Dear Frances Gibson

OK well, I would wake up most days and tell De Campo there isn’t a cloud in the sky and she would say yes there are, just look over there and to the West there would be lots of them. Holding hands in the ocean on our last day, I said look honey, it’s just you and me out here and five seconds later, she was covered in jellyfish stings. Luckily we met some heart of gold locals who ran a bar up the road and helped De Campo get well medicated. We tried most of their booze and got beautifully drunk. They cooked us a dinner of prawns and delicious red curry. After dinner we went inside a straw-hut, style bar played pool, listened to ZZ Top and met a little puppy named Poo-Poo, who was busy torturing a frog.

The next day we flew to Bangkok. The marketplace was profoundly exotic and pestilent. Miniature turtles for fifty cents and baby vultures at huge discounts. We bought four of each (with the intention of cross-breeding them) plus a fruit bowl, some salad forks, a pepper grinder and some brilliant three dollar t-shirts.

I returned to work yesterday to find out my ‘out of office assistant’ was out of its head: “I am away from 14 August - 28 August. I will be back in the office answering messages on March 6.” HA, I wish.

On my way to work this morning, thinking about how gruelling it is to be back there, I caught an amusingly hostile cab exit as I transferred trams at the corner of Collins and Spring. The cab was on a slope and at an awkward angle causing the door to heavily swing back into the passenger, a horrid young lady, who repeatedly kicked the door causing it to swing back nailing her harder and infuriating her more each time. Forced down she held out her foot to steady the door and once under control, she clumsily staggered to her feet. Eager to get the last word, she kicked the door several more times, and to the joy of everyone watching this rude display the door responding by giving her a most forceful bash, knocking her back into the seat. I felt sorry for the cab driver who at this point probably thought he was stuck with this revolting creature. After I heard her scream in agonising defeat, I turned the heavenly Camera Obscura up on my IPOD and scooted away in a fit of giggles at such welcome suffering.

Greetings from Thailand

I tried to fly from Melbourne to Bangkok with an expired passport, a crime punishable by international aviation law. The next day I went to the US Consulate and finagled a new one (the pitiful look on my new passport photo could only mean one thing: I auditioned for Everybody Loves Raymond and lost out to the turd who plays his brother) while De Campo drank to much coffee and revised the flight itinerary.

We flew to Bangkok later that night. The flight was terrible. The legroom we scored with emergency exit seats were occupied by a continuous flow of filthy, abusive drunks and lumbering, mad mothers burping their beastly little beauty pageant hopefuls.

It was then that it occured to me I have unwittingly opted for a path not dissimilar to the suspected murderer of Jon Benet Ramsay.

Our secluded resort is located on a mountain on the Island of Phuket overlooking Kamala Beach, a quiet village ten kilometers away from the buzzing markets and nightlife of Patong. We taxi around in buggies that look like oversized dog kennels. We visit Patong often to try on pants we're having made in cashmere for dirt cheap or dine on roast duck curry as the sun goes down. At night the streets of Patong are inhabited by transsexuals who climb upon tables inside open air bars and try to sell you imitaion watches.

I spent the first couple of days in bed trembling feverishly and subsisting on Robitussin and the odd kernel of popcorn.

There are literally no flies here whatsoever. Every attempt on my part to befriend a family of frogs who live in the pond outside the palatial living quarters has been met with a croak of indifference.

Locals are loquacious, hospitable; hostile if they're trying to sell you something and they can't make drinks worth a damn. An afternoon devoted to the swim up bar exposed the pool boys total incompetence at making five dollar cocktails. A piss poor Margarita was the final straw. "More salt?" Wilmer Valderrama asked cluelessly.

Restauranteurs seem to have bottled the Tsunami that hit here in December of 2004 and then implanted our meals with it because invariably five hours after eating, the turmoil begins.

There is also ample romance over and above the indigestion.

Your fragile foreign correspondent,

Hob-knobbing

Dining out in Richmond the other night, Nick Lachey brushed past just as I was savouring an ultra-crispy salt and pepper squid ring with part of it hanging out of my mouth like a Neanderthal. Carnie, a work colleague in leotards, was just in the middle of telling me about the modern dance routine she was teaching later to a J-LO CD when I saw her face turn white and her jaw drop like a stone. An entourage followed, which included a bodyguard who looked like this! For those unaware, Nick was married to this goofy pop singer who upon discovering she was pregnant with his baby said “he put his purple-headed yogurt slinger in my fuzzy taco and now there’s, like, a baby in my tummy tum tum tum.”

