guy who has a teleprompter in front of him half the time, he makes a lot of mistakes, and that's pretty telling. And furthermore, I voted for him the first time around. I haven't been this disappointed in something I believed in since I found out Santa Claus was really my parents. I could forgive his public ineptitude if it wasn't constantly utilized to spin half-truths and outright lies.

*Plus, Ronald Reagan was a fantastically compelling speaker. Even Jim Wright, who hated the man, will acknowledge this if asked. And so you know, I did.

Stay the course. Repeat.

So you know all the great Presidents? You know, Lincoln, the Rooselvelts, that millionaire playboy who was shot in the head? Did they ever have to eat their words or retract previous statements? Because the one we have right now has to do this all the time. Currently, Bush and his smug cadre of lying self-servants are having to explain what his oft-repeated catch phrase "stay the course" really means.

Said President Bush, "The characterization of, you know, 'it's stay the course' is about a quarter right. 'Stay the course' means keep doing what your doing. My attitude is: Don't do what you're doing if it's not working -- change. 'Stay the course' also means don't leave before the job is done."

I had no idea that "stay the course" was such a mutable phrase. Bush makes its meaning as maleable as the word "smurf."

"Laura, hon, would you stay the course with the ketchup?"

"Oh man, after all them Dr. Peppers, I have to stay the course big time!"

"If we stay the course about these Al Queda ties, they'll have to go along with the invasion."

Sure, it's probably just semantics, but underneath it all, I think the President's usage of the phrase belies one ultimate truth:

"This is way harder than Dick and Karl made it out to be. I have no idea what I'm doing."

--The Robo-Pirate

Exuberance and optimism all because of some french fry oil.

Check this out! Dakine, which makes skateboards and snowboards and the smelly beanie I wear in the winter is sending its skate team up the West Coast in a vegetable oil-fueled RV! Last year, Surfing ran a story about the Malloy brothers and some other guys hitting a bunch of breaks from Oregon to Baha in a bio-fueled truck, and my interest in this stuff was really piqued. I also know this guy who runs his truck on bio-diesel, and he swears by it. Maybe it really is a way for the rest of us to break free from the oilogarchy that's ru(i)nning our country.

Go to Greasenotgas.com and read about it.

--The Robo-Pirate

OUT-FART THE GORILLA AND WIN A FREE RING TONE!

Thanks, MySpace ad, but I'm all stocked up on ringtones. You can take your rapid-mouse-clicking games and shove them up your ass.

--The Robo-Pirate

Gym Class Heroes Kick Ass or Damn I Wish I'd Thought of That #133

From "It's OK, but Just This Once!" off Gym Class Heroes' recent LP, As Cruel As School Children:

"I got no time to player hate--

I'm the type to crash your party with Teddy Ruxpin and a Slayer tape."

Probably the coolest line I'll hear all month.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.

This band is tight, like Bob Cratchet's Christmas budget. For those of us in DFW, they're coming to Will Rogers Auditorium on 11/21, opening for the crappy All-American Rejects. Between this show and The Sword on the 5th, November is looking to be pretty rad.

Where I talk about No Shame, Pepper's new album. And also how editors don't always know best.

This is the original draft of my review of No Shame, the new Pepper album. You can click here and read how the editor hacked it up. In his defense, it could have been broken up a little bit, but I maintain that the content in my original is way better than the published draft. I'm just saying is all.

Pepper, No Shame
(Volcom/Atlantic)

There’s this scene in Blue Crush where surfer girl Anne-Marie Chadwick goes to rescue her lil’ sis Penny from a party at the Volcom house on Oahu’s North Shore. And in the movie, Penny is understandably pissed, because her big sister is ripping her out of what appears to be a pretty cool party, abundant with kegs, hot chicks and gnarly locals ripping on a half-pipe. The whole movie paints Hawaiian surf culture as a constant pursuit of leisure, a breezy drink-till-it’s-time-to-check-the lineup sort of lifestyle. Kona Town, the second record by Kona, Hawaii’s Pepper, encapsulated that vibe with its blend of reggaefied rock and boozy aloha spirit--the record is equal parts double-vision party and hangover hindsight. In short, it felt real.

Unfortunately, Pepper seems to have lost their way home. They moved to San Diego in ‘99. They’ve been on the road for five or six years. They made a fan-alienating record with Ron St. Germaine. On No Shame, their fourth outing and first on a major label, there are glimmers of Kona Town, as well as some interesting forays into new horizons (check the single-minded bounce of “No Control”), but a lot of the time, the songs sound alternately forced and distracted. It’s not a bad record, but the band’s talents seem a little misappropriated.

Pepper normally gets knocked around for ripping off Sublime, but this isn’t entirely fair. While dual frontmen Kaleo Wasserman (guitar) and Brett Bolinger (bass) both sing in the same breathy tenor as Bradley Nowell, Bollinger’s voice has the lecherous richness that Nowell sometimes lacked. Besides—it’s far more obvious that they’ve been stealing from the Police.

Predictably, the tracks on No Shame that sound like a Police song are the best ones. Once you skip the annoying intro skit (and there are two more of these, which is never a good sign), the album kicks off with “Bring Me Along,” a sunny reggae shuffle that grabs its licks from “Every Breath You Take” and its heritage from island acts such as Po’ Hana. The guitars echo for miles, the bass flows like mercury and after the next song is finished, you’re fooled into thinking that Pepper wised up and made another Hawaiian record. “Lost in America,” a hooky ode to life on the road perpetuates the ruse, but when the hang-loose varnish starts to crack, a disingenuous grab for radio airplay becomes apparent. It’s disingenuous, because the track is bookended by another stupid skit, the only purpose of which is to distract the listener from the jarring shift of “Your Face,” a gaudy slab of overproduced pop. After you’ve settled into the stripped-down space of a couple clean guitars, bass and drums, getting slammed with a bunch of tacky overdubs and keyboards is pretty annoying.

From there, the album repeatedly shoots for the mainstream, but for the most part, it doesn’t even hit the backboard. “Like Your Style” is a corny attempt at a club hit. “Point and Shoot” is marred by unnecessary raunch. Plus, the last third is broken up with another unfunny skit. Apart from the plaintive low-key rocker of “Zicky’s Song,” the rest of the record tries too hard. It’s shameful that No Shame makes you sit through a bunch of phony grins to find the groove of a real feeling.

--The Robo-Pirate

Just an observation. We mean no harm.

A couple years ago, when I was looking into an Alternative Teacher Certification program (you know, because I was too stupid to have bothered to do this in college), I had to take a test at UT Dallas. It was on a Saturday, so I really didn't get a feel for the campus or the student population.

Last night, Darth Vato played at UT Dallas at the Pub, which is located within the student union building. Though it did resemble a pub, it served no alcohol. I could blather on with a lengthy discussion of form, function and purpose, but this is already a pretty boring post. Rather, I'd like to present my first impression of the students at UT Dallas. I always assumed that it was a commuter school, but there was a decent crowd, and the show itself was fun. We played like crap, though. I think this had something to do with sobriety, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, in pulling up to the load-in spot, we had passed three students talking on phones and to their friends. A fourth student walked past our van, talking on her phone. Kerry looked at me and said,

"I haven't heard any English yet."

--The Robo-Pirate

As if watching giraffes have sex wasn't awkward enough.

Uh oh. Someone had better tell Jerry Faldwell. According to Reuters, there's a gay animal museum in Norway. The obvious implication here is that since animals aren't sentient, being the homogay is not a choice but a natural phenomenon, not unlike ball lightning or the aurora borealis.

From the article comes the following quote, which may be one of the funniest paragraphs I have ever read:

"One photograph shows two giant erect penises flailing above the water as two
male right whales rub together. Another shows a male giraffe mounting another
for sex, another describes homosexuality among beetles."

I think it's safe to assume that the mental image of swordfighting gay whales* was the furthest thing from your mind when you got out of bed today.

In any case, the next time you see a chimpanzee on rollerblades, you'll know that he's not just doing a bit.

