Tuesday, October 31, 2006

I'll take "Sayin" for $400, Alex

Just spotted on ESPN.com:
"The media darling, aka the golden boy of the NFL [Reggie Bush], tried to take a cheap shot at me, so I told him I was going to put some extra on it," [Ravens linebacker Bart] Scott told the Sun. "He can do all those shakes he wants, but I wasn't going anywhere. I put a little hot sauce on that ankle."

Ay yo. I know Dipset is what it is these days, but please, have some civility, there's childrens watchin.

[ESPN.com: Shootin' skeet with Reggie Bush]


Whoadie got skates...
Last night, I saw the Flyers win a battle of two titans shitty hockey teams. Peter Forsberg scored two absolutely stunning goals and basically had his way with the Blackhawks all night. Robert Esche was solid in goal and registered a shutout. Nobody else on either team displayed anything better than rudimentary hockey skill. It was sad, and I felt bad for Forsberg, who is probably the best player of his generation outside of Mario Lemieux but has to carry a team that collectively skates like Frankenstein and stickhandles like a janitor with a pushbroom.

But that’s not the real story. The real story is that the Flyers attempted to set a Guinness world record for collective wig wearing. There is some dispute over whether or not this was successful.* Like any good sports fan and Flyer hater, I declined to participate in such a hokey promotion. They offered me a wig on my way in the door, and I said “why on earth would I want an orange wig?” and left it at that. Hockey games are marketed like minor league baseball but in a much more desperate way. There is some schmuck who MCs the whole game, making Catskill-quality wokka-wokka jokes during commercial timeouts. Earlier this season they had a super-plastic actress doing 50% of that job, brimming with phony enthusiasm like she was plucked from an infomercial, she quickly drew vicious boos and heckles from the faithful.

I understand that hockey is on the outs, and I won’t get into the reasons. But they have really fixed up the game itself. Now you see a bunch of fundamentally sound, clean checks and a lot of skating. It’s how it should be, only without enough fighting. But if the only way you can think to sell a sport is with kitchy Chuck E. Cheese bullshit, your problems must run really deep. The game is still too outsized for its own good. This is obviously not one of the four major sports outside of Canada and the northern states, and it’s absurd to charge prices like it is, especially if you’re offering an entertainment package that basically trivializes the game.
Now, if you really want to try to set a Guinness world record, you need to make like our good friends (real friends, not internet people called “friends”) over at the “It’s Alive Show” in Pittsburgh Motherfucking Pennsylvania. They got some 894 zombies together at Monroeville Mall (where Dawn of the Dead was filmed) in an attempt to break the world zombie clusterfuck record, which may or may not be held by The Ghost of Chris Tucker From the Future. Do you think the Steelers would ever have a zombie world record promotion? Well, maybe now, but not three weeks ago.

*The Orlando Sentinel is sure that the 20,562 wigs worn at Quicken Loans Arena on February 21st, 2006 is the real record for “Most Wigs Worn at a Sporting Event,” although this was categorized as the “Most Wigs in a Single Venue” record because it took place before a game, not during a game. Last night’s 9,315 wig wearers broke a March 19th record set at The Palace of Auburn Hills. This is ridiculous.

[NHL.com: Flyers lose less than Blackhawks, get 2 points- Video of Forsberg goals here]
[It's Alive Show]
[Post-Gazette slide show: Eating sweetbreads in the foodcourt]
[Orlando Sentinel: Merkin envy]


There’s really nothing quite as infuriating as Election Season, or as I like to call it, “30 Seconds of Democracy.” Let’s just air out the presumptions here and say that Americans are, by and large, a bunch of jingoistic simian racist troglodyte fucktards. Advertisers know this, and try to appeal to their sensibilities accordingly. That’s when you end up with embryologist quarterback Kurt Warner (!?) and the dude who played Jesus (not Jesus) trying to tell you about why stem cell research is forbidden by the book of Revelations or Matthew or whatever during the World Series. "Hi, I'm washed up quarterback Kurt Warner, and I'm here with Jesus to tell you that Michael J. Fox can boogie woogie his ass off all he wants up in here, but he's a freedom hating subversivo."

For starters, I admit that issues of stem cells, global climate change and the like are so complex that you have to have significant training to even begin to appropriately address the ethical issues…and I have a degree in biology/ecology. I know that Jeff Suppan reads back issues of Molecular Evolution between innings and all, but do you really think he has any fucking idea what he’s talking about? But does jingoistic simian racist troglodyte fucktard think Jeff Suppan knows what he’s talking about? Maybe. That should be a big red flag that our country is in the toilet.

Number two, the World Series is the time of year when I feel the most American. I think anybody could talk me into bombing the shit out of anything if somebody messed with the World Series (Colin Powell presents the evidence against Bud Selig). Don’t remind me how wack we actually are when I’m having a pleasantly delusional moment.

Number three, I do not want to know about the political persuasions of athletes. I like the childish qualifications by which we decide if we “like” a certain player. “Oh, we wears his socks all high and he’s quirky- awesome!” Karl Malone’s 16 foot J and primitive fade hairstyle were great too, until I found out that he’s a card carrying NRA member who owns 75 copies of the Toby Keith “Boot in your ass” single (made that up). I know it’s unreasonable of me to expect atheletes not to be people, or even Republicans for that matter, but that’s what we’re all about here at JS2000- unreasonableness.

Lastly, Rush Limbaugh is a complete piece of shit. In case you haven't heard, he claims Michael J. Fox was totally faking Parkinsons to get you to support his communist agenda. When will this guy just go away?

[Michael J. Fox: Help me out you assholes, I'm fucking dying]
[YouTube: Kurt Warner: As a Christian with fumblitis, I have a message for you]
[MSNBC: Rush Limbaugh: It is dastardly for Michael J. Fox to pretend to have Parkinsons]


So, Jack Van Impe. Sayin. Wow. Anybody know about this guy? Definitely my favorite comedian. I randomly caught one of his “shows” a few years ago and I’ve been hooked ever since. His brainwashed wife Rexella reads various headlines, obviously gleaned from a rather indiscriminate keyword search for, say “EU” or “war.” Jack will then drop some science from Revelations, usually going off about the EU being the new Roman Empire (buy my video!), or organ transplants being a sign of robotic automation (buy my video!) or some other tenuous metaphor for some apocalyptic scripture. He’ll do alpha-numerical translations of words like “computer” and always come up with 666. Basically the dude knows way more than Kurt Warner about any of this shit. And his hair is perfect.

You can see all of his shows at his website, plus extremely detailed timelines of “Major Future Events” such as the next Nas album and the tragic murder-suicide of Ronald Reagan and six Panamanian domestics. What? My personal favorite is his extremely detailed map of Middle East Invasions that includes Marseille and Russia (aka Magog) completely fucking shit up. As a bonus, Germany is called “Gomer.”

“Animals in Heaven? Our beloved pets are to be raptured and resurrected with us!”


[Van Impe: Major Future Events to include nasty dump, apocalypse, bowling]
[Van Impe: Watch show, lose mind]
[Van Impe: Gomer, that's where they make Becks]

Monday, October 30, 2006

What More Can I Say?