Due to the lack of strippers and body shots on the premises, they ordered squid and generally behaved themselves.

in The Case of The Polka-Dot Scarf

Ever ransacked the house for your girlfriend’s silk scarf only to have it turn up in the vacuum bag months later? TOTALLY!

TV Eye on Entourage

Jeremy Piven is the greatest character actor of our generation. My Bill Walton-esque over the top comment has merit. For the most part of his career, he has been typecast as the nebbishly nefarious Dean of fictious universities from roles in "PCU" all the way up to "Old School". Tirelessly attempting to get are wanton stars expelled for infantile indiscrestions. Name another actor who has played the dean of another fictious university? You can't. The only actor who has been so callously typecast would be Ray Liotta as "Shoeless" Joe Jackson. I believe he played him in "Eight Men Out" and "Field Of Dreams". Ahh.. "Field Of Dreams" where Kevin Costner immortally uttered the words 'What do you mean I can't play? It's my corn!'. Back to Piven. He has shed his schlub mode. His acting transformation has gone from stints playing George Costanza in the Seinfeld within a Seinfeld, grey sweatpants and all, to the most power hungry demonically cool Republican (my oxymoron du juor) since Chuck Sheen and Michael Douglas decided to see how many yachts they could water-ski behind while simultaneously wooing Daryl Hannah (circa when she was dating John-John Kennedy as opposed to her recent bizarre tree climbing incident). 'Hug it out bitch' is now a national catch phrase due to Piven.

Mark Wahlberg is the executive producer of HBO's "Entourage". The show is based on him and his posse coming up in Hollywood, presumably this is after the fall of the Funky Bunch. Kevin Dillon plays the role of Johnny "Drama" Chase in what I assume is based on Donnie Wahlberg (brillant as always in "Saw II"). If it weren't for Piven, Dillon would steal every scene. I have come to the conclusion that Matt Dillon is the black sheep of the family, I don't care if he was nominated for an oscar in the contrived "Crash". With Kevin Dillon, I actually care if he gets calf implants.

The numerous cameos of Hollywood stars playing themselves is the most brillant aspect of "Entourage". Highlights include: James Woods, playing a visibly toned down version of himself, smashing in the security surveillance camera in order to procur tickets for the James Cameron directed Aquaman premier. Gary Busey, at his own museum curated art exhibit, chasing down entourage member Turtle for 50k for an art installation that he accidently knocked over. The fact can be argued that Busey is not cognizant of the fact that he is on the set of a TV show as opposed to actually be at MOMA. This begs the question, putting acting talent aside, is Gary Busey Nick Nolte's alter Ego, or is Nick Nolte Gary Busey's alter ego? Slip yourself some Rophynol and trip on that for awhile. My favorite cameo has to be the venerable Bob Saget lugubriously laying around the pool with hookers and offering 100k to sleep with the Heidi Fleiss like madame and being rebuffed on his proposition. With this role and his joke telling on the "Aristocrats", Robert Saget has endearingly embraced a new pery persona. It fits. I am now actually anticipating his "Full House" reunion show with the barely legal Olsen twins. How many knowing furtive fondles will Saget cop on the Thanksgiving reunion show? Entourage is easliy the best show on TV thet does not star Scott Baio.

An island of great complexity

"Why would anyone want to name a song 'Pink Cookies in a Plastic Bag Getting Crushed by Buildings?'"

The Pre-Funk Mailout by Olivia De Campo: #2 in an occasional series

Oh, Saturday Saturday, wherefore art thou Saturday?

Cannot wait for this week to be left like the blithering pile of shaken shit it certainly is!

Hope the week is treating you all well, long live Marissa Cooper.

Once again in this fantabulous town there is more on than one person could possibly hope to do in the one day with only one body to call your own...
I've narrowed it down to the following events in hope you can come along for the merry journey through the seedy and not so seedy sides of a Saturday in the inner north!

The kick off point for the day festivities shall be The Spanish Club for they are hosting the first ever Rock and Roll Garage Sale! It's happening from 11-5 with free entry, bundles off stalls promising buck spending goodness as well as tapas and Bloody Marys! Lordy!