--The Robo-Pirate

*or gayles, if you prefer.

THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!!

Every time I watch Entourage, I wish I were an actor. One with a mansion. For almost a minute, I consider the possibility of taking acting classes and think that yeah, maybe this would be something I could do. And then, I remember that actors, though often talented, are almost always aggravating.

I'm not talking about Hollywood dickheads who spend twenty bucks to have a pack of cigarettes delivered to them. These people are as far-removed from my reality as the characters they play, and therefore, they hardly exist in three-dimensional space. I will never meet or know them because for all practical purposes, they don't exist outside a writer's imagination. In other words, there is no real Eva Longoria. When I see her on TV, graciously smiling and waving from within the safety of velvet ropes and red carpets, she is no more real to me than Homer Simpson.

Ac-TORS, however, have been flitting in and out of my life since high school. These people don't make it to Hollywood, though some of them move there. They do theater. And I fucking hate theater. It drives me nuts, what with all the over-acting, and the panting, and the rouge, and the delusions, and the drama that bleeds over from the production into real life.

In high school, I had a good friend who said frequently and with grave determination, "I'm going to be an actor." As if by making such definitive statements, one could make it so. "I'm going to acquire the hope diamond." POOF! Cursed blue diamond, right in my pocket. "I'm going to drive a German half-track." POOF! German half-track, right in my pocket. Same thing in college. I was friends with a few theater people, and a couple of them frequently said the same thing, usually with a nonchalance that suggested they were a little surprised that it hadn't happened already. And then one time, my friend Bryan, who WILLFULLY lived with three other theater dudes threw a party, and the TCU theater department showed up, and when I and my roommate arrived, I overheard one girl say to her friend, "who are those guys?" and her friend replied, "I don't know, but they're definitely not THEATER PEOPLE."

Geez, girls, how did you know? Was it because my pockets weren't rattling with bottles of anti-depressants?

So I find theater people universally annoying. Perhaps you are wondering, however, why I would bring this up. Well, this weekend, Darth Vato played in Galveston, which is a city south of Houston on the gulf. We normally have good shows there, but this one was sort of screwed up in that the opening band cancelled, we had to play for an extra hour (which means playing more covers, which I hate), and we had to compete with terrible metal bands in the adjacent room. But it wasn't a big deal for us, because we have electric instruments that can drown out other electric instruments. Unfortunately, this was not the case for the one-act play that went on before us.

You might think that I am using one-act play as a metaphor or a euphamism for a crappy band, but I'm not. Prior to us, two people, in costume, paced around each other spouting unfunny, circuitous dialogue in some play about a woman who thought she was a superhero. It was dumb and it was irritating, but ultimately, I just felt bad for them.

See, they got started around 9:00, shortly before the first metal band started sound checking in the other room, and it was as awkward as getting a boner in church. The situation sort of went like this:

DELUSIONAL ACTOR 1: So you're saying you're NOT Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive....

DELUSIONAL ACTOR 2: No, I am Superwoman, and I am here to defeat the League of EEE-ville.

TERRIBLE HIGH SCHOOL METALCORE BAND IN ADJACENT ROOM: JUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!!!

DA 1: But our files say that you ARE Mrs. Barbara Stanwick of 1572 Lakeshore Drive, married to Mike, mother of Jack, 7, and Mary, 5, and they say nothing about any "league of evil."

DA 2: Then your files, Doctor, are CLEARLY erroneous, and have probably been fabricated by the League of EEE-ville themselves!

THSMBIAR: JUGGEDAJUGGEDAJUGGAJUNNNNN!!!!! How you guys tonight? We're called A Dying Death of Dying...

And so on. It was uncomfortable, and it pretty much made the night a total gong show. The cellphones rang. The bar's phone rang. Detuned power chords rang. I finally bailed and went to the other room to watch teenagers with hair in their faces growl and chug away on crappy amps. But this was just as uncomfortable as the shitty play, as their crowd was as many moms as it was friends. The friends were politely standing, but the moms were doing the over-the-head-Michael-McDonald-concert-type claps. To tuneless, rhythmless hardcore.

The nice thing was that we still had some people come watch us, and we made more money than we were supposed to. Eric made us get up at eight the next morning and leave shortly thereafter so he could be back in time for the Cowboys/Eagles kickoff. This made me grouchy, but he really, really likes the Cowboys, so it wasn't like I had much of a choice. He says that the Cowboy's performance affects how the rest of the his week goes, and this makes very little sense to me, but whatever.

At least we weren't leaving early so he could make it to a one-act play.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
I saw The Departed. Holy fucking shit. Just go see it, all right?

Another partial retraction:

Midlake is from Denton. And Midlake is pretty great.

--The Robo-Pirate

I'm an idiot. No, really. I admit it freely.

I have had three hours sleep. This is partly because I'm an idiot. Here's why: Darth Vato played a dismal set in Denton last night. Denton is a funny city where all the cool music is supposed to have come from since around 5,000 B.C. I don't know--the only band from Denton that I've ever paid attention to is the Riverboat Gamblers, and I don't even like them that much. It has this gritty-looking, fairly liberal state university (University of North Texas), relatively famous for its music program. A lot of dudes with glasses and beards go to this school. They're all in bands, a lot of which are "interesting," which really means they are terrible. When someone raves about the latest noise-rock band from Denton, I automatically assume it's a matter of The Emperor's New Clothes.

Anyway, we get paid to play in Denton at this bar, and usually it's fun. Last night the crowd dwindled to tumbleweeds, and frankly, I would have rather stayed at home playing video games. I don't know why that show sucked. Kerry had to be in a meeting early this morning, so I got stuck settling money, and after receiving the check, I headed out. This was around 2;15.

Before I continue to the part where I'm exhausted because I'm an idiot, I need to explain how easily I get lost. You may have noticed that my blog alias implies an interest in pirates, and this might lead you to believe that I have a similar enthusiasm for maps. I do, in fact, love maps. But I get turned around really easily. One time, it took me four hours to get from San Francisco to Lodi, a trip that normally only takes about 90 minutes. Bottom line, I'm terrible with directions, and as such, I departed Denton on the wrong fork of I-35.

Now I-35E intersects I-30, which would have taken me home, but it intersects it at Dallas, which is around 30 miles from Fort Worth. Realizing that the ETA to my bed would now be 30 minutes later, I sought a way to cross over to I-35W. For no reason at all, I chose to drive through Lewisville, a suburb which I have never visited. In fact, there are only two things I know about Lewisville: a person who works at my company lives there and so do firemen who date TCU girls. And really, this latter fact is merely an assumption based upon a girl I knew 8 years ago. So really, I know nothing about Lewisville, least of all its relationship to I-35W, which, it turns out, is completely estranged.

Eventually, I ended up on the North of end of state highway 121. During the day, 121 is the parking lot that threads through a post-apocalyptic wasteland of chain restaurants and mega-car lots, but at 3 am, it's not too bad.

Around 4, I rolled into my apartment. You'd think that this ordeal would have compelled me to go to bed and forget the whole thing, but you'd be wrong. Recall first that I am an idiot. If the gallumphing narrative above does not adequately prove my assertion, then consider the following piece of information: when my ass dragged into my apartment this morning, I did not go directly to bed. Instead, I plopped into my couch,and played Xbox for another hour and fifteen minutes. So, rather than ardently chasing every minute of sleep between my arrival and my alarm's strident beeping, I chose instead to stay up even later making potions.

Now do you believe me?

--The Robo-Pirate

More fake news, this time from FUTURE.

Three months from now, when asked about the success of his stay at a plush Beverly Hills rehabilitation facility, former Congressional Representative Mark Foley (R, FL) replied, "Well, I've got that alcohol problem licked. I have no desire for a single drop of booze. But that pedophilia... Now that's a tough thing to shake." He quickly added, "Did I say pedophilia? I meant pageophilia--I mean, painkillerophilia. Yes. Painkillerophilia. That's a tough addiction to shake!"

