Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Bring It Home for Jerome

It’s that time of year again when I expand my vernacular beyond the realm of ‘80s metal to include palaver regarding contractual holdouts and two-a-days in 90+ degree heat. That’s right, training camp is upon us again, signifying the commencement of another disappointing season of Eagles football. In honor of this glorious genesis, I present the following—a small portion of a larger animal—which was scribed about two years ago. Enjoy.

Having been born and raised in a suburb of Philadelphia, I eat, sleep, and breathe pro football, and I bleed Eagles green. Everyone here bleeds green. A love for the Birds is a dominant gene passed down through family lineage. Elsewhere in the world, people often engage in meaningless small talk about the weather, but not here (although I frequently discuss this topic in the summer, during the offseason – ex: “Jesus H. Christ, I can’t take this heat….I swear my blood is thicker than cake batter!”). Instead, we break the ice by talking about Andy Reid’s playcalling on third and short. It is assumed that you love the Philadelphia Eagles. It is assumed that you know exactly how many passes the fifth-string wide receiver dropped during Thursday’s practice. It is assumed that you have memorized the precise times every linebacker on the roster ran the forty-yard dash at the combine. It is assumed you would give your left testicle (or left ovary...right, ladies?) to see the Eagles win the Super Bowl. Rooting against the Eagles is like rooting against America during wartime. That may sound extreme, but it isn’t. It’s considered blasphemy.

Apathy is absent on Sundays in these parts, especially today. This afternoon, the Eagles are hosting their iniquitous division rivals, the Dallas Cowboys, and the parking lot is already a celebratory mob scene of feverish diehards. Even when it’s twenty below zero outside, the parking lots along Broad and Pattison will be more than half-filled by 8:00 AM with an array of people partying and tailgating for a game that isn’t set to kick off until 4:15 PM.

Several years ago, I saw the Rolling Stones perform across the street from the asphalt where I currently stand. That day, people of all walks of life trekked from up and down the Eastern Seaboard to watch one of the greatest rock bands in history. I met a few interesting characters in the parking lot that evening, dabbled with some herbs and heinous chemicals, and drank my weight in imported booze, but the pre-show festivities paled in comparison to what transpires before an Eagles home game. Here, you can find anything if you look hard enough – More nitrous tanks in plain sight than three dentists’ offices and two Dave Matthews concerts combined…Bare-chested fanatics shotgunning beers and taking hits from a three-foot bong in a rickety midnight-green school bus…Thirty-eight year old accountants with their faces painted like ancient Philistine warriors, chopping out lines in an RV after guzzling numerous cold ones. Nothing is off limits here.

Now, before I go any further, let me get one thing straight: my goal is to paint a picture of reality as my eyes see it. In no way whatsoever is my intent to reinforce the adverse reputation of Philadelphia perpetuated by the national sports media. The so-called “experts” love to liken Philly fans to bloodthirsty savages who sacrifice farm animals in pagan rituals and seek to achieve immortality by feasting on the flesh of small children. After all, they jeered Santa Claus as if he was Hitler. They’ve launched batteries at opposing teams’ players. They even ejaculated in unison after Dallas receiver Michael Irvin was nearly crippled for life on the field, unable to move any phalanges as he laid immobile on the Astroturf. But the truth is that Philadelphians are the most loyal, hardcore, knowledgeable sports fans on the face of this planet. Can you blame them if they get a little restless? No metropolis with four major sports franchises has experienced a longer drought without a national title. If you were standing next to me right now in the midst of this green ocean, you would concur that the sight of more than fifty thousand people, whom comprise a variety of ages, races, and socioeconomic statuses, joined together for the exact same purpose is a beautiful fucking thing. For people of my generation in and around the City of Brotherly Love, Sunday is the closest thing we have to Woodstock. Except we’re not protesting the Vietnam War (or, sadly, the Iraq War either, for that matter); we’re protesting the Dallas Cowboys or New York Giants or whichever group of uniformed neo-gladiators steps into our house that given week. To some people, this may sound rather pathetic. Those people more than likely voted for Bush twice, listen to Coldplay, and identify with Dane Cook’s irreverent brand of comedy. And they probably root for the Cowboys. So they can go fuck themselves.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Magnum Opus

Ronnie James Dio is a metal god. Besides popularizing the devil horns hand gesture as the international sign of metal, his powerful voice has fronted bands like Rainbow, Black Sabbath, and his own solo project, Dio. I don’t consider Dio to be hair metal, per se; Dio is about as “hair metal” as Ozzy and Iron Maiden. Nevertheless, “Holy Diver”is a visual tour de force and it would be a crime against humanity to omit it from this shrine of acclamation. I’ve never seen Citizen Kane, but from what I hear, the allegory of Dio’s chef-d'oeuvre makes it look like a loose bowel movement in comparison.