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The silence is intentional.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Eli Manning: Capo Status

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Jim Jones - We Fly High (Giants rmx)

The Giants really like "We Fly High" (whatup Plax, you made it!), and now Capo has retooled the single for the NYG's. It's pretty lazy ("Osi does the tacklin / Tiki's the captain") but then again, Jones isn't really killin em on the mic. But "GIIIAAANTS" has two syllables, just like "BAAAAALLLIIN" and "SPEEEDIIINNNN" so a classic is reborn.

It must be really confusing for them who aint knowin why dude would catch a touchdown, then pretend to shoot a jumper in the end zone. Is a celebration still excessive if nobody realizes it's a celebration?

take shorts

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Ughh..Nice Watch (???) has a massive Jermaine Dupri mixtape for the general public.

Though his beef with Dre and Timbo a couple years back made him look like a damn fool, it's hard to say he's been given his due. I mean, he did produce the bulk of the two best-selling albums of '04 and '05. I'm in no position to speak on his legacy as the pioneer of softbatch R&B, but I will say this: nobody is fuckin with "Welcome to Atlanta". Let's not even get started on "Jump".

Things took a turn for the worse for the dude this week, but let's be honest, being the head of urban music at a major label is not that good of a look anymore. I mean, they're letting Capo do it at Warner.

But on the real JD, you know what else is lookin less and less like a good idea? Banging Janet Jackson.

Just sayin.

Thursday, October 26, 2006


Caught last night at Mellon Arena for the Cavs-Mavs exhibition. So much to say, so little time.

Wilmer Valderrama Flies High

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I can't say for sure whether or not Wilmer Valderrama ("don't miss Valderrama!") is down with the Byrd Gang, but judging from this picture over at Best Week Ever, it could be.

J.R. Writer was unavailable for comment.

Please lend us $199,000.00. We will pay you back

As many of you know, this is what Armand's Records (11th and Chestnut in Philly) looks like. It is going out of business, and that probably means that hot Puerto Rican chick won't be around to act really disdainful when you buy a record (but offer you a pisspoor mixtape anyway). That's the bad news.

The good news is, you can buy everything in it on eBay as a package for a shade under 200K. We're kind of broke right now, so, uh, can we borrow a dollar. How bout another one. And another one. (Thanks to Philebrity for the tip. And thanks for the big up. Ooh that ad is nice.)
[eBay: Cop dat Armands, Puerto Rican chick not included]

Blog Motivation

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Jeff's latest anti-Jeezy rant, as if it were written by Jeezy himself:

So the other day I was surfing these Internets (as Dubya likes to say) and came across this nugget of information (DEEEYUM). According to this article, Young Jeezy has recorded 114 songs for his new album (HA HA!). Now I might not be a rocket scientist but something tells me that it's practically impossible to write 114 songs for one album alone (JEEEAAAAAAAH). I mean Joy Division are regarded as one of the greatest bands of all-time and Ian Curtis only wrote 30 songs or so (CHEAH). So all this feat does is demonstrate Jeezy's phenomenal lack of talent (AAAYY). In order to write that many lyrics, you basically have to treat them as something disposable and absolutely devoid of any art (CHEAH). Or purchase the How-To-Write Rap Lyrics/Madlibs from Jadakiss (LET'S GET IT).

Inevitably, I'm sure that most, if not all, of Jeezy's 114 verses deal with three themes: 1) He's a hustler (wow...I'm so impressed) (HA HA!) 2. He likes cocaine (yeah...so does most of the population of Los Angeles...I wouldn't give any of them a record deal either) (AAAYY) and 3. He's a great rapper. (JEEEAAAAAAAH)

Clearly, this is what the world needs,another rapper proficient at rapping about how good he is at rapping (CHEAH). Listening to all 114 songs at once might actually make you a dumber person (CHEAH). No, scratch that. It will make you a dumber person (DEEEYUM).


Medicore Love aka Bears and Soft Serve

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There's no need to mirror any more Borat content anywhere on the internet ever again anywhere, but this trailer has a shot of Lil Khazakstan driving an ice cream truck with a bear in the back.

How this could possibly come about is more intruiging than any of the unanswered questions introduced in this season of Lost.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Smokin' dat Lone Wolf McQuade aka A Bol Without Fear

Chuck Norris fact: Chuck Norris is a rightwing nutcase.

"Alleged Chuck Norris Fact: "There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live." It's funny. It's cute. But here's what I really think about the theory of evolution: It's not real. It is not the way we got here. In fact, the life you see on this planet is really just a list of creatures God has allowed to live. We are not creations of random chance. We are not accidents. There is a God, a Creator, who made you and me. We were made in His image, which separates us from all other creatures.

By the way, without him, I don't have any power. But with Him, the Bible tells me, I really can do all things – and so can you."

-Chuck Norris

Noixe: "I think I just cringed so bad I think I sprained my brow."

For a while now, I've been trying to tell people that there was a Chuck Norris Intelligent Design website out there, and then I can never find it. Well, this isn't the website, but it's proof enough for me. If anybody can find that site, please let me know where it is.

Norris also has a column now at worldnetdaily.com, which is proud to have launched Bill O'Reilly's career and prouder to host columns by Pat Boone and the 10 Commandments Judge Roy Moore. I really can't do justice to the absolute insanity of worldnetdaily.com, so I encourage everyone to surf around there just to scare the living shit out of yourself.

Chuck Norris.

[worldnetdaily.com: We filed this in our news section]

The choice is yours

You never know which tube in the internet is gonna get popular. I really enjoy checking our sitemeter and knowing that this is where you end up when you google "sean+agnew+girlfriend+peed+on," and lo and behold, somebody has actually thought to do this.

In the last few days, we've been getting a bunch of traffic from overseas- France, The Netherlands, Dubai, Australia, Italy (Holla at your boy, Giorgio!) and others. What, you ask, are they looking for? They're looking for this:Oooookay.

In other news:
It's election season, and you know what that means? Race-baiting!! I don't know if you've heard about this, but the RNC is running an ad against Harold Ford in Tennessee which not only alleges that Ford is controlled by the porn industry, but it ends with a pretty blonde girl saying "Harold, call me" in a seductive voice (thanks to Notes From A Different Kitchen for the lookout). For some context, Harold Ford is black and Tennessee is a place where miscegenation was declared a felony in 1932 and then in 1955 (!!) prohibited racially mixed marriage or cohabitation. Ford's opponent, Bob Corker "disagrees with the characterization," but the RNC chair Ken "Sambo" Mehlman thinks the ad is "fair" and says he "[doesn't] have the legal authority to take the ad down."
According to my calculations, Tennessee is about 80% white and, about 31 percent of Tennessee's voting population is 55 years or older (that is to say they were 13 years of age or more at the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964) and older people vote in higher numbers than younger people. If age distributions are equal between whites and blacks (which they probably aren't- whites live longer), that means that whites who are old enough to have formed political opinions in the Jim Crow era make up over 24% of the vote in Tennessee. Furthermore, older voters tend to skew conservative.