Foley later told reporters that his forced exit from politics was "a blessing in disguise," and that he planned to write a "reflective memoir," of his time spent on Capitol Hill, retiring to an as-yet undetermined location. "But probably Thailand or Viet Nam--wherever that Gary Glitter guy went," he said.

--The Robo-Pirate

Last weekend recap, completed on Thursday. Lots of links are involved.

For those of you who don't know about driving from Fort Worth to Austin, here's the gist: it takes around three hours, give or take thirty minutes, depending on the weekend, the vehicle and passenger bladder capacity.

For Darth Vato, it's more like six.

On Friday, we left the Fort at six o'clock to play a midnight slot at a place called Headhunters. We stopped for Whataburgers in Waco, probably for twenty-five minutes. We should have been able to cruise into our motel, pounds some beers, and roll into the club for a longer-than-normal show.

Of course, the Texas Department of Transportation had other plans. It seems that between a place called Temple (which, based upon prior experience is not in Texas but the Twilight Zone) and Killeen, TXDOT decided to resurface I-35 and completely close it. As if that weren't enough, it also closed the frontage road at around the same point, shunting FOUR LANES of traffic into a four-way intersection. If anyone knows a chimp who is looking for work, I hear this office is hiring.

Thus, as a result of someone's terrible idea, traffic backed up for about twenty miles. Traversing this expanse took THREE FUCKING HOURS. You know that part in Independence Day when everyone's trying to leave D.C. because UFOs have blown the White House all to shit? Well that's sort of what this was like. Quoth Kerry, "There'd better be something up ahead that's pretty amazing. Like a bunch of dinosaurs. Having a picnic. Or breakdancing."

As the three of us typically manifest the maturity of an 8th grade health class, you can imagine that the boredom and frustration of such a hassle yielded predictably immature results.

We took pictures of me, sitting on the front of the Grampus, pretending to be a hood ornament.*

We took pictures of Eric and Kerry hanging, Singing in the Rain style, from the door-latch of the semi's trailer in front of us.

We took pictures of Ernie and Vanilla Jesus on said trailer.

We fashioned a urinal out of a plastic gallon jug, a cut-up Dasani bottle, gum and clear packing tape. Eric and I both used it, and Eric got pee on his leg. I blame it on the tape. The reason why packing tape is so named is because it is not good for anything else.

Darth Vato gleaned a few lessons from all of this. The first was that we, as a band, can never adequately prepare for anything. You'd think that allotting double the amount of time to arrive at a gig would be sufficient, but this is obviously not the case.

The second lesson learned was that you shouldn't fuck with semis. Especially when open containers are involved.

The final lesson is a matter of engineering. Regardless of what you've seen on television, chewing gum is not a viable sealant. I would expect that it isn't good for piecing together bombs, dikes, or crumbling marriages either, which are all lies perpetuated by the glass tit.

Miraculously, we made it to Austin by 12:45. Apparently, the soundguy or whatever role "Kenny" fulfilled pushed the bands back a bit, so we still got to play a set to a small, but enthusiastic crowd. From the jaws of defeat, ad nauseum.

After the show, we headed to Motel 6, where I'm pretty sure we witnessed the pre-production stages of a gang-bang movie, as we saw four shady dudes affectionately escorting a single female into an upstairs "suite." Kerry checked us in. "We're in room 213," he said. The tone in his voice suggested that Room 213 housed some ominous connotation; I truly don't pay attention to too many details in life, because apparently, 213 was the number of the apartment inhabited by Jeffrey Dahmer.

This really didn't bother me until Kerry turned on the TV, which was tuned to some channel running a documentary about modern cannibals. And of course, he had turned it on during the Jeffrey Dahmer segment.

I didn't really listen to the show, though if you judged that statement by the doodles I made on our beer cooler, you'd think I'd watched with rapt attention. The truth is, I always doodle creepy shit like that. It's what happens when you spend middle school learning to draw from comic books and then later discovering White Zombie album liners.

Anyway, that was Austin. It turned out pretty good, despite all of I-35's attempts to spoil our evening.

Houston was an easier trip. We took 290 to Kerry's dad's house, as he lives five minutes away from Fitzgerald's. It was a pretty drive, though we did run into some more construction. In Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman makes this comment about how there will always be road construction and how this fact depresses him. I pretty much feel the same way.

The show at Fitzgerald's could have been a hassle, but it wasn't. Los Skarnales (the headliner upstairs) cancelled, which meant that five bands were crammed onto our downstairs bill. We had to go on 15 minutes earlier, but a bunch of our friends showed up in time, and we had a decent crowd. Better yet, the club asked us back, which makes the whole trip worthwhile. Later, Eric and I some friends went to Onion Creek, which is a bar that serves beer and Frito Pie. I ate half of Eric's, and then ordered my own. Needless to say, the pyrotechnics in my pants exceeded those of Cinco de Mayo and The Fourth of July combined. Later, I had to share a bed with Kerry (which is sort of like bunking with the San Andreas fault, since he causes the bed to quake by continuously jiggling his legs). He claims to have been awakened by the smell of one of my farts, but I think he's a just big fucking baby.

This coming weekend is Galveston. It's already starting out as a gong show, because the opening band cancelled and the Drew, the promoter asked me to find another one. I suggested The Burning Hotels, some friends from Fort Worth with whom I like to drink and talk shit.

"What do they sound like?" he said.

"Oh you know, kinda like the Strokes, you know like indie rock kind of," I said.

"Yeah...." he said. "I'm not really feeling that indie rock, bro."


In other words, the next time the proverbial emperor announces he has new clothes, I'm going to ask Drew if can see them or not. I probably don't need to tell you what his answer will be.

--The Robo-Pirate

*Except that hood ornaments aren't sweaty, usually.

Modern Man, or How I Became a 21-Century Digital Boy

I've been listening to Bad Religion a lot lately. I run hot and cold with this band, and here's why. When I like them, it's because they're fast and tight and the vocal harmonies soar like a squadron of leather-jacketed guardian angels. When I don't like them, it's because I get tired of Greg Graffin's humorless preaching. NOFX is pretty didactic, too, but At least Fat Mike is a smartass. A lot of the time, Greg Graffin's lyrics come across like a surgeon-general's warning--dire, informative, and kind of overbearing.

In any case, I think Against the Grain is their best record, and it's the one I've been listening to the most. Bad Religion are usually credited with extending L.A. punk rock long past its expiration date, and Against the Grain is a prime example of why. I bought it my junior year in high school ('94-'95), and I credit it for steering me away from bands like Bush. It's arguably the pinnacle of their career (bummer, since it came out sixteen years ago), not only because it features most of the original lineup (admittedly this is a dumb reason to like a record), but because the songs are universally good. Graffin's harmonies sound like a punk rock barber shop quartet. Mr. Bret's solos stick in your head like metastisized brain tumors.* The songs attack with the speed and precision of a team of ninja. It's intelligent, introspective and anthemic, without resorting to the chumpy bro-hymns of Pennywise.**

Following this album, the band signed with Atlantic. I listened to the first two of these albums while in college, and I didn't care for them at all. I missed out on the next two completely, and even when they went back to Epitaph, I've only had a casual interest in their most recent offerings. Though it's remarkable that they continue to churn out albums, I think there's little point in checking them out beyond this one. Okay--Generator is worth a listen, too, but for my money, I remain Against the Grain.

--The Robo-Pirate

*and I challenge everyone to find a more unpleasant simile.
**Imagine a bunch of Orange County frat guys yelling OHHHHHHH/OHHHH OHHHH OHHHHHHHHHH/OHHHHHHH OHHHH OHH OHH OHHHHHHHHHH along with this guy. That's a chumpy bro-hymn.+

+For the record, I love Pennywise.

HOLY SHIT! NEXT SUMMER, BEWARE MY IMPERIAL NAVY!

From the people who sold you the Bug Vac comes Total Pool Anarchy, or, if you prefer, the Bumper Blaster. It's a motorized, inflatable bumper boat with a powerful water cannon on it.

You guys are in so much trouble next summer.