In order to fully appreciate the genius that is “Holy Diver,” one has to leave all preconceptions at the doorstep. First, despite its title’s connotations, the video has nothing to do with deep sea diving. Second, despite the fact that Ronnie James Dio looks like a chain-smoking Camaro mechanic from North Jersey who just can‘t figure out what’s wrong with your carburetor, you will become spellbound by his portrayal of a valiant barbarian on a quest through a desolate medieval town.


Dio, clad in animal pelts and brandishing a sword, walks through the rusty gate and immediately finds himself in a confrontation with a battleaxe toting behemoth. His face is partially covered by tattered rags that resemble ripped up bed sheets with crude tiger stripes drawn on with a Sharpie. Dio is dwarfed by his opponent, which means that the giant brute must stand at an intimidating height in the range of 5’7” and 5’9”. Dio strikes him in the chest with his sword but, instead of killing him, his enemy mutates into rats.

As he fights onward, Dio is haunted by visions of a cardboard cutout of some kind which appears as a satanic silhouette. He visits a blacksmith who reforges his sword and stalks through the hallway with his new weapon past a sick bird on a perch. When he raises his sword, the wild bird soars through the air with the rope used to keep it perched in the previous scene still hanging from its legs.

The video concludes with a cliffhanger. The barbarian’s journey reaches a climax when he encounters three extra-terrestrial demons dressed like monks. The silhouette of the Beast in the background, flames flowing through the eye holes, Dio nears his nemeses as a man has a seizure on the ground.

I can say with all sincerity that “Holy Diver” is one of my favorite songs ever. Although this video may be his masterwork, there is a very strong probability that Dio will garner multiple inductions into this hallowed hall of visual perfection. If Clapton can earn three inductions into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Ronnie James Dio can double that number. No one utilizes the visual medium like Dio.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Gypsy Rose on a Gypsy Road


El Camino, beautiful mullet of the automotive world. Business in the front, party in the back, and my latest purchase to circumvent self-examination. When I die, load my coffin in the bed of the royal blue beast and navigate my corpse through city streets with a caravan of mourners in tow, blaring “November Rain” or anything that sounds remotely like Atomic Rooster’s "Death Walks Behind You." Then, dissolve my body in lye and store the brown, syrupy residue in a jar on the kitchen counter until it solidifies.
If you don’t wish you had one of these pulchritudinous machines, you are either:
a) Subconsciously repressing ghastly childhood memories,
b) Devoid of a soul, or
c) In a state of Enlightenment, which is the complete destruction of delusion and the consequent ending of craving and ill will; thus realizing the Second Noble Truth, which states that the direct cause of suffering is desire. Good for you.







Monday, July 21, 2008

Non Sequitur II: The Secret of the Ooze

I met a racist vegetarian today, a representative of a strange subculture of which I was unaware prior to this afternoon. To me, this chance encounter is on par with meeting a Mexican wolf boy in the produce section of Whole Foods or engaging in conversation with one of those long-necked giraffe women at an Applebee’s bar. You just don’t meet people like this everyday. Upon confirmation of her moral opposition to the industrial slaughter of animals for our carnivorous appetites, I inquired as to how someone can believe chickens engineered on farms for the sole purpose of human consumption are more important than black people. The answer I received involved growing up in a mixed neighborhood and being scared to walk down the street at night (Note: This young woman resembles a Wiccan Small Wonder and I expressed my disbelief in her hard-knock upbringing with contorted facial expressions). I’ve been bit by dogs, scratched by cats, and defecated upon by birds and flying creatures of the like, but I don’t hold it against their entire species. I’m not damning all canines because I stepped in dog shit six years ago. Her response: “Well, I don’t condone eating black people sandwiches and wearing coats made of Mexicans either.” I took my Shark Week: 20th Anniversary DVD to the register and paid the cashier.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Non Sequitur

I just discovered that Philly has it’s own soccer “firm” known as the Sons of Ben, despite the fact that the city does not have a team. Nevertheless, the SOB emulate European “firms” (as well as the 700 Level at the Vet) by consuming mass quantities of alcohol, swearing like sailors who stubbed their toes, and promising the possibility of senseless violence without a moment’s notice.



They attended the 2007 MLS Cup and enraged fans of the teams that were actually playing. They regularly trek to New England and chant “Phil-a-delphia” with their arms raised in the air. They travel to New York and chant, “We’ve won as many cups as you, Metro, Metro. We’ve won as many cups as you and we don’t have a team.”