All of this sounds like a movement to stop that ol' bojanglin Ford from gettin all uppity and makin' a fancy Senator of hisself. The South has not had an African American Senator since Reconstruction. Fuck em up, Harold!
[MSNBC: Miscegenation was his name-o]
[Jimcrowhistory: Tennessee- all fucked up in the game]
[census.gov: Tennessee demographics]
[Notes From A Different Kitchen: Obama- cold gettin' dumb, figuratively]

Some chex mix for your mind

Whoadie got skates:
I don't know if I could have said it any better than the bols over at Mondesi's "Hahs," but it is really exciting to see what the Penguins have been doing the last few weeks. All that drafting high has paid off (somebody please send Craig Patrick a Hallmark card). Sidney Crosby, Evgeni Malkin, Marc-Andre Fleury and Jordan Staal are all getting rocks off all over the top teams in the NHL and the Pens are finally getting their loonie's worth. Crosby is his usual rosy-cheeked self, Malkin has scored in his first four career games, rookie Staal has three short-handed goals (!!) and Fleury is finally catching up to the NHL curve. It's particularly satisfying now that I get to go see the Flyers play (read: lose) live and in person another 10 times!!! As somebody old enough to remember the "Spectrum Curse," when the Penguins didn't win a game in Philly from 1975 to 1989, this feels good.

P.S. I'm not in Pittsburgh right now, so there's nothing I can do about this, but everybody get off your asses and go to the damn igloo. It's not nearly as painful as it was last year. If they move the team, I'll go apeshit, and it'll be on your head.
[Mondesi's House: The kids are alright]
[ESPN.com: Penguins wear diapers, lead Atlantic]

Big Benjamin is apparently feeling OK made of jenga blocks and about to start practicing again have both legs amputated. I'd like to take this opportunity to mention that it was only hours after the motorcycle accident that I suggested he'd soon be a member of the "concussion as coda" society, joining Steve Young, Troy Aikman and Merril Hoge.
[PG: Ben is back]
[Just Sayin: Big Ben say "Ruh-roh"]

Eugene Rausa, cuica player and fixture in carnival drum outft Alo Brasil, died last week from lung cancer. For anybody who has seen Alo Brasil, I need not say anything. For anybody who hasn't, you're guaranteed to have one of the top 5 evenings of your life. Alo Brasil will be playing a memorial at the World Cafe Live on the 29th at 11AM. Everybody is requested to wear white.
[The Clog: RIP Eugene Rausa]
[CityPaper: Alo Brasil musically violated me]

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Let's all roll a 01001 and get 110110 up

After how ever many decades and thousands upon thousands of lyrics and videos, uptight Americans have caught wind of what you can do with those cheap cigars that they sell in the gas station. And they're mad as hell about it. In Philly no less. Apparently there's also a City Council hearing on Tuesday where they are discussing a ban on blunts in gas stations and convenience stores. The Daily News' Elmer Smith interviews an anti-Dutchie crusading ex-cop named Jerry Rocks (not making that up) who explains what happened when he asked a Sunoco clerk about twistin him a Backwoods:

"He showed me 20 boxes of blunt wraps," Rocks said. "He said they'd be gone by Tuesday. This is big money."

In the words of Frank White in King of New York, "you think ambushing me in some nightclub's gonna stop what makes people take drugs? This country spends $100 billion a year on getting high, and it's not because of me. All that time I was wasting in jail, it just got worse. I'm not your problem. I'm just a businessman."

This is just what we need- some ex-cops going into neighborhoods where more males go to jail than to college and saying that blunts are the problem. These are neighborhoods where nobody has a choice but to send themselves to the black hole that is the Philadelphia Public Schools. These are neighborhoods littered with guns, predatory lenders and bad meat. Blunt wraps? Please.

[Daily News: And they do what with it?]

Monday, October 23, 2006

Everyday I make hustle

I'm probably not the first, but I may be the last. I have a Terrible Towel-induced tennis elbow from Sunday (true story). It was an exhilarating game, but a loss is a loss is a loss. Putting the football on the ground is not how you win a football game. Even Joe Thiesmann can tell you that. I'm not gonna get much further into the gory details of yesterday, but you should be ready on my treatise on the achilles heel (other than fumblitis) of the 'Lers. You'll never guess who/what I think it is.

Anyway, I know some thangs:

-For starters, a little bit of "Whoadie Got Skates" for your ass. Bobby Clarke and Ken Hitchcock got the big ole Broad Street axe this weekend after the Flyers took a half dozen nose dives in this young season (Clarke actually resigned). Hitchcock has been replaced by some dude named Stevens who is neither Scott nor Kevin. This year I've seen the Flyers play in person, and I also have the inside info from a former Flyers veteran who has lined up against them this season (not making that up). The prognosis from all commentators- a team built to be 75% as fast as the rest of the "new NHL" is giving a 50% effort. So, that's a 62.5% decrease in competitiveness, by my calculations, and an indictment of both management and coaching, respectively. Plus Bobby Clarke is a dickhead.

As a season ticket holder, I fully expect a pre-recorded phone message, preferrably from Peter Forsberg, like the one Keith Primeau left me when he retired. Hey Foppa, holler at your boy.
[ESPN.com: Third most important hockey Stevens to coach Flyers]
[Flyers.com: Get the fuck out my house]

-We haven't called out the Pope for a minute, so I think we probably should. The Potato (el papa), presuming that scientists still give a fuck what he thinks, made sure to fire a warning shot across their bow. He said that scientists who believe only in "artificial intelligence" and technology are inviting the fate of Icarus, the bol who flew to close to the sun. De La Soul could have used a warning of this nature about 6 years ago. When I conjure up a picture in my mind of scientists who believe only in "the Bible," I think of the types who say things like "we are not aware of any scientific evidence that contradicts the Bible," and "the book of Job describes two dinosaurs." By this I mean crazy people, but the most fun kind of crazy people.
[Reuters: Pope got dat sticky-icarus]
[Clarifying Christianity: Do you know the psalm about hydrothermal vents?]
-Checking in to see what condition Kenny Rogers condition (read: gunk hand) is in: So as you probably know by know, Kenny Rogers probably had a "foreign substance" on his hand in Game 2 of the World Series. I personally have no problem with old-school, colorful type cheating (e.g. gunk balls, creative groundskeeping etc.,). Spitballs were legal for quite a while, but I'd imagine that they were outlawed only because the games were at risk of becoming in large part a product of a lotion and balm war between pitchers. When they were outlawed, pitchers who threw the spitball were allowed to continue by a grandfather clause.