--The Robo-Pirate

Top ten places to hide if you are able to turn invisible

1. In plain sight.

2. Right under her nose.

3. Anywhere.

4. Everywhere.

5. The Oval Office.

6. Wherever you want.

7. Mervyn's.

8. The video arcade around closing time

9. Your favorite bar.

10. The scene of the crime.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
This was Nerdingle P. Nerdlinger's idea.

On Verticals, Q1, Q2, and Other Nonsense

It's not anyone's fault, but hearing conference calls makes me want to put an icepick in my ear.

--The Robo-Pirate

New record day!

Downloaded one, got the other free.

Blood Mountain by Mastodon

Fucking intense. A concept album about ascending some perilous mountain. A bunch of scary songs about monsters. And even crazier drumming than on Leviathan. Remember the shiver you got the first time you heard "The Thing That Should Not Be" off of Master of Puppets? Here, those goosebumps are named "Circle of the Cysquatch" and "Bladecatcher." I'd like to buy the new Mars Volta album and see how the two stack up, as the musicianship is probably equal between both bands, but I have a feeling that the ideas here are a lot more interesting. I hear Amputechture is just a bunch of noodling. With the exception of Black Flag, there is no other band more aptly named than Mastodon. Even if you don't like anything heavy, you should give this a listen. And if you get it on iTunes, you get a video with it.

No Shame by Pepper

Fucking blows. It's hard to be worse than the last one, but you guys did it. Maybe you should stop working with 311. Or if you didn't then maybe just start copying them, as even that would be an improvement on these tunes. The first track fools you into thinking that you're getting some saccharine Hawaiian reggae tunes, but then the record turns into radio-sychophantic Chili Peppers posturing minus the chops. I read an interview with Kaleo, the guitarist, and he said that on this one, they were heading back to the Police-by-way-of-Po Hana fusion found on Kona Town, but that turned into a bit of a fib. Pepper used to know what a hook is; for all the Clear Channel courting going on here, you'd think they'd have at least recycled one or two. The best song here is "Lost in America" which traipses through the speakers in the same flip flops LBDA blew out in "DJs" and "Life Goes On." It's not great, but relative to the rest, it might as well have been off of Pet Sounds. Did I mention there are annoying skits? Well, there are. I hate skits, and on No Shame, there are three of them.

I like Pepper. I really do. They are great live. I love Kona Town, and I can even find nice things to say about In With the Old. This new one, thoug--it's a bit of a steaming pile.

--The Robo-Pirate

Wanna be in a band?

Back when my musical endeavors were limited to annoying dorm neighbors with my repeated mistakes on my bass (live and don't learn, that's me), I had certain misconceptions about being in a band. I thought bands lived an existence of never-ending parties, piles of makeout girls and all the free snacks you could gobble. Oh, and I imagined there were bouts of playing music as well.

I never imagined hassles such as expensive amp tubes, weirdo soundguys, amnesiac promoters or press kits. Now most of those things don’t bother me that much, but I will never, ever enjoy compiling press kits. They are easily the most odious band chore, and this includes carrying speaker cabs up multiple flights of stairs.

I hate them for several reasons, and if you’ve ever been in a band, you’ll probably agree. The first is that I firmly believe that everything included in a press kit (photo, bio, clippings, occasional promotional item, oh and music sampler) except the CD gets thrown in the trash.*
I hate having to mail all that crap to someone, because it costs money, and it usually amounts to nothing. There is more value in giving money to a homeless guy than producing and mailing a press kit, because at least giving money to a homeless guy means that someone will get drunk later. Paying to make and mail press kits is tantamount to wiping my ass with five dollar bills.

Press kits also lie. Since they are basically a band resume, they are rife with exaggerations (DV's is no exception to this), and I presume that they are universally similar for every local band. For example, at some point in their career, a local band that is any good will get to open for a national band, providing them for a possible half-truth to include in their bio or press clippings. I know of a band around here that gets to play the Ernie Ball stage at the Warped Tour every year because they have a well-connected manager. Their bio alleges that they have shared the stage with bands such as Bad Religion, Dropkick Murphys, Rancid and all the other mainstage headliners. This is a white lie, but it's a lie nevertheless. They are playing the same event, but the Ernie Ball stage is pretty far away from where the headliners are. They weren’t sharing the stage with anyone other than the same people they’ve shared the stage with in Flower Mound, Addison or various roller rinks.

Then there’s the universal press kit fib about packing all the local clubs. Sometimes this is technically true, but it's almost always subjective. We packed Headhunters in Austin. This is totally true. But it was the patio, which is tiny. Not that I'm complaining about this; I thought it was pretty rad, and I think the club did too. But I hate having to gently fabricate the size of out of town crowds for the sake of maybe (read: probably not) opening for Pepper or Slightly Stoopid. I feel like it's for a good cause, and if it's fudging just a little, I guess it's okay, but it would be great if I could just tell the truth: “yes we have big crowds at home. Yes we have big crowds in a couple other places. Give us a chance to make a big crowd at your club. It will probably take a few shows though, just so you know.”

As if their potential for disposal, wasteful cost and inherent stretching of the truth weren’t enough to make them a total beating, unwritten press kit law states that you are supposed to include a band photo. Why a photo is important is beyond me, but I know this booking guy around here who passed me the following insider tip:

“You can say you played with whoever, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s much more valuable to
have a professional, 8X10 black-and-white.”

You’d think that a CD would be a better indication of what a band might do for your club, but nope, apparently it’s a headshot.

Our press picture is three years old anyway, so last Friday, we took some new pictures. We used a professional photographer (our friend Kerrie, friendship thereby making her affordable) and took them at our friend Ira’s house, because he has a rad backyard with two homemade bars. This seemed like the most natural setting for us, but it really doesn’t matter how they turn out, because they will still be an opportunity for mockery. See, this website called Rock and Roll Confidential has a section called The Hall of Douchebags,” which is a huge archive full of the terrible press photos of presumably awful local bands. RaRC merely points out the obvious, that local band press photos are intrinsically hilarious. As such, press kit photos are pretty much a landmine that you, as a band, willingly bury, arm and step on. If you go to that site (be prepared to waste a good hour or so), you’ll find that the person who rips on all these pics is generally right on the money. Press kit photos all look pretty tired. Their settings are usually some laughably stereotypical locale (brick wall, alley formed by brick walls, chain-link fences, train tracks, or a combination of all of these), and when they aren’t, their situation is totally removed from anything that has to do with the band, or for that matter, anything that has to do with reality. This is why Kerrie shot us standing on top of the Grampus, because standing up there was actively ridiculous. We have no reason whatsoever to be on top of the van. We would never play a show from atop the van, nor would we ever just hang out up there. But we did it anyway, at my behest. Anyway, I was drunk. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

Unless a band is comprised of strippers or aliens, no one should really give a flying crippled crap what it looks like. Well, unless it’s a rockabilly band, I suppose. Image seems to be pretty important to rockabilly people. But it’s not like you’d use our mugs to sell tickets anyway. We’re a fat guy, a slightly less fat guy and a short guy. If anything, our press kit photo might be detrimental to getting out of town shows. And as proof to this point, some of the bands on the Hall of Douchebags might be worth listening to (this is completely for the sake of argument), but you can bet I’d never book them. If we show up there (and you can bet I’ll submit our picture), I’ll be sure to let you know.

In the meantime, we will put these things together, stick them in the mailbox and hope for the best. It can’t be any worse than wishing for winning lottery tickets.

Or giving money to the homeless.

--The Robo-Pirate
*if you’re lucky.

p.s.
This is my favorite one.

p.p.s.
And for those from Fort Worth, here's Pimpadelic, being terrible.

Yes, dude, you are totally creepy.

My friend and surrogate older sister Danielle sent me this link about a computer fix-it guy who claims to be non-creepy. To be fair, his rates are pretty cheap. But then again, so are you if you hire him.

--The Robo-Pirate

In case you didn't bother clicking the link, some guy put an ad up on Craig's List about how he'll fix your PC if you let him touch your boobs. Now don't you want to read the article?

