Colostomy for Klosterman, Party of 1

To: The Devil Himself
From: St. Caroline [patron saint of sundry causes and whatnot]
Re: Chuck Klosterman

I am referring the matter of Chuck Klosterman to your authority. Personally, I think he's an ass (see also Dave Eggers and alterna-bands with names one word short of a Lifetime TV movie title and three chords short of basic guitar literacy). And here's supporting documentation.

It's times like this when I regret that we here at Pearly Gates can only absolve. Such is the cosmic bureaucracy, like.

Weekly ?-bound Round-up

1. John Geoghan: Easy-peasy, freakazoids. Seriously, why is this even up for discussion? I mean, we're talking the old-school Dante-fire-Fire-FIRE treatment if there were ever an instance for it being warranted: case closed. I mean, even Crezy was all like, "Damn. Even I wouldn't try that sh*t."

Identi-fun

To: The Devil Himself
Re: Reincarnation Identification Manifestation (the Clowns)

Right you are: the two patron saints of, yes, clowns: Julian the Hospitaller and Genesius of Rome. Like most humans, Jules and Gene did some f*cked-up shit (er, yeah... Jules killed his parents, for instance), but then they managed to turn it around, like helping out traveling lepers (Asthmawhore in the Venice train station, perchance?). However, despite this precendent, I'd really like it if I don't see anything a la "Capturing the Friedmans" show up on the The Smoking Gun, or the like, regarding our fave 4th-placers. Because at the very least it would mean we here at Pearly Gates would have to rename the tribute drink of "Incheon Fog" (okay, it's really just a White Russian with some dry ice, but you get the picture).

Tailgatin' Hateration

Awww, yeah... let's just say there were a-plenty o' beer-bottles broken and fist-fightin' in the parking lot. All about who got dibs on some handicapped space. *sigh* Whatever, boys. I recommend that you both have to repeat all four years of high school in a public school system (so sans the [tony-East-Coast-boarding-school] t-shirt) AND have to take the Vagina Dentata Immaculata out of its cage (granted, I'll let you guys use a leash) to both the junior and senior proms (note-to-self: 2-for-1 deal! Score!). With cheesy, pained formal photographs to boot and at least one horrible spotlight-slowdance to a Diane Warren song each.

Anyway, the Devil doth have a soft-spot with regards to a certain red-head (*cue randomly selected class of first-graders saying, "Awwwww..."*). Accordingly, and in a rare breach of protocol, that other red-headed camp concurs with you, as it has been foretold that these two groups will join forces against that third, inferior red-headed camp, the People's Republic of Clay, in the Battle of Rocksnobbery. *wink-wink*

Yes, 19141 is bad... *BUT*

[Speaking for NinthCircle's observation of item at teevee.org]

So, more hateration from a zip code that starts with 100? Ugh. How passe. Funny how when you all get pushed out of the 212/917/718, or wherever the hell you keep your digits, you all come crawling down to Philadelphia first. Like it's that easy *Tsk* Please... that's what Baltimore's for. (Kidding! Because I'd really like to be an extra in an upcoming John Waters movie, alright? And on account that Baltimore's probably more hard-up for than Philly, it could most rightly put up the rowdier fight, but that's another tangent.)

Now, be advised that I play favorites with Philadelphia. There's a particular *cough* institution that housed a dilitante snakeskin of mine that, if you look in the right places, is resplendent in this odd, motley mishmash of old-money, new-status, lean-times (well compared to some other joints... it's more along the lines of "Well, this year we had to settle for the Jag instead of that hand-crafted Rolls-Royce, or whatever. We don't really like to drive, anyway."), and a bad-rap (I've always had a soft-spot for well-meaning rebels and f*ck-ups). It's like jug-wine and the finest nosebag on the same table. It's like that party at that dude's place where everybody you know there is a huge slut and you end up passing out on that futon nicknamed "The Spinabifidator," yet you always manage to wake up with your halo intact. Er... yeah, but anyway... there is this one pocket of the city with a charm reminiscent of everybody's favorite sharp-tongued older sister who sometimes has problems balancing the checkbook, and that would the zipcode 19141. Since my last survey, it was, on the whole, full of trustafundian neo-hip(pies/sters). And now with its "historic neighborhood" designation, it is ripe to be infested with BoBos (the butterfly to the latter's catepillar). And that's just dreadful to contemplate. So, by all means, take the piss. But if you step anywhere else, just remember that you'll have to go through me to get to the punchline.