They may very well be the most loathed vermin in the barren North American soccer landscape. A few months ago, however, MLS Commissioner Don Garber announced that Philadelphia would be home to the league’s 16th franchise in 2010. Does this get me excited about soccer? No. Not in the least. Does this get me excited about soccer riots in the States? Oh yeah, big time.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Born to be Mild

Allow me to turn back the clock about fifteen years or so to a strange wrinkle in time when the fashion appeal of flannel shirts extended beyond the Midwestern states, but before the dark days of Swing music’s reincarnation (which, in my opinion, may have very well been the first sign of the apocalypse and a warning from above to prepare for the Rapture, though two Catholic priests and one Baptist minister have since refuted this belief), and introduce you to a former hometown firebrand named Christian Lord. That’s right: Christian Lord. This is legitimately the name that appears on his birth certificate. Ergo, the kids in school devised clever nicknames for him like “The Good Shepherd” and “Son of Man.” To this day, Christian is still somewhat of a high school legend in Eastern Pennsylvania. Stories are passed down from one grade to the next about the kid who religiously (no pun intended) ate near-fatal quantities of acid everyday during school hours. His provincial fame was solidified senior year when he had a “bad trip,” stripped off all his clothes in Physics class while yammering about amphibians, and sprinted out of the building, not to be seen for two weeks. Last I heard he dropped out of Towson University during his sophomore year to devote all of his energy to his lifelong passion – magic. Yes, magic – pulling rabbits out of hats, swallowing fire and all that happy horseshit. Supposedly, he’s a local Penn Jilette of sorts and generates more income than most people my age with master’s degrees and MBAs. This miscarriage of justice, coupled with the fact that I never liked the imbecile, overwhelms me with resentment. He is the most loathsome creature walking on two legs. I haven’t seen him in about nine years and, if I had my way, I wouldn’t see him for another nine lifetimes. Unfortunately, I rarely get my way.

Monday, July 14, 2008

What a Death Rattle Sounds Like

Right now I’m sitting on a sofa with my arm around Angie Tennison, the sexiest girl employed by the LaFleur Company. Scratch that. Probably the sexiest girl I have ever met. Angie is the epitome of all that is woman. It’s been rumored that her timeless beauty and exquisite grace can cure cancer. I started that rumor a couple months ago. Her face is angelic. She is so breathtaking that I contemplated starting a petition to have her head preserved in a museum after she dies. I nixed the idea because I thought it might freak her out a bit.

I’m not sure where we are, but I am abnormally comfortable. My friend Tommy was here a minute ago. I’m not sure where he disappeared to, but it’s the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. We are engaged in conversation, but I’m incapable of paying attention to her words because I am mesmerized by the movement of her full, pouty lips. I can’t comprehend what she’s saying, but I can tell by the tone of her voice that things are going well. I am unconsciously talking back to her. I have no idea what I’m saying, but the gorgeous smile on her face informs me that I’m saying the right things. I stare deeply into her eyes. Our lips meet and suddenly…country music.

Set your alarm to country music and you may never sleep in again.

My alarm clock is strategically positioned halfway across the room and the volume is turned up to a level so loud it could wake the dead. When the clock strikes 6:30 AM and some redneck with a southern drawl starts harmonizing about the good ol’ stars and bars, the only conceivable option is to get your ass out of bed faster than a bat out of hell and turn off the radio.

Waking up was once such a simple task, yet somewhere along the way it turned into the most grueling part of the day.

Monday marks the beginning of a new workweek. A rite of passage for functioning junkies who engage in prolific substance abuse and watch countless hours of football on the weekend, Monday is the hardest morning to get out of bed and once again adapt to society at large, camouflaging one’s self amid the sea of clean-living, industrious folk. Ah yes, Monday. Chop out a line in the morning for a quick pick-me-up, pop a valium at lunchtime to calm the nerves, and drown your sorrows in your drink of choice after supper. I know what you’re thinking. No one at your workplace fits this description, right? Don’t be naïve. We are all around you. We are chameleons, highly trained professionals indeed. We are your bosses, your employees of the month, the interns who fetch your coffee. The mild-mannered cubicle denizens that are likely to snap at any moment and spiral into a “desk rage” killing spree.

Today, however, is different. The faint aroma of promise tickles my nostrils and I’m catching a contact high from the wisps of hope blowing in the wind.

Friday, July 11, 2008

In Search of the Lowest Common Denominator

The following is a transcription of a telephone conversation between my main squeeze and I:

Tracey: Hello. [aggravated tone]

Jack: Hey, Trace. What’cha doing, babe?

Tracey: I’m in Wal-Mart running errands. I swear, the people who work and shop here just came from either a rodeo or a crack house. I need to take a bath.

Jack: What are you doing shopping at Wal-Mart anyway? They’re a huge contributor to the trade deficit with China. That place is the Fourth Reich—

Tracey: Ow!