Wants some eggs? I made 'em myself!

Sweaty McNerdingle sent me the link to the Wikipedia article on flatulence (and now I have Jen's full attention). Before you roll your eyes and make a comment along the lines of "oh, I bet that's full of facts,"* the article cites various works by people whose names are followed by a comma and combinations of capital letters, which means they are knowledgeable and probably a scientist.

Anyway, it has a section on how to make fart-fomenting foods less rebellious. This involves doing things like fermenting beans and then boiling more of them in the liquor** made from fermenting the previous batch.

For one thing, that's a lot of trouble to go to just for some friggin' beans.

And for another thing, what's the point of taking the music out of the fruit?

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

*Or, "you would write another blog about farts."
**Booze from beans? Stranger things have happened. I heard they made medicine out of sandwich mold.

Muslim extemists are titty babies

The quote below comes from a follow-up story to the one about the Pope pissing off Muslims by quoting dead emperors. For greater emphasis, I have occluded the most astounding portion of the quote through sophisticated coding techniques. To achieve the MAXIMUM LEVEL of incredulity, highlight the area immediately following "the" and deliberately and slowly drag across. Have fun!

"In Iraq, where an effigy of the pope was burned Monday, parliament speaker Mahmoud al-Mashhadani called his apology 'inadequate and not commensurate with the MORAL DAMAGE CAUSED TO MUSLIM'S FEELINGS'."

Moral damage caused to Muslim's feelings? Is that what this is about? Hurt feelings? Are you guys in kindergarten? I had no idea that Islamic fundamentalists were so sensitive. It's like you're a bunch of pissy gay guys. Even Richard Simmons is annoyed.

Honestly. The Pope said he was sorry--what more do you want?

You don't see the Western world getting bent out of shape over any of your remarks*, and you've been calling us the Great Satan for almost thirty years. Quit being such fucking babies, Extremists. We have cartoons over here that devote entire episodes to poking fun at Jesus, and you don't see anyone getting set on fire. Maybe you should lighten up. It would solve a lot of problems for everyone.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

*Blowing us up , however, tends to raise our ire considerably. It would be great if you'd knock that shit off. Maybe we'd even get out of your country. If it were up to me, we'd be out today.

Swedish Chef

You know you're a crappy cook when you manage to make something cooked in a crockpot taste terrible. I know this to be true because the chicken I simmered in mine all day yesterday was pretty unappetizing.

Before you ask, the chicken wasn't bad. It had five days until it expired. I also chopped up part of a garlic clove and half an onion and dumped them in there with some cayenne pepper, so it had some seasoning.

For whatever reason, this combination caused a blue-gray film to appear on some parts of the chicken. Most people probably toss their chicken if it develops weird crockpot scum, but when one is more-or-less a bipedal carp, one keeps an open mind. As the nausea started to roil in my belly, I jotted a quick note in my journal detailing what I ate in case I happened to die during the night.

I should probably stick to making toast.

--The Robo-Pirate

In today's fatwah news...

Despite the fact that I am of Irish and Mexican extraction, I am not Catholic. I am allowed to eat steak 365 days out of the year. I can make jokes about Pope Palpatine I and not feel bad. Prophylactics are fine with me, communion bread is merely a metaphor, and my religious leaders don't have to be gay, because they can marry a wife and sire as many self-destructive children as they want.

As a non-Catholic, I can live my life as objectively as I want, and this is why I find myself objectively siding with the Pope after reading the news this morning.

Last week, the Pope made some remarks about Islam. Now everyone knows that saying anything about Islam that is not a gushing endorsement is asking for trouble, but this did not deter him from quoting the anti-muslim remarks of a Byzantine emperor to some German professors. In case you don't know anything about the Byzantine Empire, it was the Greek half of the Roman empire, and it crapped out in the 1450s when the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople. In case you don't know anything about the Ottoman Turks, they were Muslims who conquered and held onto big chunks of Eastern Europe and the Middle East, who crapped out in the 1920s after the Central Powers lost WWI. These facts are more than mere trivia, because they offer a shade of explanation as to why someone would say such a thing about Islam.

Now, if you read the news, you'll discover that the sorts of Muslims who get fired up about things such as editorial cartoons or US invasions of Iraq have little appreciation for context and wouldn't recognize irony if it came and shit in their mouths. The quote that has elicited death-threats and firebombed churches has to do with Islam being "evil and inhuman," spreading its faith "by the sword."

Not a nice thing to say about Islam, especially when the followers of your own religion have spread their faith by sword, virus and bullet all over the world for almost a thousand years. But still, if you consider the context, making such remarks about a faith that's knocking on your city's gates with torches and scimitars is not all that crazy. If Ottoman Turks were massing to conquer my empire, I think I'd be a little testy myself.

But never mind that. Islamic extremists have no use for history when it doesn't serve their purposes. If they bothered to read a little further, they'd discover that Pope Palpatine (by way of an emperor who has been dead for like 700 years) was pointing out historical fact: Islam was spread regionally via military campaign. If not for Muhammed's army, pilgrimages to Mecca would be a lot harder. But moreover, why would this even bother a fundamentalist? Are they mad because someone implied that they are violent? If the Pope's remarks are untrue, then why does their official response assert that "God will help Muslims conquer Rome"? That sounds like spreading faith by the sword to me.

Having grown up in a Christian church, I am well aware of the compartmentalization of dogma. A lot of times, books of faith tend to be treated as a sort of idealogical buffet table--eat what you want, ignore what you don't. Obviously, Islam is no different, because from what I have always understood, Muhammed never rejected Judaism or Christianity, but instead thought of them as complementary faiths. Clearly, this is lost on a few.

--The Robo-Pirate

Note: In case you missed the link up there, you can read the story here.

Jealous Again

If you look over to the right at the list of blogs I read, you'll see a link to Dooce. Since you might not know what Dooce is, I'll explain briefly.

Dooce is a blog written by a married woman in Utah named Heather Armstrong. Way back in like 2002, she got fired from her web design job in L.A. for blogging about her co-workers. I laud her, without a shred of sarcasm, as a talented writer, and she frequently writes a phrase or line that I would cut off a toe to have thought up. Her blog is at least as funny as it is self-indulgent, but what's most compelling is that its popularity has allowed her and her husband to become self-employed. She flies all over the place speaking about women-oriented blogging, and generally has it pretty sweet.

I was hesitant to link to her, because A), it's not like she needs another link, and B), I don't always agree with what she's doing. She is bipolar or something, and she had a miserable bout of post-partum depression, and her child is difficult, and she writes about this and a lot of the time her posts are funny. But the part I find ridiculous is that she makes a living off her blog.

Now I don't find fault with that in an of itself. If I could pay my bills (or even a bill) with this blog, I would be on here boring everyone to tears five times a day. What I take issue with is that she complains (albeit humorously) about a lot of stuff. She needs her meds. Her kid is bratty. She doesn't have insurance (welcome to self-employment!). The pipes burst. Her TiVo screwed up. Blah blah blah. In other words, it's the sort of thing that happens to plenty of other people (men, not just women) who have annoying children and plumbing mishaps, but who also have to keep their day jobs, because they don't get to sit around listening to Interpol while ad revenue keeps the lights on.

If you've detected a bit of envy within the paragraphs above, consider yourself sensitive and perceptive. Like I said, I'd love to make a living off this. If traffic merited it, you can bet there would be ads for movies and bonerpills and whatever else alongside the link to Valient Thorr. I'd think you guys would understand. I would not, however, bitch and moan about everything without giving thanks to God for my fortunate new career.

You know what? Fuck it. She makes me laugh most of the time. Her kid is adorable, and I admire her husband's patience. He seems like a pretty cool guy, especially to weather his wife's meltdowns. What really pissed in my cheerios this morning was this post. It's about how she dated a guy who turned out to be gay and broke up with a different guy who turned out to be against gays. That part was funny, but the thing that irked me was her opening reference to her friend Maggie's recently published book, which apparently is a list of 100 better blog topics.