Cheating of this type recalls an era of dead balls (and now dead ballplayers) with colorful nicknames like Wagon Tongue who wore mustaches and gloves the size of oven mitts. I recall reading a book about the turn-of-the-century mischief caused by John McGraw's early American Association Baltimore teams which were so dirty that they caused umpires to be stationed on the bases just to watch them. The book was called "It Ain't Cheatin' If You Don't Get Caught," and I can't find any mention of it on the internets, but there is a good little website of the same name that gives a small lesson on the dirty dead ball era.Now there's an interview with an anonymous bullpen coach over at SI.com who says, in about 30 different ways, that a large percentage of pitchers throw gunk balls, not just seldomly, but all the time. The only reason Rogers attracted attention was because it was so cold that he had to use pine tar instead of the usual suntan lotion, moisturizer or shaving cream, all of which blend into the skin or uniform. Said bullpen coach goes on to suggest that LaRussa didn't make a big stink because if he had, he would have neutralized his own pitchers who do the same. Instead, he chose to half-ass it because the national stage demanded his comment, but he didn't want to push it. Furthermore, Uniwatch's Paul Lukas notes that Rogers uses a cap with a dark brim instead of the standard light grey brim, adding more circumstantial evidence to this whole tired discussion. Menwholooklikekennyrogers.com has not yet weighed in with an opinion.
[NYTimes: Open the Targate]
[SI.com: Bullpen coach says gunk balls ain't no thang]
[It Ain't Cheatin' If You Don't Get Caught]
[Uniwatch: Suspicious brim]

-Last but not least, you don't think you can get away with reading Just Sayin without a Philadephyinz drop, did you? I think the flyer covers all the necessary info, so I'll just leave it at "Be there or get stung in the chest by a stingray."

Saturday, October 21, 2006

"They had us jumping in the air and grabbing our nuts"

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Today Just Sayin takes it back to 1993 or so. In a celebration of business, lisps and Makin Dollars, the dude Pico gives us the run-down on last week's EPMD reunion.

Last Saturday at 11:00 PM, I was standing on a line on 42nd Street. The Mets were taking a beating. It was damned cold. Cars were honking, I was already getting tired. The tourists were walking by watching me and the rest of the deep line of near-30, mostly-black folks trying to stay warm. EPMD was about to be in full effect and we wouldn't miss this for a damn thing.

Even though EPMD kept us waiting for an hour. We spent the time standing, checking out the rest of the line to see if anyone had on Timberlands or a fisherman hat, old school like Erick Sermon aka E-Double the Green Eyed Bandit and Parrish Smith the Mic Doctor. And damn it was cold.

When we finally got in, BB King's was packed up with people wall to wall, people shouting EPMD lines. The twenty women in the place were surrounded by their fellas, mostly off of the general admission floor. It was hot in there. Some Big Pun-sized cat was spittin' verses from EPMD songs and he was tight. DJ Scratch got on the turntables and gave us a rap history lesson from the radio days of Red Alert (who was nearby on stage) and Kid Capri (who was nearby on stage) and Funkmaster Flex (who was… you get the picture). Ralph McDaniel was in the house. This jam took me back to how Hot 97 was the dance station with Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam and all that, and you had to find your rap late nights and weekends, after you dug through the Al B. Sure and Luther and Whitney. Back when Public Enemy split your mind open on the regular—but I digress.

Cats from the Cellar Dwellers and Lords of the Underground were in the spot. Special Ed was, also, and he drank in the cheers from the stage. And stayed up there a little too long, like he missed people knowing his name and feeding his ego. DJ Scratch kept playing and the Big Pun cat kept rhyming, every lyric on point, from Audio Two to Ed OG and on and on.

But when DJ Scratch started making comments about how he was going to fill up time, and it was almost 1:00, and he was re-referring to DJ's… we started getting agitated. Big Pun was yelling at the stage and I told him he should get up there and tell them to just give him the backing beat and he'd do the songs.

The Hit Squad hit about 1:15 and Keith Murray dropped his complex rhymes. He was all right, but started elaborating about his drama with Prodigy and we didn't care that much. He jumped into the crowd until the BB King's people told him not to, with Murray replying "No no no, man, I ain't gonna do that no more" into the mic. He stared out like a man fixing to get his knuckles bloody. Keith is severe. He's that little cat in the playground who you know will fight you dirty and he's just looking for an excuse.

EPMD busted out with "It's Your Thing" and "You're a Customer" first and they were razor sharp. The crowd was jumping and impressed, yelling the words out. Erick and Parrish seemed genuinely happy to be there, even surprised at the reception. Neither of them played hard and acted like they expected it. Erick looked wider than ever and Parrish looked like he'd been working with Erick's diet. Those two hefty cats in fisherman hats and the Tims laced and the black hoodies though… they were serious.

They played "Crossover," "Rampage," "So What'Cha Sayin'," "You Gots to Chill," lots of hits. They had us jumping in the air and grabbing our nuts. Erick kept getting paranoid "they want us off the stage? Yo, we need to get off the stage?" which makes me wonder if he's still all right. He did drop the freestyle line of the night—"your rap careers are like Tupac backwards, c-a-p-u-t." Parrish kept telling us that rap music isn't dead, east coast isn't dead. I didn't know it was dead, but all right, Parrish, it's your thing.

They busted out the "Headbanger," last, and they busted out Redman. He was decent, but reluctant on stage. He ripped off "Tonight's Da Night" and a little of "Time for Some Action Akshun," with Keith Murray playing his bouncing sidekick a little too gleefully. He stage dived the crowd but on the way back up we all heard the thump, th-thump and it wasn't the speakers. Das Efx stepped out for "They Want EFX" and another jibbity jabber song (I can't remember their names, the songs on the first album have no theme outside of Dum Dums and Looseys). And the show broke apart with Redman refusing to do another song and Keith Murray repeating the monologue/ slowed down rhyme he started the show with. When the crowd didn't react, he stood there all dumbfounded.

Then the lights went up. I'm still swaggering today.

Friday, October 20, 2006

What'd I say?

-Some non-circumstantial evidence to back up my claims that cops in Philly are as violent as criminals in Philly- killings by Philadelphia Po-Po (for some reason they don't call them murders when the cops or soldiers do em) are at a 25-year high. Philly gun crime is continuing to rise as it has the last few years, but violent crime is generally down, in line with the nationwide trend that started in the 90s.* I'm not enough of a criminologist to parse out the causality here, but if anybody wants to take a shot at it, they're welcome. I also want to state, for the record, that condemning police is not condoning criminality. I'm just tryin' to play some records and get drunk over here.

-Dwight Yoakim A.K.A. The Motherfucking Man has an expansive and candid interview with The Fader wherein the names of every single country musician that ever mattered surface and are discussed. Also, DY discusses the importance of Levi's 517s to his steez. Apparently they're releasing a 20th anniversary edition of Guitars, Cadillacs, Etc., which I bought in promo white-label form on Jerry's recommendation. One more point towards beatification, Jerry.

-The bol formerly known as Jeff has been A-listing it out in Los Angeles (Angeles with a hard G). So, unlike us long distance haters out East, he can tell you firsthand about the smoke and mirrors driving the dumbfuck-hipsters-sucking-Timberlake-penis craze. I choose to merely cite the following definition, and let you digest:

Mickey Mouse adj. Slan.
1. a. Unimportant; trivial: "It's a Mickey Mouse operation compared to what goes on in Lyons or Paris" (Jack Higgins) b. Irritatingly petty: the school's Mickey Mouse requirements for graduation. 2. Intellectually unchallenging; simple: His Mickey Mouse assignments soon bored the students. 3. Melodrematic or sentimental. Used especially of popular music. (Source: American Heritage Dictionary)

-Did Sebastian Telfair set up the shooting of Fabulous in retaliation for a chain-snatching? If so, will Bethlehem Shoals' head explode?