Long before the awesome folk that equal the radness that is Popolice, the total brain melt that is aleks and the ramps and the gorgeous splendour that is Flywheel even set eyes upon a sign reading Scotchmer Street, The Cheats will be taking over the Tote front bar for one final performance! They kick off the first of two rock and roll crammed sets at 5pm, so come down and check them out! Remember it's FREE! As always some very special guests will be joining the duo in kicking out some heart pounding originals and choice covers.

And finally, getting to the heart of the evening... what do you say we get to the Empress early and enjoy one of their delicious hearty meals before the nights festivities take Saturday to an entirely other level?

If not before, here's hoping to see you about 8pm for some nourishing fare!

Until then...

de Campo XX

The Pre-Funk Mailout by Olivia De Campo: #1 in an occasional series

Second last chance to get frisky in The Tote front bar!
Yo!

It's been freaking ages!!

So, this Saturday it's The Cheats second last fiery front bar show! 5pm kick off, FREE, so come on down!

After The Cheats have packed away their amps and the ear plugs have been pocketed (man, it is LOUD!) and it just ain't time to hit the Old Bar yet, we'll be heading back to the homestead with the fundamental intention of some totally rad and vastly overdue PRE-FUNKING! Oh yeah! Perhaps even thrown a Napier or Raffles meal in there for good measure.

Whatever! Come on! Let's kick this one in the nuts!

See you Saturday! Somewhere, sometime!

de Campo XX

Dr Fock

Weekend just gone was my first with the new haircut. I'm also still reeling over the fact Matt Friedberger and I use the same shampoo (a tea tree-infused liquid oil). Taste the radness, as De Campo says.

Since opening in 2000, Doctor Follicles have managed my hairdo. They were there for me through my awkward Hedi Slimane phase (envisage a quail and a kingfisher doing the wild thing atop one’s noggin)

We finally saw Hidden Sunday morning. I was very impressed, but I don’t know if I got much pleasure from it. It’s pretty torturous viewing for what is, for the most part, a non-violent movie (there are two grisly scenes). I don’t know how Haneke does it. I remember feeling sorry for Isabelle Huppert after seeing The Piano Teacher. Such actorly conviction, I wondered, is bound to linger long after the shoot ends ('How will she ever recover?'). This one is even more disturbing because its about watching and being watched and the voyeuristic aspect implicates the audience in the terror. A preternatural tension bordering on the gratuitous consumes this picture. Stillness is a crucial aspect, so of course some asshole behind us is crinkling paper the entire third act. Seeing a movie of such killer intensity at 11am Sunday morning shot our Saturday night hangovers straight into the stratosphere, which was cool.

After that, boy did I feel like shopping. Bought a pair of trousers and the Essential Blue Oyster Cult; the former for its aesthetics and comfort and the latter for Burning for You, tied with Flywheel’s Minimum Amount of Fuss as my fav all-time cut. Shooting Shark, a middle of the road 80s ballad was an unexpected treat. Choruses don’t come any bigger:

Sick of hauling your love around
Wanna run the train alone
But the engine tracks straight through your heart
And weighs me like a stone

Three times I’ve sent you back from me
Three times my bones gone dry
And three times I’ve seen the shooting shark
Lighting up the sky

Galaxies' Guide to Razor Clamming

1. State your full-name and relationship to the interviewer?
Mother (do I have to admit it?)

2. Where do clams live? How do you know when to strike?
Clams are found in the sandy shorelines (Oregon Coast) about a foot or so beneath the surface. You can dig them with a curved shovel or a clam gun made especially for clamming.

3. What’s a good time to clam dig?
You dig for clams when there is a low tide so you can get to the clam beds.

4. What do you wear to the dig?
Whatever you like depending on the weather. Just be comfortable. It is not necessarily a dirty sport unless you dig for clams in the surf with a shovel. You will need hip waders for this because you will certainly get wet.

5. What are some of the conditions that prevent clam-digging?
Stormy weather is not the best time to dig for clams unless you are willing to get cold and wet. A wild surf sometimes makes it hard to spot a clam hole. If you go clamming after dark you will need a lantern to spot the holes.

6. Describe your clam-extractor. Do you have a name for it?
It is a clam gun, a long slender cylinder with a handle across the top and a small hole for suction.

7. Size-wise, most impressive clam ever dug?
I would say ten inches.

8. Have you ever outperformed your husband?
Always (not really but I have been clamming since I was a child. He didn't learn to clam until we were married. I can still spot a hole faster.)

9. Is there anything better than clam digging?
I can think of a few things.

10. What do they taste like?
Some say a piece of rubber that smells but you have to acquire a taste for them. If cooked right they can be a delicacy.

