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est. 02.27.02

tmh superfriends:

March 2002

Take pictures of a car you could never afford.
The 2002 New York International Auto Show | Saturday, 03.30.02
And it only costs thirty five million dollars.
"Alright, now what we have here is the 2007 BMW Logmobile EX35. As you can see, it is made of a hollowed out tree, featuring a GPS screen, deluxe heated contour seats made of dirt and a holographic DJ which spins records in your backseat. The 24 hour wet bar fits conveniently in the trunk, along with an extra car, because you never know what can happen out on the road. Now over here is our Rideable Human line..."

I'll never understand concept cars. I've been going to the NY Auto Show for roughly half my life, and the concept cars have always remained concepts, thankfully. Remember when Homer designed the car for his forgotten brother? That's what I see.

The rest of the show was pretty good, though. Sat in some cars I will never own. I grew out of my Volkswagen Golf stage, even though it's still a nice little hatchback. I sat in a 2002 Cavalier, and it's amazing how little the car has changed since 1997. The only change I noticed was the cup holder, and I like mine better. Ah, '97 was the golden age of beverage restraint. Liked the Celica, sick of Hondas.

Oh please, what do I know about cars. I drove with my emergency brake on for 3 years.

Related link: New York International Auto Show

e/n sucks. But here it goes.
who needs content? thismayhurt does *real* e/n | Thursday, 03.28.02
This morning I woke up. I took a shower. I called my girlfriend to wake her up for school, unsuccessfully. I ate toast, drank orange juice and hated my parents. God I hate my parents. They don't understand my e/n website, my darkly colored bedroom, and then they threaten to take away my hair gel and webcam.

**note: this is a fake update. it is being written to showcase the evils of e/n without content. please proceed with caution.**

After I was done hating my parents, I decided to drive to my girlfriend's house and sulk around for a while. We bragged to each other about how much alcohol we can consume in one sitting and how much marijuana we can smoke. Then I rolled around on the floor with her cat, who was also drinking and smoking. The cat was "smoking a phatty." Rachel and I cut school, and decided to get drunk and high with the cat.

**note: see, in that last paragraph, I added many elements of your typical run-of-the-mill e/n site, including: alcohol, marijuana, sulking, and typing phrases that I would never speak aloud near African-Americans.**

Since we now had the entire day to ourselves, we decided to take my flatbed truck to the mall. We ate at Taco Bell, bought violent anime graphic novels, and stared at tits. Oh yeah, fuck shit boner clit.

**note: alright, once again, just making sure we're on the same page here: male e/n writers always have flatbed trucks. It was in the terms of service from my server, I must own a truck if I wish to continue updating this site. Also, blatant references to Mexican food, anime and breasts were mysteriously missing from the first two paragraphs, so I was sure to add as much as possible in the third. Plus, fucking cursing!**

All in all, it was a great fucking day. I spent the entire mall visit thinking about a cool headline to write for this very update, but I also thought about rollovers and working on my vacant webcam stare. Look at Tits! Click here! My life is very empty.

**The final paragraph must always include at least one (1) link to porn. Plus more cursing and webcam talk. I'm not claiming to be above typical e/n, but... well, alright I am. Click here for porn! Expand your fucking minds.**

The most important character in movie history's birthday.
Julian Glover | Wednesday, 03.27.02
I'd like to take this opportunity to wish a very happy birthday to one of the most important actors in the history of the world: Julian Glover. A master of the stage and screen, Julian "Hardcrotch" Glover had the leading role in over 700 movies, and only 690 of them were soft-core porn. Taken from the imdb.com: "His performance in the title role of the Royal Shakespeare
Company's staging of Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, at the Barbican Centre in London, earned him the Laurence Olivier Award for Best Actor in 1993"
. The site failed to mention his 12 year reign as Miss Universe and his frequent receival (not a word but sounds like it should be)of perfect attendance certificates well after graduating from any form of schooling.