-There is just over a week before Philadelphyinz "Got Halloween on Smash" at the Khyber. Here is a testament to the realness sure to transpire:

-Will Jay-Z get off the fucking television while I'm trying to watch the baseball game? Nobody cares if you drink Budweiser Select in Monte Carlo while the sax sample used in Wreckx N Effect's "Rump Shaker" blares. Fuck.

*I do not have citations with current statistics because the murder rate changes every day relative to past years and I do not have up-to-the-minute crime stats available or partial statistics for previous years. Often, the Inquirer will cite current statistics in its articles about shootings, many of which can be found in their running chronicle of violence in Philadelphia. You can also compare info you find to the FBI's Uniform Crime Report, which is released yearly.

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

i'll drink you under the table

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big in japan

A smattering of internet jumps from the last couple days. Special guest post on this weekend's EPMD reunion forthcoming. (Q: So whatcha sayin? A: SAYIN.)

-Scarlett Johansson to record album of Tom Waits covers

-Public Image, LTD - Careering

-San Quinn p/ DJ Toomp - Bring the Game to the Table
A hidden gem dug up from XXL's Bangers section. "What U Know" was a warning shot, Toomp demanding attention after some incredible shit on TI's last two joints. And after making "White House," the only track on Port of Miami on which Rick Ross can be taken seriously, and the wild new Jeezy single, maybe it's time to start paying a little more attention to DJ Toomp. The only problem is that I'm running out of adjectives besides "epic" and "triumphant" to describe his beats.

-7 Train Tagged in Service
Read deeper in the thread and you find out every train operator has to clear their train paint-free before leaving the depot. 80's throwback hysteria!

-Bing Ji Ling
Streamable cover of Huey Lewis's "I Want A New Drug" inna Jamiriquai stylee.

-Paul Wall visits Sierra Leone
Scroll down to the bottom for more details. The discoball in his mouth insinuates armless shorties. (Also: Lil Keke's new single is called "Candy Tricycles"? Whoa.)

-Far Too Many Robots
"Hip-Hop shouldn't be about womanizing and money. Real rap is poetry set to lip-smacking rhythms, with killer riffs and rhymes that'll make you go mmmm...I'll wet you like H20. If you learn to love it, I think you'll find everyday is like waking up after a great, great dream."

Is it 1998 dude?

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

A fat bag of dust plus the biscuit

Periodically the subject of "insane amounts of gun violence in Philadelphia" comes up in this space. As a former GIS technician, I am particularly fond of a tool created by the ambulance chasers over at the Inquirer which allows you to geospatially analyze this years gat-clappings by race, age, time, sex and weapon. West Philly in the house (do you want more?)!

Check it out here.

This link comes to you courtesy of the blog RapSheet, which is a creation of two Inquirer police reporters. There are a fair number of interesting stories to be found there, but they jock the fuck out of the cops. There are a lot of criminals in Philadelphia, but the cops often give them a run for their money. Let's not forget the MOVE bombing and Rizzo's "army" or the recently discovered history of sexual extortion and misconduct by the department. I also suppose that the blog's writers, unlike me, have never been threatened by a Philadelphia police officer with a weapon for, basically no reason at all (scary story, ask me if you want).

Estevez: therein lies the secret

In yet another demonstration of noixe's psychic powers, the Steelers are beginning to fulfill an extended version of The June 25th Prophecy starring Christopher Walken which presented clear and direct "evidence" that a Disney-esque invisible hand was (and is) guiding the franchise into a heartwarming future of pop ballads and skinny post routes. If the Steelers fate does indeed stand tied to the rules of sports movie sequels, then the adversity of Weeks 2 through 4 should come as no surprise. Neither should it come as any shock that Big Benjamin, Young Tone, TroyTroy and Co. laid down an ass-whipping of comic brutality on the heels of a bye-week likely filled with inspirational speeches, team bonding and numerous training montages (running through tires anybody?), not to mention a fortuitous encounter as the team walked together through the street with their pads on late during the night of October 10th (read on, I'm going somewhere with that.).

You hear a lot about the "Post-Super Bowl Hangover," and I have to agree that the hype and pomp of the Super Bowl does a great deal to dull the instincts of the victors. Stillers on Film XL ended with a great freeze-frame high five, but after you left your seat, you missed the post-credit vignette where Ike Taylor lies passed out on a pile of empty soda bottles while Dan Kreider, wearing his drawers and a t-shirt stained with chocolate cake, idly flips channels. The clock flashes 12:00.Say what you will about Big Benjamin and his motorcycle accident or undescended testicle or whatever, but he, like every other Steeler, had the impression that things would be easier now that the Steelers were the default pop culture football players. You can't turn on the TV these days without seeing some Steelers slingin' FatHeads, roughing up Matt Hasselbeck while he's eating chunky soup or faking the funk for an EA sports commercial. The potential for ego inflation must be enormous. But we here at Just Sayin' can see through the bullshit.

Peep game:

This from Wikipedia's entry on D2: The Mighty Ducks, only with the words "Team USA" replaced by "Steelers," "Team Iceland" replaced by "The Bungles" and the name "Bombay" replaced by "Cowher":

The lure of celebrity becomes a distraction to both Cowher and the players, and reality kicks in when they lose against The Bungles in an embarrassing defeat. Frustrated, Cowher drives his players even harder, yet the Steelers continue to suffer, until they come across a street hockey team who teaches them how to play like "the real Steelers." Cowher realizes that the most important thing is to have fun. After a change in attitude, the Steelers redeem themselves by working up the playoffs ladder to once again meet The Bungles in the finals. This time The Steelers prove to be a match for The Bungles, but the game ends in a tie, resulting in a shootout (read: overtime), which the Steelers win.

Now that is just downright uncanny. I know that the second part about the playoffs hasn't happened yet, but after the 'Lers' pantsing of the Chiefs, the parallels seem awfully striking. It makes you wonder if Joey Porter didn't turn up on the injury list by getting high sticked in an alley last week while the team was learning a valuable lesson about the meaning of sports. They had forgotten what made football fun in the first place, and they needed to hear it from a rough and tumble group of street hockey punks who reminded Clark Haggans of the endless slapshots he took off the side of the barn in Moose Jaw. All of a sudden, football became fun again. Hey nerdy equipment manager, cue the Poorboys "You Ain't Seen Nothin Yet," and get us to the stadium before Peezy cuts your fucking face off!!! We got a game to play!!!