Really? You wrote a book on blog topics? Do you also watch commercials about commercials or click on links advertising free porn that link to more links advertising free porn?

This is what I think is stupid, and ultimately why I am jealously bothered by Heather Armstrong's (or at least her friend Maggie's) source of income. A 112-page list of blog ideas is not something anyone needs to buy, and shame on you for thinking someone would (as of this writing, I suspect that her inventory has already been cleared). The book's main title is No One Cares What You Had for Lunch. Well, what people care about is totally subjective, and I'll bet, Maggie, that you've probably blogged about some pretty uninteresting topics yourself . I don't care, for instance, what Heather Armstrong watched on TV last night, yet she persists in writing about it, and I persist in reading about it. In context, what you two girls are doing is making the mundane worth reading about, which I think is a better bit of advice than a list of topic suggestions. If you wanted to do that, why not teach a 9th grade remedial English class?

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Then again, what do I know? Dooce is obviously doing something right.

If you're wondering why that white guy is pouring his 40oz on the lawn...

...it's because today is the 10th anniversary of Tupac Shakur's untimely demise. Or, if you suscribe to certain conspiracy theories (now there's a newsletter!), it's the 10th anniversary of Tupac's absconding to the underground.

"I ain't mad at ya."

--The Robo-Pirate

Look! Fake news based upon real news! In the style of a more popular website named after a vegetable that makes you cry!

World's richest trailer-park queen gives birth to additional wailing mouth

By THE ROBO-PIRATE, Fake AP Special Correspondent

LOS ANGELES, Calif. - Celebrity redneck Britney Spears fired out another baby yesterday, practically on the heels of her last one, who is not yet a year old. Said Britney, "Since I ruined my career with my marriage, I figure the easiset way to remain in the limelight is to continue to have babies and entertain the public with my spectacular parenting skills."

After taking some publicity photos with the baby, Spears had him wrapped in a bathtowel and carefully set him on a laundry room shelf. "He'll come down when he's ready," she said.

Her husband, 28 year-old Kevin Federline, appeared thrilled about the latest addition to his expanding brood. "Yo, if Brit can have a baby every year, I'll have like three kids by the time I'm thirty, dog. That's bangin'!" After briefly conferring with chief handler AJ Willis, Federline remarked, "Yo, AJ say I already has three kids. My bad. So I guess if she has two more babies, then I be havin' like five kids."

When asked about her views on the ethical repercussions of passing more Federline genes into the general populace, Spears said, "Y'all!"

Worst Blog Ever

I recently ran across "Aix-en-Provence" while doing some work. I think that's where there are cave paintings. Anyway, it reminded me about how people still manage to learn French despite its extra letters and difficulty in pronunciation. That made me think about how people still manage to learn Klingon, despite its extra letters and difficulty in pronunciation. And then that made me wonder if people who bother to learn Klingon already know practical languages such as Spanish or Latin, because if they don't, they are totally wasting their lives.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

Oh, and one more thing. Richard Branson is a Genius.

Everyone needs to go to a Virgin Megastore and buy something, because Richard Branson is a clever man.

He got wind of Paris Hilton's announcement of intended arrogance, and totally preempted her vanity. Click this link, if you ignored the one above. There's a reason why he's a billionaire, and I think it's because of his prank ingenuity.

--The Robo-Pirate

It begins

I got up at six this morning and did not reset the alarm and go back to sleep. After months of making excuses and talking about it and doing research and reading and putting it off, I started writing my comic book. It's about a rock band who gets kidnapped and marooned in another galaxy. Before I had to leave for work, I plotted two pages (the prologue), and I am totally stoked. I was pissed that I had to leave it. Stephen King talks about how his job is basically to play pretend for eight hours a day, and I now I know what he's talking about.

--The Robo-Pirate

On the same thing a bunch of other people blogged about yesterday.

Yesterday, in heaven, Ben Franklin met a cheery new arrival by the name of Steve Irwin. Said Mr. Franklin, "Pleased to meet you, friend. How, pray tell, did you spend your time while traversing that mortal coil?"

"Glad you asked!" replied Steve. "I spent my whole life studying dangerous animals."

"Fascinating! So you were a naturalist then."

"Sort of. Basically, I walked around pulling tails."

God bless you, Steve. If God is good (and I believe that He is), He'll give you an all-access pass to Dinosaur Heaven.

--The Robo-Pirate

Commentary on Yester(Fri)day's News #4,903

Dear Pluto,

As far as I'm concerned, you will always be a planet to me. Those scientists, who should be curing cancer and inventing teleporation, have really done it this time. I am cancelling my subscription to Popular Science, the Christian Science Monitor and I will never listen to Oingo Boingo again. And you want to know what else? All of the astrophysicists who voted that you weren't a planet were only like 5% of the total number of astrophysicists. I know! That's what I said! It is a huge pile of crap. You should probably launch some missiles. That seems to be the answer to everything around here.

Your friend,

--The Robo-Pirate

Self Aggrandizement in the Form of a Pre-edited Music Review

This will come out either tomorrow or the following week in the FW Weekly, but I really like this band and really didn't want to wait in case anyone was on the fence about them and happened to be doing some searches.

Valient Thorr
Legend of the World
(Volcom)

Remember Nu Metal, that genre comprised of suckass Jock-Jam bands like Korn and Godsmack? When they weren’t busy making huge, multi-zippered, idiot-pants fashionable, they were supposedly breathing life into the tired, leathery lungs of Regular Metal. What they really did was ruin everything cool and dangerous about hard rock, in a much more damnable way than anything ever perpetuated by Sammy Hagar. In other words, they sucked the fun right out of it.

Fortunately, a handful of bands have managed to reset the whole genre through their own sweat, toil and blistering arpeggios. You’ve probably heard about Australia’s Wolf Mother, who fuse stoner rock and Kansas into fuzzed-out glory. Perhaps you’ve found Early Man on MySpace and added them as friends because they sound like Mercyful Fate covering Maiden. If you’re lucky, you’ve seen The Sword, who out-Sabbath Sabbath, making wolves and cursed blades the coolest hipster trend since PBR and mustaches. If you nodded your head to any of the above references, load your bong and cue up Legend of the World, the second album by Valient Thorr.

Valient Thorr are from Venus by way of North Carolina (which makes perfect sense when you think about it). They have a backstory. It involves a stolen time machine or something. Mostly, it’s amazing nonsense, but not as amazing as their serious devotion to anti-war politics and Southern Rock riffage.

Legend of the World opens up with the bombastic stomp of “Heatseeker,” a paranoid middle-finger to government intrusion, shouted by frontman Valient Himself over speedball blues riffs that sound as if they were made to chain someone to a nuclear missile. From there, it’s pretty obvious what the rest of the album is gonna sound like: basically, it’s a fantasy rock-genre draft combining a leftist punk singer with a Judas Priest tribute band and making them play Lynyrd Skynyrd songs at full-throttle. If not for obvious slashes at Dubya’s foreign policy, you’d swear this album came out thirty years ago. It makes you want to buy a case of the beer your old man used to drink.

Unfortunately, a lot of Legend blends together if you aren’t a fan of the solos-in-lieu-of-choruses formula chiseled by Black Sabbath in times of lore. The riffs are righteous: Guitarists Odinn and Eiden Thorr wield laser-perfect, harmonized shredding that wouldn’t be out of place on a Thin Lizzy album, but because it’s everywhere, it starts to become indistinguishable. Same for the earnest, sermonized shouting of Himself’s delivery, which is a bummer, because he’s shouting about ending the Iraqi war and cleaning up the planet. It’s not exactly Joan Baez, but a progressive message borne on high-octane cock-rock is paradoxically easier to hear. Why Venusian Vikings give a crap about American foreign relations is never explained, but at least somebody cares about this stuff. Add a song about the destruction of the primeval world (“Fall of Pangea”), and the record is pretty fun.