While I am well acquainted with Dr. Prof. Glover Esquire's stunning performance as "Dead Police Officer #57" in the 1978 made for television special "Rumpole of the Bailey," those reading this update may know him from the banal, thoroughly uninspired The Empire Strikes Back, in which he played the glue which held the piece together "General Veers." Again, the world should always remember Glover's work in "Holden City," in which he played Ian "Margaret" Richards in the Christmas Carol Episode #1A (unfortunately his character was replaced with three dozen sock puppets in episode #1B, but that is an entirely different story alltogether) yet for some reason, the name Julian "Heroin Foot" Glover brings forth images of that goofy helmet that George Lucas made him wear. To think that the winner of the Laurence Olivier Award for Best Actor in 1993 was forced to wear a Rubbermaid bucket on his head fills me with disgust and a rage only comparable to missing NOVA on PBS.

Impeccable timing. Strong leading men. Small, supple, womanly feet. This is how I remember Sir Julian "Give Me Your Wallet or I'll Kill Your Unborn Daughter" Glover. Not the guy driving the AT-AT, wearing a silly helmet, talking to Vader holograms and uttering the famous words: "Target: maximum firepower." And with that: Happy 67th Birthday Julian Glover of "Quatermass and the Pit" fame. Not Empire. Let's not remember him for Empire.

Related link: theforce.net has way too much free time.

You want your money back yo listen up...
NO FUCKING REFUNDS. | Tuesday, 03.26.02

I only make a dollar off each shirt. Buy 70.

An interesting headline.
same old tiered bullshit | Monday, 03.25.02
thismayhurt does E! News Daily, as I ramble incoherently about the world of entertainment as if it was groundbreaking information.

That weird Chris Cornell / Rage hybrid broke up in true "what the hell was that all about" fashion. I mean, I've always been a Soundgarden fan, and until recently I've been into Rage, but I just can't take hearing anything from Tom Morello anymore, music or otherwise. "Hey, his guitar sounds like something other than a guitar! Like it goes 'eeeeeeh' or 'eh eh eh eh.' Genuis!" Political rock can eat a sock full of cocks.

The last 10 minutes of the Oscars proved the most interesting... because that's the only part of it I watched. Some people won (I think), some people lost (right?), but in the end, there was enough scrilla in that room to construct a planet made of theme parks. Who wouldn't wait in line for Russell Crowe's Wild Ride? THRILL as the bearded "thunder from down under" repeatedly punches you in the neck after looking in his general direction. TRY to decipher the alcoholic ramblings that spew forth from his Aussie mouth (hint: most of them rhyme with "motherfucker.") Once again TRY to escape unscathed after referring to Crowe as "Maximus" and blindsiding him with your broad sword. It's really not much of a ride, more like combat training.

And now back to music news. Korn. Love them or hate them... alright, it's ok to hate them now. Maybe the lead singer of Megadeth was right so many years ago when he called them 'dyslexic fucks' or something like that. Now I love listening to popular music on the radio (I mean, I really can't get enough Linkin Park. God, when they sing about cool subjects like not fitting in, or being an outsider, I just want to start a "mosh pit" or something. Plus they're super cute!) but the new Korn has got to go. Unless Jonathan writes a song about the size of his forehead. and pouts like a choir boy for 4 and a half minutes.

It's about coming up, and staying on top and screaming 1-8-7 on a muthafuckin' cop.
my second run-in with the pigs | Saturday, 03.23.02
"I say fine chaps, 'fuck the po-lice.'"
Gather round children. Hear the story of my $44 trip to IKEA, without an unpronouncable piece of furniture to speak of. Coming home from the giant blue Sweden-away-from-home I saw the blue and reds flashing behind me. It was right after pulling out of the toll plaza, and my first thought was that the cops were strictly enforcing the 15 mph speed limit in the EZ-Pass lanes. But no. Fucking seat belts. Again.

Both Rachel and I feel that we were the victims of racial profiling. "This is Officer Harry Cox, I have two white co-eds going 10 mph through the toll plaza, I'm gonna need back up and a plunger to violate the vehicle operator. Over." By going to school in Newark, every class has at least one session that revolves around racial profiling. Yet it only works one way. But to a black cop, we fit the description of snotty white teenagers up to no good. Basically we helped fill their quota of seat-belt violations for the month. It's so fucking corny, at least pull me over for that state trooper I have dragging from the bumper.

This is a cliched complaint, but why do state troopers care if I live or die? By not wearing my seat belt I am putting full confidence in myself and (stupidly) those around me. I understand the consequences of not wearing one, but maybe I'm just an idiot. My punishment should be a painfully violent death through a shattered windshield, not a ticket. Eh, whatever. I like my poster.