P.S. I don't remember D2 well enough to recall whether or not ex-figure skater Ken Wu wore number 36, but if he's not doing anything right now, I think that number's available in the black and gold.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

Step off the frankfurter

Today's guest writer is Dos NittiThere have been many notable accomplishments in Western civilization in the last six odd hundred years. But my all time lifelong hero (even more than Tupac) is one Anthony "Spud" Webb. Hailing from Texas, this little point guard that could captivated the basketball world with one of the most incredible physical displays since nekkid Greek dudes started wrestling for Zeus. Webb was always short, and his odd appearence at birth prompted his grandmother to nickname him Spud, short for "sputnik". Fortunately Webb's fortitude to overcome fucking retards in his own family took immediately to basketball.

This is where some of the most bugged out shit in sports history occurred. According to numerous vetted sources (I know the bol's old head Lamar) Webb first dunked on the blacktop in 11th grade. At this point he was 15 years old and 4 feet ten inches tall. Yes you read that correctly: four feet fucking ten inches. Isn't that the criteria for being a midget? In the taxonomy of dunking, anyone under six foot one who can throw down convincingly and on a regular basis is considered to have "hops". Once you get down to about 5'9 and below you are dealing with some serious genetic anomalies. Five foot seven and below and you are looking at some shit few people have ever seen. (The only one I can think of is Spud Webb) Below that and you are basically wittnessing something that would defy your physical perception of reality. Below five feet is the background of a Vonage commercial: some blurry and utterly mystifying sight that you will question whether or not you actually saw.Imagine a four foot ten kid, the ball so large in his hands that to dunk he needs to get a lot farther than six inches over the rim, (the standard height it takes to get a dunk down) take a running start and leave the ground, rising until he smacks that ball through the rim. His post dunk descent must've looked like a suicide attempt. Doing the math on this it seems to me that Webb had a vertical leap of around 56 inches to be able to dunk at that height. Improbable yes, but this is not only the shortest man to win the Slam Dunk Contest with the prototypical 360 that many emulate but few execute, against a field that included Dominique Wilkins (Webb's teammate and alley oop partner) but also the shortest dunker to own people like a man a foot and a half taller than he was.

6'4 Barkley did his thing on 6'10 cats all day. 6'0 AI has also owned some far taller players on the court. But most little dunkers are very finnicky in traffic, a high performing sports car that needs the open road to really do what it wants. Not Webb. Despite being seven inches shorter than AI, (Webb's actual height is 5'5 not the 5'7 he usually is listed as) Webb had no problem dunking on cats of any height in games. You haven't lived until you've seen Webb rise above a Patrick Ewing-sized cat on a two-on-one with no room to get steps down. He threw an awesome oop to Wikins, but there were many times the camera would leave Wilkins's oop to catch a seeming crane lifted Webb throwing down on some embarrassed power forward. This dude needs a biopic and comic strip......................

Early good Gods/Earths

You'll always remember where you were

when Larry Johnson tackled Troy Polamalu by the hair and then a fight broke out.

More on the 'Lers game coming, of course.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

tonight tonight


if you're not goin to the Philebrity Weekender-ender at Transit tonight, you are a weak-ass clown.

6th and spring garden, philly


Friday, October 13, 2006

(Free)basin' with Briscoe

In this new, randomly appearing, recurring feature, we invite the great American actor detective Jerry Orbach to review albums and singles we haven't listened to, and compare them to the smoke-up-your-ass-garbage those lying sons of bitches over at pitchfork come up with. What, you heard he's dead, think we're kidding? "If I was kidding, you'd be wearing a fez and no pants."

Subtle "The Mercury Craze," 2006
"Over Subtle's first two LPs, mastermind Doseone has taken the linear story of his protagonist, Hour Hero Yes-- an aspiring white rapper from California-- and ripped the pages apart only to paste the pieces together in non-sequential order. So unless you dig, you'll miss one the most fascinating pieces of the Subtle puzzle."

Briscoe says:
So what, you think you're the only glue sniffer I've ever cuffed? Get in the car, punk, and quit your damn whining. We'll just see how you like the rubber cement they use in central booking. Hey kid, you might need a bigger hoodie, there's some real toughs in the joint.

This record is total crap. I seen some rappers in my day, like Daddy Kane and Grandmama Flash or whatever. They were some tough kids. The Bronx was no joke back then. These guys are just a bunch of Westchester yahoos or something. Next!

The Decemberists, "The Crane Wife"
Meloy's inventive songwriting is the binding force, emphasizing character but remaining ever in thrall to stories, savoring the way they always play out to the same conclusions. Along with the homosexual undertones that have informed Decemberists songs from every album, he jettisons most of the archetypes that inspired Picaresque and cuts his characters loose in their own tales. They still do what they're fated to do-- the thieves thieve and run amok, the lovers love and die tragically, the soldiers soldier on and pine for peaceful homes-- but they seem to do it more out of free will than authorial design.

Briscoe says:
When the Yankees aren't playing, I really like to watch the History Channel after dinner. I really got into the habit of doing that after my second wife ordered cable and then left as soon as I realized how great cable was. The Civil War shows are OK, but I really like how they have four hours a day devoted to how we beat the shit out of the Nazis.

I'll tell you one thing I don't like though, half the kids I see these days are doing something stupid and getting themselves arrested just because they think the whole world is against them. Kid, let me tell you something- life, it ain't gettin' any easier, especially if you keep whining about it. That's what bothers me about this album, all that bitching and moaning. You live in the greatest country on earth, cheer up. And what's with all the damn stories all the time, who are you, Stephen King?

Jibbs, "Chain Hang Low"
One junior high graduation later and teen Jibbs foists this brainy gem on the masses, a sorta-snap song that relies on a kid-sung chorus jacked from ice cream truck anthem "Do Your Ears Hang Low?" Public response is purely Pavlovian; I've seen grown men running after Jibbs promo vans playing "Chain Hang Low" at high volume.

Briscoe says:
I like this one. Good for the kids, you know? Not a lot of swearing either. Good sing along stuff. A lot better than that rap these days that's all about kids with downs on the bus or whatever.

what i say

I've added HaloScan to our layout using a delicate touch and five tubes of Liquid Nail. Now anyone can comment, not just Blogger users. If you want to see whatever witty bullshit you wrote through the Blogger system, open up the individual post and there it will be.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Girl you know it's true

I know some thangs:

-Remember your boy who paid a 7 or 8 year old kid 25 bucks to bean his retarded t-ball teammate so that they could, uh, bring glory and honor to, er, something? Well, your boy, Mark Downs ("Downs," oh the irony) is getting a Bruce Lee-type slap on the wrist. He'll be serving the manditory minimum for picking on the mentally disabled within 100 yards of a t-ball game- 1 to 6 years. I think that's a mite harsh, considering I've heard of sex offenders and the like getting out after stretches like that. However, I really haven't made up my mind about exactly where beaning a tri-somy t-ball player fits in on my sliding scale of repugnancy.

-Somebody from Fader has heard a whole bunch of new Nas jams, and managed to only devote something like 10 words to the fact that Chris Webber (yes, that Chris Webber) produced one of the tracks, wherein Esco remarks that Hattie McDaniel "couldn't go to the premiere of her own joint" and that "I know they were strong back then." Major head-exploding potential, in a sketch comedy kind of way.
Jump-shooting power forwards and "some african dude" aside, Mr. Jones seems to be intent on backing himself with as much radio ready production as possible- he's got a bunch of Scott Storch, Dre, Kanye and Salaam Remi. Guests from Snoop, Kanye and Damien Marley. I don't know exactly where Nas is going with all this, but it seems like he is usually the only one who does. Frankly, I think noixe is going to have a field day pondering the future of New York rap with Nas going all Bangalore with his team.