Legend of the World is the aural equivalent of a drinking a sixer of Shaeffer’s; it goes down easy and rocks hard. Your head might hurt later, but that’s the beauty of Valient Thorr—rock ‘n roll that doesn’t kick your ass a little is kinda lame. Luckily, Valient Thorr will kick your ass all the way back to ’76.

--The Robo-Pirate

Indestructible

So I went to Chipotle for lunch today and when I went to the bathroom, do you know what I found in the toilet? Lettuce. Just floating around. Like someone had been feeding a tiny manatee in there.

Which is funny, now that I think about it, because manatees do sort of look like poop.

--The Robo-Pirate

Oogh....

You know that song "Just Dropped in," about checking in to see what condition one's condition is in? Well, did you know that it was performed by Kenny Rogers? He of the Roasters and of the knowledge of appropriate times to hold and fold? Technically, it was a band called First Edition that recorded it, but those are his pipes on the track.

Boy am I hungover!

--The Robo-Pirate

My new power: Invisibility!

I was ignored today. I made what I thought was a valid suggestion and a viable offer of assistance, and I was directly ignored. So I've got that going for me.

--The Robo-Pirate

The Grampus, My Beloved Mobile Oven

I finally got around to taking the Grampus into the shop to get its A/C fixed, having been told by Will the brilliant but unreliable mechanic who works with my friend Cliff that it was likely just a short.

Quoth Ruben, who looked into the matter today, "I checked it all, but the compressor doesn't work."

Apparently, compressors do not grow on trees. Ruben told me it would be about $1,100 to get a new one and install it. Now I don't mind driving around sweating, as I have been doing it since May, but Kerry and Eric (said in that "duh!" voice children are so fond of using) think it's better to drive without losing ten pounds of water weight. Pussies, that's what I think.

Anyhow, there is no way I'm fixing that thing if it costs eleven-hundred fucking dollars. Now Kerry, who doesn't know how much this will cost said a month ago, "Maybe we should just buy a new one and make payments," implicitly expressing a rather optimistic view of our band's potential longevity. Ain't gonna happen, nor will fixing the A/C. Sweat we shall.

--The Robo-Pirate

Starry, Starry Night

Dear Dr. Berhard's Office,

You know how Canada's healthcare is supposed to be free, but the drawback is that you have to wait for a long time before you can get in to see a doctor?

WELL, I DON'T LIVE IN FUCKING CANADA!!!

I'm about to cut my goddamn ear off rather than wait for my appointment tomorrow morning!

Sure, I guess I should have gone to the appointment I made for last Monday on the PRECEDING FRIDAY, but my ear ache went away over that weekend. Bank hours are more accessible than yours. And why was the office closed after noon? Was there a holiday I was unaware of? Why couldn't I have been passed on to the partner? Have you seen Resevoir Dogs? Because I'm about to tie myself to a chair and call Michael Madsen.

I'm just saying is all.

Maddeningly yours,

--The Robo-Pirate

A conversation I had a couple days ago.

I finally made it into the doctor's office. As I suspected, I have a very busy case of swimmer's ear. He prescribed some drops. While there, I read an article in Time about why the Middle East is never going to to quiet down, and it reminded me of a Yahoo article I read and a blog I wrote in response, which mysteriously went unpublished. So here it is again.

A Conversation with God

"Hey, God?"

"What, Steve."

"Um, I bought another lottery ticket."

"The answer's no."

"Hahahaha--no no, see I'm not wanting to win the money. This one's a PAC-MAN lottery ticket, and if you scratch off the ghosts and uncover a Pac-Man, you win a Pac-Man cocktail. I want to use it as a coffee table."

"Look, Steve, first of all, you have a perfectly good coffee table."

"But the legs are all wobbly!"

"Second, you're really not my favorite person right now. I know you went to that titty bar the other night, and I caught you looking at pictures of that Hindu deity."

"But she's rad! She has a sword and a trident and she's riding on a tiger. You have to admit that Jesus is pretty boring, compared to her."

"Did she die for your sins?"

"no....."

"All right then. Look, I'm really kind of busy right now."

"Doing what?"

"Helping Hezbollah fire rockets on Tel-Aviv. Apparently they aren't able to do this on their own."

"Oh. Um, don't Your chosen people live in Tel-Aviv?"

"Yeah, but it turns out the Muslims are right."

"Right about what?"

"Everything."

"Oh."

--The Robo-Pirate

Sorry mom, but I have to talk about this because it's kind of cool.

Darth Vato has been in the studio this week recording two new songs. They sound pretty good. For me, recording bass tracks is little bit like taking off all my clothes, putting a flashing light on my head and trying to read Mandarin while being simulcast across the globe. And of course, hearing my tracks over the expensive and super crisp (but not super golden crisp) studio monitors is a great way to remind myself of why I have a day job.

Anyway, I did my best.

The best part about this week is that I have taken most of it off from work, which means I have spent considerable time reddening beside various apartment pools and drinking beer. If there is one thing I am getting good at, it's getting sunburned and fatter. Seriously, I'm glowing like a brake light.

In other news, something really special happened on Monday night, and it happened at the naked lady bar. Now, I want to make it clear that I don't normally frequent gentleman's clubs, as great as their promises of low-priced steaks and Def Leppard sound. It's because I'm not interested in paying money for something I could see in my imagination for free. Also, I'm never sure what sort of face I'm supposed to make while standing in front of a naked lady displaying ultimately impractical limberosity. Do I grin? Do I make eye contact? Do I manifest an aura that obviates the fact that my personal vehicle is a van whose side doors do not open from the inside? In any case, I went with Eric, our rockstar/producer friend Jordan and Maunder, who owns the Moon. Prior to leaving, we speculated on the hats allowed/not allowed policy, deciding that they probably weren't. Eric said, "Crap. Now I'm gonna have to fix my hair," to which Jordan said, "You don't have to fix it, you just have to pay 'em." Truer words were never spoken. Except for in the Bible, of course. And on FOX News--BA-ZING!!!

Anyway, we get there and fork over a bunch of money for over-priced unleaded Buds and the privilege of ogling cheerfully naked ladies. We had heard from the girlfriend of this dude we know who's in a different band that "strippers fucking love guys in bands," so of course, we bided our time for the perfect moment, and then played that card like an UNO Draw Four Wild. Eric gave "Jo" twenty bucks to ask the DJ to play a song off the EP we made last summer, telling her that if the DJ didn't want to, that she could just give him another lapdance instead. So she did, and the DJ loved it, and Maunder got a lapdance to the tune of "Seven Seas." Naturally, we thought this was the most fantastic thing in the history of the universe, and I sent a confusing mass text message to a bunch of people who mostly replied with, "What are you talking about?" What was really cool, however, was that he went on to play two more of our songs free of charge and asked for more CDs to pass out whenever he played it at the club, which we did the next day during happy hour. Predictably, the parking lot was at 5:15 already filling up with trucks sporting rebel flags and Calvin-Peeing-On-Things stickers.

"Man, the creepy pervert factor is pretty high," I said.

"Yeah," said Eric, "and it's about to increase by two."


--The Robo-Pirate

A Partial Retraction: Ken Jennings is not an asshole. He has been downgraded to a tool.

Well, I actually bothered to read Ken Jennings's blog about Jeopardy. I concede the following points:

1. It appears that he is not ungrateful to Jeopardy!, remarking that it is putting his kids through college. That sounds grateful enough, I suppose.
2. His other blogs are kind of funny.
3. His thesis, buried under lame cracks about the show being stuck in 1984 (a pretty good year, as I recall), is really that Americans are idiots.

He is still beneath my contempt for his disparaging remarks about Alex Trebek.

I will not be deleting the post below, nor will be changing my practice of "take umbrage first, fact-find later."

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.

He is probably not a polygamist, as I only found references to one wife. He also no longer lives in Salt Lake City, but instead lives outside Seattle, which technically could be in Idaho, which has a pretty big Mormon population, relative to say, Mars.

p.p.s.

But not Tonga. Apparently there are lot of Tongans who get married wearing Holy Underwear.