Related link: Police, tickets, and race.

We are sexy co-eds.
spring break @ tom's river | Friday, 03.22.02
There's nothing more satisfying than getting a hotel room down the shore, gorging on stale overpriced 7-11 ass treats, renting porn and then driving aimlessly the next day. That's what me and Rachel did yesterday, which effectively ended my rant about not doing anything for spring break. Not that I have a job, money, or a positive outlook on life or anything, but it was just nice to be away from this godforsaken room for a night.

And everything's better when you're in a hotel room. Hotel showers always kick the crap out of mine, which has the water pressure of an old man peeing gingerly all over you, minus the heat. Another great part of this trip was the free paper we didn't get. I was so aware of world events for the week that I was in Florida since we got USA Today delivered fresh to our door every morning. I was all over the Aaliyah crash and some hillbilly winning the lottery. "Babe, look! Baseball scores! A flow chart about how terrorism works! Screw dance, I wanna be a journalist!"

After the hotel room festivities were over (if you catch my vague sexual innuendo, heh heh heh, sleazy guy laugh) we went to Bradley Beach, pretended we were naked college co-eds on spring break and held a volleyball tournament against Alpha Delta Delta. Alright, actually we stood on a pier, put money in one of those big viewmaster looking things and watched a man and his dog frolic on the beach. Then we challenged some rich kids on a private beach to a bikini contest, and whoever won got free ice cream! Yeah! Spring Break 2002! Fuckin-A! Ice! Cream!

Next was a trip to Red Bank for a stop at the secret stash where Rachel bought her unemployed food stamp using boyfriend the poster he's been talking about for months. Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he went on his three hour weepy tyrade about "finding work" and "getting skills" and "learning to read and write." Then he just looked over at her and knew that he was so happy with his relationship after this little trip. Not that I wasn't happy before, but I'm just really grateful for how well everything has been lately. Sometimes I just need to cry... excuse me...

*Ring Ring* "Hello, cheese?" No, cheese can't dial a phone.
thrill as I argue with an inanimate object | Wednesday, 03.20.02

This is my cell phone. I want it to die. It has been dropped, frozen, thrown in anger, and I have passed it through my lower intestine. Anything electronic inside the mechanical beast is broken in half, as moving it sounds like shaking a box of Legos and broken glass. The charger only works when it wants to, so I'll leave my house with four bars of power, press the "2" key and it drains down to negative 3 bars (3 bars less than no bars at all). That is, if I could even press the "2" key, since the phone has to grant me permission to even press its sticky, Mountain Dew soaked buttons. Voice recognition dialing is an even bigger joke, since a rare Brush Finch flew past my head as I recorded the phrase "call home please." So now, the same bird has to fly past me as I repeat the words "call home please" in order for the recognition to kick in.

One day when supreme hatred coursed through my veins towards the cell phone, I threw it across the room as hard as possible. That's when the rattling started. Then I threw it down the stairs for rattling.

Have you ever watched old sci-fi movies when something or someone became radioactive? They'd always emit that "scientific wave of evil sound" before growing twenty stories and causing general chaos. Yeah, my phone makes that sound now. Most likely it's cancer being fed directly into my ear. Ha ha, cancer. "I'm not sure what keeps me coming back to thismayhurt.com, his cell phone commentary, or his jokes about cancerous brain tumors!"

best of white.noise >> Battle of Olympus Owns Your Bitch Ass
originally posted 5.31.01 @ white.noise | Wednesday, 03.20.02
webmaster's note: this update came from my old website white.noise. it will be immediately obvious, since i curse a fuck of a lot more. enjoy.

I hope you like this screen, because you'll be seeing it everytime the teddy bears and goo decide that it's time for your Olympass to get dead.
When some smart guys in Japan created the Nintendo Entertainment System, they ejaculated a phenomena all over the faces of children and fat guys across the planet, and also brought forth a wave of reasons to break things and hit siblings. You see, hundreds of years ago when the NES hit the market, it played these big clunky squares of plastic called "games." When properly blown into and shaken, these "games" could be "played" on the NES, bringing joy and merriment to those whose faces were 3 inches from their "televisions."