-Also, don't let me forget to beat you over the skull with the fact that Philadelphyinz is rocking Transit this Saturday. Recognize.

on success

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I guess it's a rebuilding year.

Mondesi's House doles out blame by the handful, and he's pretty much right with his assessment. We somehow lost while holding one of the best runners (pure runners?) in football to under 40 yards, and did so even with Polomalu nursing a serious shoulder injury. And while Deshea Townsend has his share of problems, that first touchdown was strictly a height issue. But Ben's clearly not himself, and our receivers are young and apparently are from the Koren Robinson school of receiving. (That was a dropped ball joke, not a drinking joke. Just sayin.) We got issues, but these problems have solutions; we are lucky to be dealing with a Mazerati that needs some expensive but routine repairs, where other cities are stuck with hoopties.

Frankly, I don't think it's the team. It's the city.

This morning, Ray Wert wrote about the Tigers on Deadspin, and he mentioned the fervor with which Detroit supports its teams. Ray's blurb doesn't explicitly mention Ford's rapid decline, but one has to assume the Tigers' incredible year is keeping spirits high in a city whose trademark industry is falling apart. The relationship between rust belt cities and their sports is no stranger to Pittsburghers. Hell, the Steelers and their ubiquitous fans are practically the archetype. For the last few years, it's hard to say we've played a true away game with all the Terrible Towels. And that ubiquity is a symptom of the city's problems. The struggling economy drives away families and an old, reactionary mentality drives away youth; Steelers fans are everywhere because they either can't or don't want to be in Pittsburgh. But that's changing.

Pittsburgh is experiencing a renaissance. It seems our fair city has turned a corner, given the rosy pictures painted by the Post-Gazette and The Trib. In a city as notoriously pessimistic as Pittsburgh, those are very good signs. But this isn't just a local opinion. Expansion Magazine rated the area 9th out of 10 in a list of locations for business expansion. Last month, The Economist had a short article about economic revival in the 412, calling the city "a pleasant and affordable region with an improving mix of industries and enviable demographics--which is as much as many parts of the country can hope for." (no subscription = no citation) Even the British like us. And why shouldn't they? We have more trees per capita than any city the country, and are the 17th cleanest city in the world. Our crime rate is absurdly low (but they still tote that steel in Pistolvania). And though I don't have quantitative data, the brain drain seems to be slowing, as at least three-quarters of my friends either never left Pittsburgh, left and came back, or have definite plans to move back. The Economist article does mention the increasing return rate, and makes the point that much of our old elderly will die off soon, leaving a very young population in charge of an up-and-coming city. So where it was once a blackened industrial hell-hole, then a depressed post-industrial city looking for an identity, it appears Pittsburgh has successfully reinvented itself for the new economy. Where there once was rust, there is now candy paint.

Last year gave Steeler Nation the much-vaunted One for the Thumb, the fifth Superbowl victory that was some kind of destiny. A prophecy fulfilled. Jerome Bettis could finally leave the NFL in peace and retire to a heavenly life of bowling, football analysis and giving Burt Reynolds wet willies. Between The Bus and Myron Cope both retiring, and rumors of an eminent departure by Coach Cowher, it's hard not to feel like this is the end of an era. After all, the new face of the Steelers, Bettis's replacement, is a fresh-faced kid from the suburbs. The suburbs of Ohio.

I don't really think there's some kind of lack of psychic energy that is the team's big problem this year, but the difference between the Superbowl XL champions and this year's gang is bigger than a few different players. This isn't a Superbowl hangover, it's an existential crisis.

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

I'm bad, I'm back etc.,

News alert: Philadelphyinz takes it to the limit (like Scarface, not that Mexican wrestler guy) this Saturday. Apt One and Skinny will be holding down the top floor at Transit from 10-3 at the Philebrity's Weekender-ender party. Downstairs will be Plastic Little, VIP, The Yah Mos Def and DJs Dave P, Adam Sparkles and Crimp Yr Hair. Goddamn.

Tickets can be purchased through this link or at AKA music on 2nd Street.

Saturday, October 07, 2006


I usually keep my personal life off of this blog. Nobody really wants to hear about how bad the produce is at the FreshGrocer or why I have a fruit fly infestation in my kitchen or any confessionals about my unhealthy levels of coffee consumption. That's why people hate blogs in the first place. However, I ask that you lend me your ear this once.

This morning, at about 9AM, the world lost one more member of the generation which lived through the European conflagration of 1939-45, my grandmother Pearl Fichman (nee: Spiegel). That's one less person to testify about the horrors of ghettoes and smirking fascist killers. One less person to tell of the world as it was before then and never will be again. One less person who saw Jackie Robinson play. One less person who dined with Dwight D. Eisenhower. One less person who knew the German-language lyric poet Paul Celan.

Most importantly, there exists one less person who can, in full throat, refute the wild-eyed cries of denial, intolerance and hate spewed by demagogues like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. The numbers of Holocaust deniers seem to be increasing, while the number of Holocaust survivors are decreasing. Minus one as of today. However, unlike many, my grandmother did not bury her story inside, never to be unearthed.For anybody who knew my grandmother personally, they know that she was erudite and charming, but tortured by the traumatic events of her youth. As she got older, she scratched furiously at the scabs which grew over the wounds incised by the events of the war in Europe and later wars in Israel. Deep scars grew underneath. In a fashion atypical of her generation, she told stories until those around her grew to know them by heart, and heard them until they became almost tiresome- listening to a stories for the fifteenth time out of respect and sympathy more than anything. Prodded by my Uncle Eytan, she wrote memoirs. She obtained a Masters at Columbia in American literature on a student visa in the late 1940s and wrote with a utility and grace colored with old-world syntax and expressions.

Since she is gone, her memior, (the existence of which she made known to anybody who so much as bagged her groceries) is all that remains for those who never knew her. It's called Before Memories Fade. Excerpts are available online from a number of sources listed below. The book is also available for purchase on amazon.com.

-Michael Fichman
Pearl Fichman: Before Memories Fade on amazon.com
Selected Chapters from Before Memories Fad on ibiblio.org (with photos)
Prague, Paris and the Journey to America (Fall 1947) from the University of Cincinnati Occasional Papers in German-American Studies
Al-jazeera.net: "Ahmadinejad: Holocaust a myth"
Wikipedia: Paul Celan

Friday, October 06, 2006


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The frog is Vast Aire.

Hot off the e-presses, the new new from Def Jux for the next year. El-P is hard at work at I'll Sleep When You're Dead (aka I'll Shave When Trent Reznor Gets Out the Bathroom). Aesop Rock is apparently taking time off from escorting the crazy girls of CSS to apparently drop some new shit in May. Unfortunately, there is no Party Fun Action Committee on the docket, a fact sure to upset their fan club.