11. What is a good recipe for clams?
They have to be cleaned, remove the shells and all of the sand and digestive system. We flour them and dip them in egg and them bread crumbs and fry them slow to a golden brown. Salt and pepper and serve.

12. Why did you torture your youngest boy with unpleasant green vegetables when he was small and defenceless?
I used other things too.

Sleater-Kinney Rd Exit 108

They named their band after an exit just outside of Olympia, WA where the used to practice, and now the world's greatest live band has decided to exit stage left. Why the break-up? Was it Corin's motherhood? The bludgeoning that they took at the hands of Dave Fridmann as they recorded their magnum opus "The Woods", or did they simply want the time off to hone their trivia skills in order to take out Stephen Malkmus and Joanna Bolme at the neighborhood watering hole? Endless battles over whether the correct answer is Moors or Moops. We will probably never know. There have been rumblings about break-ups and commitments for awhile. I believe that the band who made the term 'riot grrrrl' actually palateable, chose the perfect time to call it quits. How could they have possibly followed up the ball tightening turgid tumult of "The Woods"? By taking it up a notch? That notch would involve disemboweling Sally Struthers for a mere 88 cents a day. For the price of one cup of coffee, you can have your head bashed in by Brownstein. Words and Guitar. The only other viable option would be to release an MTV unplugged album. Instead of Meat Puppets and David Bowie covers, it would consist of Polly Styrene and Exene. Bonus tracks include: an acapello version of "Oh Bondage, Up Yours". Retirement was the only viable option. Cash the 401k in.

There will still be Sleater sightings in Portland. They will be spotted at the gigs, Powells Books and Tuesday night trivia. I will refrain from slurring insipid questions at them like I drunkenly did while Janet Weiss was in the spectral presence of Elliot Smith at a Death Cab for Cutie/Maroons show at EJ's circa '98. They will be around. They just won't play anymore. It will sink in at some point.

They have announced one more show for Portland. Tickets were impossible to get with my dial up settings. The $12 face value tickets are now going for $300 on Ebay. I will continue to check Craigs List. Too dismayed to speak, I went on a journey to Jackpot records and picked up the only Sleater product I could afford, copies of Dig Me Out (my initiation to them, obscurely enough it was a Rob Sheffield review in Details magazine that turned me on to them) and Hot Rock (my personal favorite) on vinyl.

Ten years down the road they will announce a reunion tour, and like the Pixies and Dino JR they will sell out venues that were impossible before. However, unlike the Pixies show, I will not be surrounded by douche bags in Audioslave t-shirts with old skool ball caps on backwards with their only reference point to the band being that scene in Fight Club when the buildings crumble. Words and Guitar.

Triple Stage Darkness

"What is Elvis Costello doing on the floor?" De Campo asked upon waking up, her face distorted beyond comprehension, her eyes two small coin slots. Darned if I knew. Last thing I remember I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Oh for heaven’s sake, I haven’t taken my Don Henley meds.

AnyHOO, instead of hanging on the wall like a good print, Elvis was on the floor upright a far cry from its hook. Who moved the King, goddammit? How? Why? Spooky. The picture is pretty spooky itself, Elvis leering out with big, goofy spectacles. De Campo said another print had been relocated too, from a shelf to the couch in the lounge. Two tampered prints and then I discovered a drawer in the study open and papers and books strewn all over. Triple stage spooky darkness. We mentally retraced our steps from the night before. De Campo fell asleep on the couch. I read the New Yorker in bed until about 4, some article about Mugabe that I now have no retention of, although I do remember thinking Gee frigging Wee and him should get a flat together. And before that? Well we raged with Matt and Eleanor Friedberger, The Fiery Furnaces, literally the hottest ticket in town. The Furnaces played a set of complicated emotions and pyromaniacal axe slaying and afterwards Jason Loewenstein gave me his beer, Eleanor gave me her cold and Matt gave me haircare tips. This was Sebadoh on a death wish, James Dean in a psycho-motorcar, Devo on the Highway to Hell, etc. This was rock that inexplicably rummaged through your drawers and fucked around with your prints. Meanwhile all Toby could think about were the Cannanes. Spooky Dooky.