Through the magic of video game pirac... I mean emulation, I was able to play one of my favorite games from back in the day: Broderbund's masterpiece: The Battle of Olympus. Mario? Megaman? Link? All a bunch of fucking faggots compared to... uh, the Battler of Olympus. The little guy's so fucking badass he doesn't even need a name. Did Mario have a name? Yeah, I think he did, and I think it was Mario. Enough said.

Battle of Olympus (BoO) was the greatest game ever created for any system, hands down. Well, at least the first level was. I never could get past that first level. But it was so well designed that I didn't even mind playing it every day of my life for three years. Did you ever get past the first level of Kung Fu? Fuck yeah you did. Again, I rest my case. BoO was so good that they didn't even have to make any other levels for it. Just one. And it kicked the shit out of 1-2 in Super Mario.

The "Club an Old Woman in the Face" bonus round. As you can see in my inventory, I racked up two (2) happy clown noses and one (1) lump of poo. I died two seconds later.
Now, in terms of story, I can only piece some stuff together from the townsfolk who live in the middle of the forest next to the piles of goo which try to kill you and the teddy bears holding forks. Basically, the game revolves around Salamander pits, and they should be avoided at all costs. Plus, I'm told that if you're touched by a Salamander, it will take life away. And guess what folks? This game is just like real life, because you only get ONE LIFE! So when that pile of goo touches you three times, it's fucking over, kid. Wait a second, how many lives did you get in Contra? 5? Let me tell you one thing, 5 lives are for adopted kids, ok? Only adopted children with foster parents who don't love them need 5 lives to play a video game. BoO is the most realistic Olympus simulator on the market, and you can quote me on that you son of a bitch.

No word of lie, I could play BoO until my eyes fell out of my skull. It's so much fun that I don't even mind dying. It's a pleasure to be killed by a teddy bear holding a fork, or even a pile of goo for that matter.

In a world where video games offer nothing but gratuitous violence, scandily clad ladies, well conceived storylines and plumbers with raccoon tales, it's nice to sit down with The Battle of Olympus for a few hours, and partake in the mind numbing insanity of the first level. I hear reaching the second level is like achieving an orgasm on Exstacy. Fucking piles of goo.

Hudson County Uber Alles
spring break @ my swinging beach house | Monday, 03.18.02
Location of my Spring Break beach house. Right near the ocean. In Times Square. That's me in the truck. Really.
Don't let MTV fool you, Spring Break sucks. I've been off from school for 3 days, and so far, no luxurious beaches, no drunken frat brothers sleeping on my couch, and no Jesse Camp. But I did spend two cold days in New York, my Uncle Remus crashed in my beanbag chair, and Matt Pinfield came over and had a little "rap session" with me. Oh who am I trying to kid? I don't even have an Uncle Remus. And I wouldn't let Jesse Camp or Matt Pinfield into the state, let alone my house. "Like, whoa, can I like... whoa..."

Instead of looking for a job, I've decided to auction off everything in my house that isn't breathing. I go through this stage every few months where I don one of those jeweler eye things and appraise the value of my accumulated crap.

"Alright, must find shit to sell... hmm... empty cracked jewel cases? Perfect! How much are they going for on ebay? None listed?! Excellent, I'll be the only cracked jewel case dealer in the tri-state area! Splintery floor boards, where did these come from?! Where's my crowbar?"

And so on and so on until I'm trembling in the corner of my room, staring at the blank wall where my radiator used to be. It's gotten so depressing that I sold my CVS Extra Bucks to my mother for gas money. No cash value my ass, I'll take $1.15 of the regular, thank you very much. I go to the same gas station every two days, and the guy cringes when I roll up in there since he knows I'm either go to ask for a ridiculously insufficient amount of gas or I'm going to be unloading all the change from my middle console.

Me: How much gas will it take for me to go up the block?
Gas clerk: About 1/64th of a gallon.
Me: Right-o good man! I'll take it, and let's not be stingy with the window washing either!
Gas clerk (places nozzle in gas tank. quickly pulls it out): That'll be 37 cents.
Me: Right, um, I'm a little short tonight, could you spot me, oh I don't know, say, a dime, a quarter and a penny? I'm good for the rest, I swear.
Gas clerk: Just get out of my sight. You didn't auction off your seatbelts on ebay, did you?
Me: Some raver kid was offering me $10 for them!

This is my life.

Body Care. Grooming. They're cops.
Site update posing as a real update | Friday, 03.15.02
I created some banners. They're orange. One has a bunny smoking a stogue. That is all.