Ken Jennings is a Fucking Asshole

My dear friend Billy sent me this thing, about Ken Jennings unfunnily ripping on Jeopardy and Alex Trebek.

In case you don't know who Ken Jennings is, he's the guy who won 74 straight games of Jeopardy! and walked away with two and-a-half million dollars. In a perfect example of biting the hand that fed you, he posted recently on his website a bunch of unfunny comments about Alex Trebek being a robot because he doesn't age and how the Jeopardy set is rarely updated.

Well you know what, Ken Jennings? Who fucking cares what the set looks like? It's a game show. Part of a game show's charm is its dated look, and frankly, I think it looks great. Furthermore, you are a software engineer, and as such, your ideas of what of an attractive visual aesthetic should be are automatically supsect. And then you attack Alex Trebek for appearing as if he has not aged? Clearly, you have not watched the show as consistently as the rest of us have. Though his journey through life has been graceful, Alex Trebek shows the wear of the years just like the rest of us do or will. His hair is considerably grayer than it was when I was a kid, but apart from shaving his mustache, I think he has remained a dapper and tasteful fixture of afternoon television. I will be very grateful to Jesus if I have held up so well by the time I am 66. And what's so bad about being a young-looking gameshow host anyway? Do you also find fault with Pat Sajak and Vanna White? Looking young comes with the territory. Hosting a gameshow is a ticket to eternal youth, as opposed to whatever nerds in Mormonsylvania like you do.

But why stop at affonting Alex Trebek's youthful handsomeness? You also mock the "effete, left-coast" categories. Well, Ken Jennings, the categories are geared to challenge contestants' mastery of intellectual traditions and disciplines, as well as their familiarity with pop culture. In other words, they seek to find an agreeable balance between the high brow and the middle. This is why its contestants come from a pool that includes everyone from professors to unemployed pony-tail guys who play video games all day. I will concede that "effete" might be an acceptible modifier on a technical level, but I do not think the show's categories carry the prissy elitism that your use of the word implies. As for your left coast-centric allegations, Jeopardy! has to plead guilty, seeing as how it is written and filmed in Burbank. On behalf of the show's producers and writers, I apologize that the questions and categories do not reflect the radiant culture regularly enjoyed by you and your wives in Salt Lake City.

I guess I just don't understand what motivated you to level such a fusillade at a game show that was nothing but fun and profitable for you. Though I commend you on your achievement, let's not forget that Jeopardy provided you with an opportunity to acquire a bunch of money without having to do a whole lot of work, apart from emptying your head of a lifetime's worth of accumulated trivia. It's not as if you founded a Fortune 500 company, invented jet packs or cured cancer. You merely stood behind a podium and pressed a button before anyone else did, which makes you little more than an insufferable, quick-drawing know-it-all. So fuck you, Ken Jennings. Alex Trebek has more character and likeability in 1/100 of his mustache follicles than you do in your entire body.

--The Robo-Pirate

Yeah, I said it.

Fuck you, Tom. Myspace blows.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

Spider-Vac

LOOK AT THIS THING!

Pretty sweet way to get rid of bugs, though I have a few suggestions for improvement. It needs a longer tube, say, maybe ten feet longer, and possibly someone else to operate it for you. Also, the little chamber in which the bug gets trapped is missing a couple whirling blades. It also needs a reverse-suction function to blow the chopped-up bug pieces out the patio slider. Basically, what I really want is a combination vacuum, food processor and blow dryer. Someone needs to get on that.

--The Robo-Pirate

In Place of Dying, or How I Came to Loathe Phrasecore

From a local band's MySpace page:

"In Silence And Shadows was formed in the extinguished flames of die in plain sight.*"

Honestly, In Silence And Shadows, don't you think a better and more literally descriptive name might be Born in Ashes?** It would make a lot of sense, and In Silence And Shadows has two S-sounds in it, which don't sound really great when made into a microphone. Plus, if your name has some kind of personal significance to it, it will make all the nights spent practicing hammer-ons and screaming in the garage seem all the more awesome.

Here's what I would like to see. I'd like to see a high school metalcore band whose name is comprised of a maxium of three words, none of which form a prepositional phrase. If this naming convention doesn't peter out soon, we are going to have to subdivide the metalcore subgenre even further, classifying bands of that particular stripe as Prepositional Phrase Metal or more simply as Phrasecore.*** And as an aside, is it a rule that because you play some variant of metal, you have to have a name that indicates what type of band you are? For instance, I would be much more likely to check out a band called LaserPeen (who wouldn't!) than a band called Whispers in the Grave or some other similarly ridiculous prepositional seriousness. And then, when I discovered that LaserPeen played metal, I'd be that much more pleasantly surprised.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

*I don't know who is responsible for extinguishing the flames of gravely humorless teenage metal bands, but I need their mailing address so I can send my charitable donation.

**Patent Pending. That's my metasitional phrase so don't you touch it.

***I'm claiming coinage.

The Punisher Cure Journal

Dear Every Cure Fan,

Back in 1993, I had this girlfriend named Denise who really, really liked the Cure. She wasn't like the rest of you, what with the eyeliner and romantic misery and all, on account of being sunny and bubbly, but she really, really, really liked the Cure, the way a burning man really, really really likes to get doused by a bucket of water. It took a while for me to come around, in part because I spent much of that year surreptiously listening to Master of Puppets (mostly while mowing the lawn), but I did eventually, but not without forming certain, um, opinions about the sort of person who would rigorously defend the dubious merits of Mixed Up.

Anyway, the point is that you guys created a certain stereotype for me, and part of that stereotype includes softly playing Disintegration while leafing through Sandman comics on rainy Sunday afternoons. Well guess what? Judging by this picture, your beloved lipstick-wearing crybaby likes the same comic as all those brainless athletic chumps who drove you in a frantic sprint from the end of sixth period to the synth-pop sanctuary of your bedroom.

Now, I like Fat Bob well enough, but if he really is a Punisher fan, I like him a whole lot more.

--The Robo-Pirate

Yesterday's News

On Sunday, Darth Vato won Best Live Band in the FW Weekly's annual music awards, showing that all of our drunken idiocy (which includes, but is not limited to, nut-punching, rib-kicking, pants-losing, mic-farting, beer-spitting and tired-joke-telling) has not gone to waste.

--The Robo-Pirate

Hamstrung, Hobbled, Hidebound, Hindered

The internet is slow. For my job, having to do work with a lethargic server is analogous to hauling logs cross-country in an 18-wheeler with ten flats.

I want to go home.

--The Robo-Pirate

An Apology

Dear Friends in my Office Who Sit in the Same Room as I Do,

I want to apologize to you guys right now for getting Fartaburger for lunch. I know, I know--it's not like I don't know what will happen, but every time I contemplate getting into the drive-thru queue, I think, "Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I can enjoy a delicious hamburger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions and not experience massive seismic activity in my lower intestine." Of course, those maybes pour the foundation of wholly unrealistic hopes. I hear alcoholics use this reasoning as part of their denial, that maybe they can have a scotch or two and not drink their way into having blacked-out sex with someone's pill-billied grandmother, and that realizing the fallacy of this logic is a step towards sobriety.

Well, I'm not addicted to Whataburger; in fact, I don't even like it that much, but sometimes it just sounds irresistable. I just want you guys to know that I'm sorry. I know better, and I'll be sure to remember this letter the next time I cruise by that soaring orange W. Hopefully, I will keep cruising. Also know that as I spend the rest of the afternoon blasting away, I will do my utmost to spare you all the noxious fallout and drill them into my chair.

Your Friend,

--The Robo-Pirate

Oblivion Update #2 (No new girls, just new spells)

Actually, that's a lie. Morricone doesn't have any new spells. He did, however, recently acquire the Battle Axe of Embers and the Longsword of Shocking, and they both contributed to his recent successes in the Imperial City Arena in a really big way. He's now the champion and is on his way to buying a little shack of his own down at the waterfront. As for me, I am still a huge nerd.

--The Robo-Pirate