"I feel like a Lee Marvin breakfast," I announced, post-poltergeist. “Something tells me that involves a lot of steak,” remarked De Campo. I chortled heartily, embraced her tightly and kissed her passionately. After a Bloody Mary and pancakes, I dressed up like a drunk Morman (inadvertently) and we moseyed down to the Rob Roy for sweet tunes on the rocks. Driving Past were playing their fourth show in ten years and Flywheel, who play more regularly, have a new effects pedal that was set to orgasmatron our aurals. It was an afternoon gig that was potentially as spicy as my lips, but hey you can read all about that in the next issue of Guns and Ammo.

Later, Brad dropped his pants at the Napier Hotel. "I can't believe no one noticed,” he squealed with delight. “I believe they did Brad, but no one’s ever going to believe that someone is dropping their pants at 7.45pm. “ Brad soon left.

Blake Menzies was there questioning whether the spectre, given access to otherworldly powers, would use it in such a trifling manner. Indeed. I got to hand it to you Blake, you made a really good point there, but man, your reputation took a dive when, five minutes later, you described Australian actor Jack Thompson as "enigmatic". But hey, I loved wearing your grizzly and drinking wine from your beakers back at Kerstin Thompson’s love shack. I love you like Timothy Treadwell loves Sergeant Brown.

Finally, last night I encountered a white-tail spider for the first time. A female with the disposition of Debra Winger racing across the bathroom tiles. I sprayed her with poison but she clung to my pyjama top like it was Richard Gere in The Officer and a Gentleman.

Band Of Horses at the Doug Fir in Portland, OR

Tickets sold out. I didn't get a scalped ticket.

Catcalls for "Pavement Boy" Mark Ibold

...rang out at the Roseland Theatre in Portland, OR, as Sonic Youth took the stage on Saturday night. Mark Ibold has replaced Jim O'Rourke as the 5th member of Sonic Youth's current tour. It could be worse for Ibold, he could have formed a band called Preston School of Industry. Sonic Youth then announce that they remember this venue from 8-10 years ago when they played here with Bikini Kill. I saw them in'98 at the Roseland. I don't recall Bikini Kill. Must have been 10 years ago. I digress.

Thurston barrelled into "Incinerate". Kim shimmied through "Reena" in a white silhoutted dress, showing off legs that would spasmodically send Ike Turner into syphlitic fits. They were in great spirits. Thurston bantered about the crocodile tears that were shed by Posh Spice as David Beckham and England were bounced from the World Cup. With perfect timing, they then launched into "What a Waste". Mariah Carey was spared for the night, they had found another sacrificial lamb.

Their set primarily consisted of material from Rather Ripped. With every third song being a classic from their vast cannon. The highlights for me included Thurston shamanistically chanting over the plink plink, 'Do you believe in rapture, baby?' Which could alternately be titled "Do You Believe In the Bush regime, Baby?" The biggest crowd pleaser of the night was when they launched into "Schizophrenia" from their album Sister. It still remains a timeless masterpiece.

They ripped through two encores, and bestowed upon the crowd the highest compliment, that as a collective crowd we kicked Seattle's ass. We had passed the litmus test. They probably told San francisco the same thing the following night.

It was the type of set that inspired one to grab the night by its balls, to go out on an all night tomato eating bender with Dan Asawa. Madness. I tripped over my lair of beer cups as I ambled toward the merchandise table. In euphoric indecisiveness I purchased two T-shirts and a frisbee. I don't play frisbee.

Barry Hannah’s Hot and Cool Electrics

Ever since we took out a weekend subscription, I have stopped reading the newspaper. Not sure if I am going bonkers or what. I just prefer to slow dance with De Campo after about four afternoon beers and a pot of chilli. Echo, the neighbour who gave me four dollars to use my lighter so he could burn the edges of his new carpet, I shot him in the thigh. Why I am talking like fifth-rate Barry Hannah, oh perhaps it's because I've been reading the infectious master…

GAWDDAM!

Barry is a Southern poet and he knows it, tall grass and he mows it, loves his wife and he shows it, etc.

Initially I wanted to express my adulation for the book ‘Sabbath's Theater’, which I heartily devoured recently. It’s one of the most sickeningly brilliant books ever, but the material is so distasteful and I don't know whether my mother still reads this blog; she already disapproved of the content once and the idea of me writing about Mickey Sabbath’s envelope-pushing hi-jinx in the bedroom and on his ex-lover’s grave is probably better left unexplored. Instead I will rave about Barry Hannah, who’s 119-page novel ‘Ray’, I finished more recently (8.35am Friday morning on Tram #75).

