the pineapple express.

I was recently asked to discuss the underrated nature of the pineapple as a fruit. Upon my quite diligent research, I did learn some lovely things exclusive to the pineapple:

1. it can be either eaten or applied topically as an anti-inflammatory and as a proteolytic agent
2. some claim that it helps to induce childbirth when a baby is overdue
3. the natural (or most common) pollinator of the pineapple is the hummingbird: and if you know me, you know I love me a hummingbird.

but c'mon: can you really put on an apple or orange helmet to scare the fuck out of your friends and family? I hear a resounding no. No you cannot.

so thank you pineapple.

name that punk rocker.

not sure why it took me 35 years to notice that Iggy Pop and Patti Smith are otherworldly twins.

cover bands & the genius of replication.

yeah, this is more or less posted to help me feel better about my former life in a cover band.

I'll Get Offa Yer Cloud: five reasons not to fear the Zabka.

yeah, so we all know by now the prolific badassness of one William Zabka in the 80s:

1. Johnny Lawrence (above) in the Karate Kid
2. Greg Tolan in Just One of the Guys
3. Chaz in Back To School

Billy-Boy was the effortless go-to bully for some of my favorite teen-comedy classics. there's even a song about his most notorious role. but I'll tell you what - here's five fellas from the 80s that are way more badass:

1. col. james braddock: because the chief export of chuck norris is Pain.
2. brian shute: yep. he trains with a motherfucking log. up steps.
3. jack burton: because it's all in the reflexes.
4. ronnie james dio: the saber-lighted savior of a futuristic humanity.
5. leroy green: because he got that glow: sho'nuff!

another reason to love canada.

dekey! and so magical.

rolling stone: america's favorite new softcore gay-porn mag for Tweens.

it was maybe early last autumn. the night was crisp, not yet dark. and there was a rapping on my door:

sir, good evening. I'm trying to amass points by selling magazine subscriptions... etc... etc... blah.

in truth, he spoke rather verbosely which contrasted to my very short attention span. so I'm not really sure who he represented directly. but you know what? I like to help. because I am quite the altruist.

so I decided to get a year's subscription to the Rolling Stone Magazine. I mean, I love music. and since I only listen to my silver iPod Nano these days, far from the stale airwaves of modern music, I figured it would be a phenom way to stay informed.

this was my first delivery.

Ok. hot new heartthrob, though not sure when tweens became the target audience. but what the heck.

this soon followed. and this. and this.

and yesterday I got this.

and a pattern emerged, friends. a very homo-erotic pattern with lots of sculpted skin.

so I went back to some of last year's covers, for prosperity's sake, and thus found this gem: who may or may not be a dude. regardless, (s)he is very popular in the gay community.

then I remembered exactly why I went into my underground iPod shelter in the first place: MTV's abuse on modern music. or, moreover: their lack of commitment to nurture music over the numbing wasteland that has become modern television aimed toward the vulturous teendom generation.

not that I so much mind men on the cover of a magazine, know you. rock & roll has always been about sex. and rock & roll has historically been male-dominated. but the evolution of the targeted audience does befuddle me: jesus christ: this is Rolling fucking Stone!

alas, pop culture has become a microcosm of the humdrum. but maybe next month's cover can be a true and darling compromise.

cheers.

hey, dalton: that thing you do.

here's the thing. Road House is one of those entrancing movies. I cant stare away. and it doesn't even slightly embarrass me to confess this.

nor am I alone.

so: I'm not gonna lie. I love this damn movie. any time I see it on the tele, I turn to it (kudos AMC). And yes, I watch it. I watch Swayze punch people to the ground. I watch Swayze get cut then fall in love with Kelly Lynch. I watch Swayze mourn the death of Sam Elliott. I watch every damn time like it never happened.

the chicks, they dig Dirty Dancing. well, this motherfucker here loves Road House. he loves the explosions, the fights, the Jeff Healey Band, the punch that rips out the throat. He loves it and there are no regrets.

Road House might be my generation's Citizen Kane. it's that good. well, no. it isnt that good. but it's good enough to make me watch it every damn time it's on.

and here I am. embracing it. like I should. like we all should.

God Bless you Dalton. God bless you for cleaning up the dirtiness of bartime-lousiness in your mulleted glory. God bless you for making me fall in love with you again. and again. and again.

welcome to the machine.

"the pendulum it swings, a strange loop

we move from birth to death to birth and so forth so we can come to understand why we move at all: the crush & merge into the rubedo.

we become the completeness, each a petal to open and reach toward the sun: each a petal to

devour the atoms of the earth and absorb the absolute into our own."