But I digress, as PearlyGates is closing early this evening for the Amazing Tailgate Party over at NinthCircle. Easy rules to keep in mind: clowns are VIP, as are certain sort-of Antipodean hosts, and if anybody spots the dreaded, rare Vagina Dentata Immaculata, just remember that it recoils at the sound of snarky laughter.

Requisite Rocksnobbery

Smile! It's DJ Mic Luv in da house. Least it ain't no Alex Chilton or the version that whored itself out on that episode of "Full House."

Remains o' the Day: Piss-Poor Pop, Grammar

With regards to NinthCircle's brill memo to MSNBC's M. Brockenbraugh, or whatever her name is, I am deferring this particular cubic-zirconium to them.

Memo to Ms. Simpson, Mrs. Beard-Lachey, or whatever your handlers have decided to term you: "impact" (in the final sentence of this PR release disguised as "news") was never meant as a verb. So don't even try with the infinitive. Because we're not having it. Oh, yeah... and any excuse that uses 9/11 as a catalyst for a relationship, because it's really just all about the terror-sex. And that's just thoughtless and cheap. Kinda like your albums in the mark-down bin at MediaPlay *boom-swish!*.

Confession Time (re: the "Take One for the Team" list)

*cough* Okay, as in the spirit of those hilariously pointless pictures at ready.gov, saints of my junior ranking are advised to keep an updated "Take One for the Team" list [God: "Think of it as only being deployed in the event there were no more altar boys." Me: "Um, okay, I think the term is now 'altar servers,' but whatever, I'm still going to pretend you never said that." God: "Oh please, and here I thought you could take a joke, since, after all, you patrol Claridge's in Atlantic City."]. So, accordingly, after viewing "I Love 1970" and "I Love 1971" on VH1 last night, I am chagrined to say it now includes:

-A circa-'70 Richard Carpenter.*
-A circa-'70 Bob from "Sesame Street."**
-A circa-'71 Don McLean.***

(*er, yeah, but also in a Good Works time-machine guise of persuading his sister to look toward a future of providing guest-vocals on late '90s trance anthems;
**but only until Linda signed me to "Step off, b*tch, he's mine;"
***but only until "Castles in the Air," and before the hairplugs and face-putty became obvious.)

This Just In #2:

Corn accepts the Devil Himself's offer of bouncer, on one condition: "That slag Lucrezia Borgia is barred."

Yeah, I never really liked Lucrezia myself, either. For all her talk, she's actually quite dull. I mean, lotsa people are slutty'n'murderous, it's like the cookies'n'creme of vice. Then again, she never did try to kill me as she did Corn when he was working as a Swiss Guard at the Vatican (see how this bouncer-thing just might work, yeah?) when her old man was pope [Corn: "GYAC, Jesus weeps every time he sees the uniforms, they're that tacky. The bloodstains did a favor." Me: "Okay, I'm going to pretend you never said that."].

This Just In:

Idi Amin to provide backing vocals on harrrowingly-awful electro-clash Hell-based outfit HitlerStalin's cover of the '94/'95 hit "Here Comes the Hotstepper," with title predicitably changed to "Here Comes the Highstepper" (220-volt Eva Braun Razor Remix).

Earplugs will be available at Thursday's Amazing Tailgate Party, in a lovely Danish-designed functional-chic knick-nack bowl next to the Jack'n'Angelfood cake. But you have to be VIP, mind. Otherwise you will have just landed yourself an uber-payola extended-version CD-maxi single autographed by Jim Verraros.

Weekly ?-bound Round-up

This week? Idi Amin: so going to Hell's Annex. You know, that dumpster in back of NinthCircle. The stench alone constitutes it as bar-none the absolute worst point in the universe. *Bleccch.*

Apols if Corn!