I discovered Barry Hannah in the only issue of The Believer I ever bought. I'm not proud of this it's an excellent magazine. Inside there was an interview with my idol Stephen Malkmus that quoted his friend DC Berman, who writes poetry for The Believer, but is better known as one of the best songwriters in the universe, fronting the Silver Jews. The interviewer says to the interviewee bet you’re a Barry Hannah fan and Malkmus, who dabbles in tough love and gets very coy at the best of times says, ‘ah yea, back when I was 18’ (as if today it was beneath him). The cheek! Malkmus feigning precocity like David Nichols saying he was over White Heat /White Light by age 4 (I suppose all the stars do it). Malkmus mentions how DC, a Southern dude like Mr. Hannah, made a pilgrimage once and discovered a grizzled dude in a black leather jacket riding a big motorcycle and dripping with an off-putting masculinity.

Biker chic notwithstanding my curiosity was piqued, I picked up his first novel 1976’s Geronimo Rex. I read it, slapped my thigh and said GERONIMO! proceeding to fall off the Empire State Building and into the arms of…you guessed it: Ned Beatty. But I digress.

Reading G. Rex, I instantly identified the Hannah/Malkmus literary connection during a rite of passage sequence, in which the main character, if memory serves, persuades a young lady to go down on him on the last day of high school. “Suck…CESS!” he repeats. It sounds awful, I know, but as I recall, it worked really well. On Pavement’s first album 1991's Slanted and Enchanted, Malkmus sings, “I was dressed for success, but success it never comes.” THEN on an alternate version of the song found on the S and E Redux reissue from a couple years back, Malkmus changes the phrasing, wailing: “I was dressed for SUCK!..cess it never comes…”. Voila! The connection was made.

Oh dear. I just realised this would only be of interest to my mother.

I need a nap.

An unreliable Geronimo Rex précis in 92 words: Harry Monroe excels in trumpeting and poetry. His music teacher, a wise jazzbo, is his mentor, but Harry quickly surpasses him in cool by donning a scarf ala French Romantic and brandishing a pistol. There's villainy and all kinds of suspense involving crackpot losers, a blubbery villain who has a hot wife and owns the town, plus a classic parade sequence and guff about marching bands. It’s Raise the Roofbeams, Carpenters meets Confederacy of the Dunces meets Look Homeward, Angel meets another novelist who writes in stunning poetic truths - Denis Johnson.

Stylistically, Ray reminds me of D. Johnson’s Jesus’ Son the most. Funnier, but less poignant. Screwball non sequiturs recalling early McGuane. Doctor Ray works at the hospital. He’s a boozer, a user, a sex machine, irresponsible prescriber of meds, vigilante, poet and a local legend who races around in a Corvette. He’s also easily distracted (at one point he falls into a women's privates during a routine appendectomy). People die in the township usually from a gunshot wound. Ray has a gun and he likes to use it. Ray is a complex man. I think the Village Voice, in 1980, said it best: “Ray is a song…about the electrics, cool and hot, of being alive.”

Robert Downey Jr is my favorite Cokehead in the world

After his work in "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang", Robert Downey Jr. still tops my poll for favorite cokehead in the world. Considering that the World Cup is going on, I'll give the nod to Diego Maradona from Argentina as my second favorite cokehead in the world. Downey Jr's manic addled performance in the brilliant film noir/Hollywood send up "Kiss Kiss, Ban Bang" will keep him a top of the cokehead polls for awhile. Val Kilmer as "Gay Perry" hasn't been this good since his tour-de-force performance with Elizabeth Shue in "The Saint". No, I never did see "The Saint". Perhaps the most stupefying thing about the movie is that it was written by Shane Black. His previous writing gigs include Lethal Weapon and the Last Boy Scout. I have never watched a Lethal Weapon movie in its entirety. As far as the Last Boy Scout is concerned, I am not much of a fan of Damon Wayans. I much prefer the nuanced subtle performances from his colleague David Alan Grier. Mr Black skewers everything he did in the 90's with a huge wink and fuck you, I got paid for writing this shit. With its violent twists and staccato dialogue, "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" is easily the most entertaining film of the year not starring Steve Carell or Jeff Daniels.

Morph the Cat

I remember my sister in high school fancying herself some Fagen. Donald! she would cry before succumbing to a soul-sucking daze that would usually last until the following Spring.

