Pop Cesspool

FORGOT ABOUT THE THEMATIC INFLUENCE OF NARCOTICS

I have no particular knowledge about what inspired "Nearly Lost You" by the Screaming Trees, but for nearly two decades, I've always assumed it was a love thing, y'know, he nearly lost her but he didn't.

Today it struck me, though, that it's probably more of a dude thing, like, holy shit, dude, when your eyes rolled back in your head for a minute, I thought I nearly lost you.

In that scenario, the dude lived, obviously.

WE'LL ALLOW YOU TO MAKE THE OBVIOUS SCROTAL JOKE

I'm way above that. The actual ball-oriented story.

A SUPER-AWESOME VIDEO FOR YOU

Shot by yours truly:

COMPARE/CONTRAST: NBC'S MERLINS

SHITTY MERLIN

AWESOME MERLIN

FANTASY

In each one of these videos, I kept hoping that the victim would immediately return fire with a large semi-automatic handgun:

DRAKE IS TOTALLY CHALLENGING MY PERCEPTION OF HIM

The rapper Drake is about as concrete as they get: He has shit and he wants shit, including money, nice things, and your pussy. He describes what he wants and what he'll do with it. Sometimes he talks about his superiority. Other times he talks about obstacles to acquiring the things he wants. But generally his rhymes dwell on shit that is possible to acquire in the physical realm.

Except, y'know, this line from "Best I Ever Had":

And you ain't even have to ask twice/You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice/Always felt like you was so accustomed to the fast life/Have a nigga thinkin' that he met you in a past life

"A past life," as in "reincarnation?" Damn, that's some metaphysical graffiti right there. My initial reaction was, "he thinks like this when he gets high," but I realized that it's possible he just wrote that shit off the cuff, without concern for the dissonance it creates. So I'm gonna save his bacon right now. Here's how Drake should play it, if anybody asks about his spirituality: "Yo, I talk about that past life shit not because I'm into Hindu or whatever, but because I want money and your pussy in that past life, too."

PRESENTED WITHOUT COMMENT

Dolly Parton's video diary entry on the parting of Michael Jackson:

PROGRAMMING NOTE

If you were up in this piece today, you might've seen some crazy malfunctionz, including some pictures that didn't belong here. This glitch was not user-error. The appropriate officials have been upbraided.

PROSTITUTION WHORE

As far as catch phrases go, this one has legs as long as a 5'11" stripper. Thank you Teresa, real housewife of New Jersey, for saying it. And thank you Danielle, real skank of New Jersey, for prompting Teresa to say it. The applications are endless. Use it on your housewives, your momz, your boyfriends, your kids, your bosses. Doesn't matter what the situation is. Burned your toast? "Prostitution whore." Windows Vista is acting up? "Prostitution whore." Somebody is watching a Bravo reality show while an important sporting event is on? "Prostitution whore." Don't let go, people. It's a keeper, and the world is full of prostitution whores.

HISTORY LESSON, CONTINUED

There were a few years when "Michael Jackson" was punk code for "all that is wrong with the music industry." So, because the tag line of Yer Cesspool is ripped off from The Minutemen -- and I occasionally feel obligated to rep their shit properly -- I present D.Boon/Mike Watt/George Hurley, "Political Song For Michael Jackson To Sing." Now go make some loud musical noises, all you nostalgic sproutlings. The battle never ends.

EVEN THIS GUY IS GONNA GET SO LAID TONIGHT

The worst Michael Jackson impersonator needs nookie, too, y'all.

UPDATE: I realize why people are celebrating him so heartily in death. We finally get to remember him exactly the way we want to, without fresh heaps of bullshit getting in the way.

WHEN I LOOK AT THESE MARK SANFORD E-MAILS ...

... I start to hear Enigma's "Sadness, Pt. 1" in my head.

That is, various chunks of this hot mess, such as this silly nugget:

In the meantime please sleep soundly knowing that despite the best efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body, the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even deeper connection to your soul.

... should be read aloud, and reverently, to this colossally unsexy '90s bullshit:

 

HE GOTS AWESUM BONERZ UNDERNEATH THA DESK.