Jack: What? What happened?

Tracey: Ugggh. Nothing!

Jack: Babe, what the fuck happened? What’s going on?

Tracey: Some [lowers voice] big fat bitch [raises voice to normal volume] just ran over my foot with her cart and didn't even apologize. She’s yelling at her five kids in some other language.

Jack: French?

Tracey: What?

Jack: Was it French?

(Awkward Silence)

Jack: The language she was speaking….was it French?

Tracey: Um, no, babe. I’m pretty sure it was Spanish.

Jack: You want me to come over there?

Tracey: And do what?

Jack: I don’t know. Good question.

Tracey: Okay, let me go.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Leave Room for Dessert

The second inductee into my hedonistic hair metal heaven is “Cherry Pie,” Warrant’s epic and ethereal endeavor capable of defining an artist. This masterpiece is so aurally rich, narratively complex, and thematically expansive that it would take something on the order of a master’s thesis to fully stake out its parameters. Nevertheless, I will attempt to analyze the significance of the aforementioned video that has solidified Warrant as the voice of a generation.


Right from the onset, you know this is going to be one of those videos filmed in a room with white walls, white floors, and white ceilings, giving the impression that the band is performing in purgatory. Soon we are introduced to America’s second favorite glam rock groupie, who, instead of expiating her sins, is roller skating through purgatory in an apron. A myriad of scintillating baseball metaphors for sexual relations follows as a slice of pie is dropped in Bobbie Brown’s crotch. The symbolism is profound. Brown kicks her legs in the air on a couch shaped like a pair of lips as the drumheads become—wait for it—wait for it—cherry pies.

The band dons firefighters’ apparel and sprays down Ms. Brown with a fire hose. She continues to dance and frolic, eat cherries and lick her fingers. Ahead of their time, Warrant utilizes thrilling visuals and Matrix-like special effects to enhance the concept of the video and deep lyrical content:

Put a smile on your face ten miles wide

“Cherry Pie” makes for a delicious and elegant dining experience, but may I recommend a fine wine to enhance the taste? Jani Lane’s diatribe on Heavy: The Story of Metal is one of my favorite things in the world. It makes me laugh. It makes me weep. It makes me want to donate half my paycheck to the suicide prevention charity. The first time I saw it, I immediately began writing a script surrounding the last days of Jani Lane, a role Philip Seymour Hoffman was born to play (good call, right?). Then he signed up for Celebrity Fit Club and lost 23 pounds. The movie is going to be so much more badass…


For some, "Cherry Pie" is a place where the penitent are purified from venial sins. For others, it is a more permanent state of punishment and torment. For me, it's not "Heaven," but it's angelic in comparison to their cover of "We Will Rock You."

Saturday, July 5, 2008

Hokkaido Free Verse: The 47 Prefectures of an Alternative Dimensional State

God reviews the New York Times for grammatical errors every morning over a cup of Kopi Luwak

He audits Time for factual discrepancies

He verifies The Economist’s sources

He stays current on embryonic stem cell research by reading the latest scientific trade journals from Taiwan

After breakfast, he sniffs powdered tiger bone imported from Shanghai

God’s favorite publication is In Touch Weekly

Heidi Montag makes him want to vomit

An earthquake ravages the Pacific

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

The Insomniac's American Dream

Our great nation’s birthday is right around the corner and nothing says America like warm apple pie, athletes on steroids, and coupe utility vehicles with a Spanish name. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate America’s independence from Great Britain (and subsequent dependence on antidepressants, not that there’s any positive correlation between the two) than eating a slice of pie with Marion Jones in the back of an El Camino as spherical breaks of colored stars shoot across the night sky. Well, first I have to engage in the traditional methods of self-avoidance and buy an El Camino. Then I’ll get a pie. And if Marion Jones won’t return my letters and phone calls, I guess I’ll have to settle for Rafael Palmiero. As for the fireworks, I can do without them; they are not a significant part of this equation. Seriously, when was the last time you watched a fireworks display and went Holy shit! Did you see that? Telephones are mobile, mail is electronic, televisions are flat, and performing oral sex has become a societal protocol amongst the female population. A lot has changed over the years. Everything is bigger, better, and more convenient. Yet, despite all the great advancements throughout the past two decades, fireworks have stayed the same with very few exceptions. I challenge anyone to debate with me on this topic. I suppose one can argue that those ones that break apart and crackle, wiggling around like sperm under a microscope for a brief moment, weren‘t commonplace twenty years ago. Big deal. When I was seven, I figured that one day I’d go to the local high school football field and watch giant American flags and dead Soviets illuminating the black night. Instead, it’s the same old shit serving as a backdrop to Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to be an American.” Our forefathers have assumed the fetal position in their graves.