‘Hey Nineteen,’ sang Donald in Steely Dan and Heidi, who was nineteen at the time, sang ‘hey’ right back. Hillsboro High School’s Most Photogenic Senior Afflicted With Scoliosis kept a vinyl talisman next to her bed at all times: Steely Dan’s Aja. She even went with a guy who years later named his daughter that. Peculiar.

When I was nineteen and armed with fake I.D., Heidi and I performed a brutal rendition of Aja’s 'Deacon Blues' that got us permanently ejected from Pudgy’s, a karaoke bar on the Oregon Coast specialising in triple-shot green cocktails. Heidi adored that tune more than any major girl ever had any right to but after that night the song was damaged goods — she would never be able to hear it the same way ever again. Meanwhile I went from strength to strength. Age 21 the essence of my insufferable style was encapsulated by two T-shirts: Jack Kerouac and Steely Dan. And my best friend was Jimbo, but I called him Deacon.

The Dan were an AM band championed by the FM dial (they still record, but it’s no scratch on their 70s heyday). They flawlessly fused rock, pop and soul music using big-time jazz chops and ‘fine Columbian’ beats. They liked their comedy the same way they liked their coffee (black) and they were whipsmart NY intellectuals. Now the Don puts out a solo record every decade or so, 'Morph the Cat' is his third and in a curious way it neatly obsesses over death, dying and such biz.

It’s a good record with a genius hook. Imagine a charismatic cat floating over NY City; a rather sophisticated feline who occasionally imbibes a latte or twelve, excreting an opiate mist upon the metropolis, prompting its inhabitants to burst into a fit of giggles. Young racketeers, teenage models and the old ladies can all feel it. Morph the Cat.

The production is smoother than a woman’s leg after a clean shave and slicker than an ice rink. Fagen often requires five guitars, a triumvirate of saxophone and (crucially) vibes to make these epic tunes rip in a hip, albeit geriatric fashion. 'What I Do', a chat with Ray Charles, is almost as smooth and sexy as the Dave Graney sound. Elsewhere, Parliament’s Mothership abducts The Dan’s Josie ('Brite Nightgown'). Two trippy cuts make my head bob: 'The Night Belongs to Mona' (a funk number about a NY babe in a funk) and 'Mary Shut the Garden Door', container of delicious, vicious vibes. The melodica solo from the Don is as textured as lacy lingerie. Heidi wouldn’t wear it if she could (not that she can’t, who am I to say, but she won’t), but she will dig it, oh yes she will.

Donald!

Rather Ripped indeed

Sonic Youth's latest opus "Rather Ripped" is a spermy soaked power pop album. The perfect summer record for popping the cork on your third bottle of champagne alone in your basement.
On the opening track "Reena", Kim Gordon mellifluosly coos over syrupy guitars about lesbionic tryists while reassuring her lover that "you keep me coming home again". This is her best outing since Goo. Chuck D was not available for comment. Gone are the guttural growls that marred her past 'avant garde' performances. This is her album. She continues to shine with "Jams Run free" and "Turquoise Boy". Kim's delivery may have mellowed, but her attitude has not. She still remembers the exact dimensions of hell.
Thurston Moore, the godfather of post-punk/ proto-indie, answers her battle cry with "Incinerate" and "Do you believe in Rapture?". Rather Ripped is like the anti-Ira Kaplan/Georgia Hubley (the other NY/NJ power couple) album. RR delves into the mind fucks that are perpetuated by couples in love/lust/ or just settling for you right now mode. With doe eyed abandon Thurston asks 'Do you believe in rapture' as the guitars gurgle below the surface. They never explode into the crescendo that has been expected since "Murray Street". Coitus interruptus. Stop fucking like a rabbit. Pull out and pray you poor bastard, her parents are home. By all accounts I usually enjoy the masturbatory guitar histrionics that usually mark the end of a SY song. With Rather Ripped I found myself enjoying the tension and lack of release. Very tantric.
Lee Renaldo has his usual standout wah-wah track with "Rats". His contributions are always the rug that ties the room together. Fill in your favorite Big Lebowski quote here. Mine is "We are Nihilists. We believe in nothing."
Rather Ripped is a non-saccharine filled "Pop" album. instead of the ohh-laa-laa bullshit, we are given pseudophederine fuelled guitars that gradually melt your face away. It is a pop album that I can embrace. Usually the only pop that I want on a summery Sunday afternoon is the sound of a champagne cork rattling around my basement.