Yeah, so, Corn is going to be homeless. Or, as he would prefer it, "made redundant, you c*nt." (Oooo, Corn and his F.Wake-ian "GYAC" being oh-so-slurred into "gak" [and this ain't Nickelodeon, kids]. Actually, he's still wrong since, surprisingly, he hasn't yet been fired or told to go kill himself [er... yeah, saints don't sanction that, like]).

So the question remains (la Devil, I'm looking squarely at you): should Corn and his soul-siblings live on in a Yahoo group? Or is that just too degrading for such a culture-vulture as 'imself?

Ja, idag (is) torsdag...

Ah, it's Thursday. Time for more armchair jet-setting. (Okay, more like "How Not to [for the Most Part] Present Oneself With One's USA Passport"). Regardless, it rocks. Which is why I've been wondering since this most reason series bowed around Memorial Day: why doesn't anyone else watch it?

*steps out onto limb* It's because we, as a nation, don't travel. We just don't. Yeah, we're functionally monolingual (which is another soapbox altogether, for another day), but we don't even head out to other Anglophonic locales, let alone approaching them as the jump-off into a phrase-book (I'm thinking of the UK and Australia/New Zealand as your hemispheric gateways). Now, granted, I'm casting a wide net, but even opening up to the travel section of your local newspaper reveals advertisements not for round-the-world plane tickets and backpacker hostels; rather, time-shares in Orlando and flights to Vegas. Not that I'm knocking either place... just that there's more to it, even if you're limping along on the crutch of "Speak English, please," (an even larger soapbox that surely warrants its own day altogether) like the contestants on The Amazing Race ("please" being an admitted variant).

And don't even get me started on the Travel Channel, a misnomer if there ever was one. C'mon... a schedule comprised entirely of rankings of domestic roller coasters, poker competitions, and the occasional appearance of Samantha Brown in some WASPy family's Ethan-Allen-wet-dream knick-knack showplace (oh, wait... that's "vacation home")? Yeah: that's what I thought.

Remains o' the Day

1. Cat Plinko

2. Ubiquitous white kid rappin' in his room, boy-eee

Late Afternoon Smog

Hmmmm... seeing as those insufferable "Road Rules: South Pacific" kids are now off to Tahiti next week for more of the-worst-office-"retreat"-ever-type "challenges," I must say I am highly disappointed that Wing was not featured in any of the New Zealand-themed episodes.

(FYI: I think Wing is so bad, she's brilliant. It's like she's tapping into those 1/4-interval notes, or whatever, that Mozart was going on about before his wife killed him and burned his sheet music. Or something like that. Or maybe that has something to do with the oeuvre of George Jones and/or Tammy Wynette.)

L'Orange

Ooooo, it's another crap ozone day, methinks. Seeing as it is l'orange, I would advise the following track to match synaesthetic tendencies: "Who Do You Think You Are," by Saint Etienne (featuring Debsey Wykes of Birdie, who are just fab). Why? Because it sounds orangey and a tad humid (the opening little notes), like this morning.

If the air was a bit drier, and it was closer to September, I would say get yourself an import of "You're the Storm," by the Cardigans. That's redder: leaves-changey, but still on the warm-side, but not sticky.

And continuing the crap thought train, for some reason, I'm remembering that TV show called "Thanks" that CBS stuck on Monday nights in July/August about four years ago. It was all about pilgrims (like, Mayflower-stylee), and Cloris Leachman was the matriarch pilgrim. And it was a sitcom. Unfortunately, it was not a full-on trainwreck, but rather a blown tire on the minivan. *Yawn*

Ooo, and with regards to what the Devil said over at NinthCircle, FACT: I apparently used to live three doors down from where Melissa Rivers used to (not simultaneous, mind). Supposedly. But I wouldn't be surprised. Not like I'd be bothered to check, or anything... *Yawn*

Uh, yeah... testing.

*taps mike*

*feedback*

*and... star-wash* Hey kids! *dodges hurled fruit & veg* Pearly Gates is Open Late. Past your bedtime. To hold you over until SpecialCorner is up and poking you right between the eye.

*curtseys; absolves, etc.*