THINGS ARE EXACTLY AS I REMEMBERED THEM

Creeping toward middle age has increased my tolerance for things that originally had succumbed to my penchant for stereotyping. E.L.O.? I used to think they existed solely for the mustachioed cokeheads and partytime alcoholics that constituted the nation of "rock fans" in the late '70s. Now I'm down with Jeff Lynne. I mean, I'm not breaking out "Don't Bring Me Down" on a regular basis, but I totally get where the fuck it was comin' from.

10cc? Not so much. "The Things We Do For Love" came on the '70s channel this morning (on Music Choice, natch), and for a second, I was prepared to devote some revisionism to it. "Fuck, maybe this song is a stone classic of popcraft, and I should detatch myself from my long-held notions of it," I said to myself. Wrong. That shit is bugged-out and busy, and I found myself numbed by the process of analyzing its structure. If I had barbituates, I would have taken them.

MARION BARRY'S SATURDAY

In the evening, with protestors:

Much later, with Trouble Funk:

ANALYSIS: HBO'S 'TRUE BLOOD'

That is true, Anna Paquin.

BEEN THERE, DONE THAT

I agree with most of what Christopher R. Weingarten says here about the net effect of tech on the act of gettin' critically wreck with rekkids. But I reserve a little boo-friggin'-hoo for the part where he talks about it not payin' moneys anymore. Dude, I've written about hundreds of records over two decades for nothin' more than a free copy and "a pat on the head." It kinda sucks, and it kinda doesn't, so welcome to the club. I guess I learned long ago that -- despite what teevee tells you -- not everybody makes a living at doing what they love. Maybe I was just afraid to take the plunge and do it full time. Maybe I had a hunch that the lifestyle wasn't for me. Or maybe life got in the way. Or maybe I wasn't good enough. Anyway, I'd like to think I was more "realist" than "sucker" or "wuss." (And for the times I did get paid good money to review a record, I'm eternally grateful, in hindsight.)

GRAPPLE WITH MY PRESCIENCE

Arty, slow-mo headbanging vids are ALL THE RAGE. Douglas Armour "Flushed & Flamelike, Themselves," directed by Bryce Kass and produced by Daft Arts, aka the Daft Punk dudes:

(h/t to Spin)

As previously seen on Pop Cesspool, other men were on that grind already:

A MASSIVE CONTRADICTION WITHIN A GOVERNMENT POLICY

L.A. Times on Zicam:

The loss of smell can be "life-threatening," Autor said, because people with impaired smell cannot detect leaking gas or smoke and cannot tell if food has spoiled before they eat it.

Jerks.

They want you to be able to smell farts.

And they want you to be able to smell dangerous, smoky farts.

But they don't want you to eat food that causes really awesome farts.

I'm writing a letter.

THE WORLD IS MOVING TOO FAST AND I WANT TO CRY

I hadn't noticed the Google Chrome thingy-ball until today:

I was gonna riff on the Pokémon similarity and the HAL 9000 similarity and the Hacky Sack similarity, because I'm a total fucking geek.

I should've known better. Nerdz got ... there ... first.

Instead, here's a video of gibbons that barely delivers what it promises to deliver:

I SIMPLY PRESENT THE MUSIC OF REAL TIME TO YOU

You must make your own decision about the rapper:

THE ONLY POST ABOUT ARTHUR KADE YOU WILL EVER SEE ON POP CESSPOOL

After reading his Phawker interview, I can say this: There are many joys to having a delusional friend. Sure, it sucks when the asshole makes egotistical or narcissistic decisions that infringe on the logical flow of things or simply violate your sense of good taste. But true douchebags also tend to be pretty tough. Strangely loyal, even. You can make fun of them and fuck with them, but if they have decided your friendship is worth maintaining -- for whatever unfathomably narcissistic reason -- they will keep coming back. You can't count on them for anything, but their need for attention allows you to be exceptionally cruel, and they'll probably savor it, because your cruelty only means that *they* don't have to expend any energy being self-critical. You're a sub-contractor. Your compensation is the freedom to say whatever you want about that person, to put it on the record, to laugh at how accurate you are. The awesome asshole Arthur Kade has given this opportunity to you, and if you don't embrace it, you are a terrible friend.