Good-time rock and roll, Grossly reliable pizza

De Campo estimates we drank a keg of Stella last night at The Empress. I’m not surprised. I was very parched and given what work had mentally done to me the last three days I probably seemed anxious to tie one on.

I must say the quality of the beer coming out the tap was very good.

The quality of the music coming out of the p.a. was even better. With Mia on piano, New Estate rocked the house. Tugboat were musically tighter than a jam jar and art school kids World Ends Press played some of the neatest postpunk I have heard since the whole tedious revival started.

I was keen to follow the party to The Lair (Marc and Toby’s) afterwards, but the anti-nausea pills De Campo was taking had made her nauseous, so I focussed on hailing a cab, getting home and ordering a pizza.

Intersection Café at 1.30am was my only choice and their pizza is pretty gross, but I’ve ate hamburgers prepared by street vendors in Mexico, who look after dogs infested with ticks the size of mobile phones. I could handle this.

The order was placed despite it requiring more motor skills than I had access to. De Campo was in bed by then so I had no one to help me find my wallet which I had suddenly misplaced and couldn’t find anywhere. I called the cab company and then traced my steps outside. The pizza would be delivered any moment and I wouldn’t have any money to give him. I eventually found the wallet under a couple pizza brochures on the kitchen bench. Then there was a knock at the door.

I ate pizza and watched some of The Corporation, which isn’t interesting in the slightest. It was stupid and I hated it.

Second week in a row we have tried to see Hidden and second time in a row we have been denied. Last week it was sold out, this week it was a showtime that shouldn't have been listed in the newspaper. The box office girl said if we wanted to see something else we could for free. Factotum seemed interesting and it was starting within the hour so we got tickets to that and then went to Readings Books. De Campo bought a Bukowski and I bought a Micallef. She also snared John Water's Pecker (No, she didn't buy his penis, although she did enquire and the clerk led her to this movie he made in the 90s that co-stars Martha Plimpton). I bought the Galaxie 500 Peel Sessions too, in fact I am listening to Blue Thunder right now.

I read Factotum in one sitting on a dark night of the soul in a doctor's villa on The South Coast of Spain back in 1998. My groin was pink from dozing off nude on the Mediterranean while meditating in the sun with my free-spirited cousin Jim. I was a lot older then, I am younger than that now. So anyway, Factotum. The book was seedy yet easy to like and the sentences rollicked one right after the other. Reading about dingy bars and deadbeat jobs was indeed disconcerting in sunny, sexy Spain but Bukowski is extremely funny and quite impressive the first time you read him. Watching him fail at job after job got me thinking about a few of the crap jobs I have had.

I picked strawberries every summer as a kid and the stint felt like an eternity (it was probably a few weeks). The first season I used my earnings ($70) to buy my first walkman and a tape of The Scorpions' Blackout. I was 10 years-old and hell on wheels. For the rest of the summer when I tried to erase memories of waking up at dawn every morning, there were berry stains on my fingers to remind me.

My second job was stocking the fridge in my friend's parent's 7-11.

My third job required me to load large wooden boxes with burlap bags full of frozen king crab. One of the crew was a cocky Mexican named Julio who hardly spoke any English. He told me he was hot stuff on the basketball court and I took that as a challenge to get some of my white suburban friends together to take on some of his Mexican brethren, Sharks vs. Jets-style. We clashed in a ghetto locale. I ended up twisting my ankle and holding back the tears as the Mexicans routed us.

When I was 17 and on summer break a bunch of Safeway employees went on strike and a job opened up for me in their produce section. Every morning I passed picketers standing outside who called me scab. A 20 year-old who I later learned thought I looked like her boyfriend who died the previous summer took a liking to me and we started hanging out. She took me to a party and I ended up getting really sick and embarrassing myself and the relationship fizzled out before I even got the chance to kiss her.

Before my first year at college I worked at the steel foundry my Dad did 40 years at. From 9.30pm to 6am I flogged steel castings with a sledge hammer. My boss looked like Bill Gaines from Mad Magazine and had a crazy addiction to Habanero Peppers. A chain link fence separated my work area from the railroad tracks and every so often a train would roll past. Once the Barnum and Bailey circus train went by and I saw lions and tigers and elephants and zebras, and for a brief moment there, the world was unreal.

So anyway, Factotum. To these eyes, Matt Dillon can only play a form of Matt Dillon, so playing the grand asshole of late 20th century letters is a bit of a stretch. Factotum is pretty boring, even though I quite liked the scene where he gets crabs. Bye!