I don't have a whole lot of faith that there will ever be another proper Cannibal Ox LP. Vast Aire and Vordul Megullah apparently belong to the Black Star School of Perpetual Sophomore Album Delay, except without the fame, fortune and slightly embarassing acting that actually gives Black Star an excuse to be tardy. I'm concerned that the two Can Ox solo projects might have alerted Vast and Vordul to the fact that they need El-P for success, and that they can't do it alone. The Cold Vein was awesome because the beats were five-star masterpieces and the bleak, confused and often unintelligable rhymes coalesced around introspective discussion of pigeons. Straight-ahead rap for these dudes is not a good look. But the new tracks on Return of the Ox were aight, so prove me wrong next year, dogs!

And the Funcrusher Plus 10 Year Anniversary jawn is just mind-blowing because I can't believe that shit's a decade old.

Here's the total line-up:

Jan - V/A Definitive Jux Presents vol. 4 - ltd. edition full length 2xLP
Feb - El-P I'll Sleep When You're Dead CD & 2XLP
April - Rob Sonic Sabotage Gigante CD
May - Aesop Rock TBA Full Length Album CD & 2XLP
June - Camutao TBA Full Length Album CD & 2XLP
July - Cage TBA Full Length Album CD & 2XLP
August - Company Flow Funcrusher Plus 10 Year Anniversary and Concert DVD CD+DVD
October - Cannibal Ox TBA Full Length Album CD & 2XLP

Quasi-definitive proof of a higher power of some sort

According to an article in the New York times, the conservative evangelical movement is shitting its adult diapers over the claim that only four percent (four percent!!) of today's "yoots" will grow up to be "Bible-believing Christians." It seems as if their attempts to seduce teens with non-confrontational radio rock, abstinence, sobriety, and threats of hellfire, wailing and gnashing of teeth have run smack into the harsh reality that none of these things appeal to teenagers at all.

My favorite part of the article is when Ron Luce, the hip, well-coiffed huckster who runs a big youth mega-church festival thing says:

“I’m looking at the data, and we’ve become post-Christian America, like post-Christian Europe. We’ve been working as hard as we know how to work — everyone in youth ministry is working hard — but we’re losing.”

First off, since when does a guy like Ron Luce care about data? I have a lot of data (e.g. science) that might really blow his mind if he should come calling. Where do you get data like that anyway? I really don't know how you put a number on what percent of today's teenagers will grow up to become "Bible-believing Christians," if indeed such a clearly defined category does exist. But, I don't think I should stress about this, because, as you know, these people are totally batshit crazy.

Second, if this were "post-Christian America," I have no idea how I managed to live through "Christian America" without getting burnt at the stake or having my balls twisted off during "Forced Conversion Night" at the ballpark. How are the art museums still standing?

Third, if you're losing, who is winning? And don't say "Marilyn Manson," Ron.

But fear not, believers! Joy floweth forth from the hills of Goshen and the birds of Canaan cry out in song at His coming!! (Austin, 3:16)And what/who, you might ask, is this savior? Well, you know that song by Khia "My Neck, My Back?" You know, the one that goes:

All you ladies pop your p***y like this
Shake your body, don't stop, don't miss
All you ladies pop your p***y like this
Shake your body, don't stop, don't miss
Just do it, do it, do it, do it, do it now
Lick it good suck this p***y, just like you should
Right now, Lick it good
suck this p***y just like you should
My Neck, my back
Lick my p***y and my crack

Idolator just dug up the New Jersey Nets version of that song entitled "The Nets Are Back." Kind of like if "Suck it or Not" got turned into "Dunk it or Not," and became the official theme song of the Atlanta Krunk Wolverines of the CBA. Stay with me here... listen for the Keith Van Horn drops, he's a Mormon. Good old Christian values.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

The height of Mugsey Bogues, complexion of a...

"Hockey Puck." To give you an idea of the seriousness with which I restate that Phife line, let me inform you that one of my best friends growing up was a black guy who knew who knew the names of the top ten plus minus leaders in the NHL. I also knew a Haitian immigrant who was on Milan Hejduk's jock in like 1998. Shit is somehow real like that in Pittsburgh. Yes, I am part of that rare and misunderstood subspecies of homo sapiens, the American hockey fan. There once was a time where, in my naivite I thought that most people liked hockey, and that's why the world tolerated John Buccigross. It turns out that nobody gives a fuck.

I have 11 pairs of Flyers tickets this year, and I can barely give away the second seat. I can't stand the Flyers, but, having played hockey in college and playing absolutely none now, there's a big void in my winters. Not to mention the fact that I don't have double expanded super digital cable, which I understand is the only way to actually watch hockey anymore. I guess I'll just root for the visitors and see if I can pick up a good case for suing the pants of a Philadelphia fan (see below).
As some of you may know, yesterday, apart from being Wednesday, was also notable in that the NHL season started anew. Since I have very little interest in customer satisfaction, I am planning on periodically commenting about hockey in this space.* If you don't like it, remember that hockey is Canada's national sport, and Canada is a place full of nice people who eat delicious breakfasts with maple syrup and bacon and, uh, don't have a government full of fucking morons who are up to their ears in unwinnable wars and... you just have to figure that there's something they get that we don't. I'm suggesting it's hockey.**

I used to have a knowledge of hockey that was on par with my handle on the NFL and my encyclopedic knowledge of useless baseball facts. However, a number of factors have combined to decrease my attentiveness to the game in recent years, not the least of which was the lockout. For starters, there are a jillion teams in the league now and the teams you used to be able to dismiss are good. I had always been able to ignore these bad teams in warm weather cities (read: cartoon-assed Disney teams with names like the "Predators" wtf?) but now they demand attention and I have no clue who half their players are. Also, the lockout turned over the league's personnel substantially. Players moved from here to there, lots of players retired. To compound the confusion, my squad, the Penguins, has been a revolving door of young players. Once you've become familiar with any of them, they're gone.

After I left Pittsburgh, the Pens cemented themselves as the league's durable, absorbent doormat. Fortunately, the Penguins (unlike the Pirates) have always been reasonably well managed, despite their poverty. Under the new bargaining agreement, hopefully they will be able to avoid the small market boom-bust that they managed to skirt for much of their respectable, if not dominant 1990s. By all accounts they have drafted well in recent years and they have committed to a building strategy that avoids trying to please season ticket holders with short term gains on the backs of overpaid, retread veterans. No, dammit, we're gonna lose like hell until we win some!! (Remember, this is what they did in the 80s, when Craig Patrick was in his prime, and it worked.)So, I am going to use this blog to give me a reason to both A) periodically entertain you with hockey info you don't care about and B)get reacquainted with my old friend the (new) NHL. Things should be exciting for the Pens, new GM, a boatload of future-star number 1 picks (Malkin is going to be off the chain) and, as of today, a new Canadian owner!

P.S. Hey guy, peep Off Wing Opinion for the best hockey weblogging, eh?
* Thank me that I'm not calling these comments "Whoadie got skates"
** Please conveniently disregard the fact that Russians also really like hockey.