1. My thismayhurt email now works. If you've sent anything to that address over the past few days, chances are I didn't get it. So, lacki@thismayhurt.com is awaiting your pyramid scams, pagan chain letters and Viagra coupons.

2. I added a FAQ. I can guarantee you that no one has asked these questions, but I was bored in the computer lab yesterday and decided to frequently ask myself. I did a lot of soul searching, and it turns out that I'm incredibly shallow and unintersting.

3. The new background image behind the title is a random pic I found of the People's Park Riots.

4. Thank you Hotline for hooking me up with The White Stripes' White Blood Cells and Radiohead's O.K. Computer. That Grammy guy should have hired me to illegally download songs from the internet.

If the man wanted a small soda, he would have asked for a small soda.
This is the second time that geeky television blew my feeble mind. The first time was in 1998. For some reason I was watching the Sci-Fi Channel when Mystery Science Theater wasn't on, and there was this special about the dreaded Y2K bug. This was the first I ever heard of it, and the program basically said that when the clock strikes midnight (eastern standard time, since the tri-state area obviously is the center of the universe) into 2000, everything would blow up. Missiles, puppies, your grandma, everything. Sure, there was a pretty good reason as to why it would actually happen, but it was more fun to believe that things would spontaneously combust once the ball dropped. Couches bursting into flames. Cans of Progresso soup imploding, etc.

So now it's 2002, and for some reason I'm watching TechTV, just praying that I'll catch the ever informative "Mac tip of the Day" (today's tip: the 'delete' key deletes text. Try it! Use a helmet!). One of the three shows on that channel had a news report about SpeedPass. What is SpeedPass? Well, if you've gotten gas from an Exxon or Mobil station, you may have seen people waving magic wands in front of the pump, filling their tanks and driving off without paying. That is the magic of SpeedPass. It's kind of like E-Z Pass for the Jersey Turnpike and Parkway since you pay for a service without using real phsyical money. But wait, the frightening part is coming... SpeedPass for McDonalds. Don't feel like digging change out of your tight-ass Wranglers? Just wave your SpeedPass enabled watch in front of the woman with Down's Syndrome, and you can just drive away, food in pudgy hand. Right, I'm not fat enough, can you please just send the food straight to my mouth so I don't have to get up from the john-sized indentation on the couch?

Ah, technology. Now as I watched this special report that somehow didn't involve the wonderment of Linux, I thought as I did above. We are fat, lazy, and hungry for french fries and gas, preferably in the same bag. But the more I turned the idea of SpeedPass over in my head, the more I got used to it. The report spoke about how paper money and even credit cards would be a thing of the past, as devices like SpeedPass would become more common. The idea of never having to carry money didn't bother me at all. In fact, I'm about ready to throw all my money in the street; p'shaw, paper money? How 1999. I look forward to what advances in fatty technology the future holds. Unless everything starts coming in pill form. For some reason, that's all Hollywood has to offer when it comes to the future. "You mean, I can eat porkchops, while gagging on a horse pill? Shit, freeze my body now so I can live in this wacky space-age disco future!"

Penalty for civilian kills!
Rockstar Games' State of Emergency review | Saturday, 03.09.02
Rockstar Games is known for its morbidly realistic graphics and adult content. They're the company behind Max Payne, one of the nicest looking first person shooters ever made, and of course, Grand Theft Auto III. GTA killed all the hype surrounding Final Fantasy X and Metal Gear Solid 2 during the holiday season. And with good reason, it's the most addictive game I've ever played since Crazy Taxi.

But for those who've never played it, you must be wondering why it's so successful. The media focused on the violence and adult themes so much that the gameplay is often overlooked. To sum it up really quickly, you play a guy who accepts missions from various bosses around a huge city. You start off slowly, drive this person here, pick up a package there. The more jobs you successfully pull off, the more difficult the game becomes. Before you know it you're bumping off mob bosses, stealing expensive sports cars and blowing up buildings. While that's all well and good, it's the realism that makes it work. You believe that you're in this city, running around, bumping into people. If you run in front of a car, it will slam on its brakes, and the driver will scream at you (your silent character will usually flip them off). If you pull a gun on someone, they'll raise their hands and quiver. The level of detail is amazing.

When I found out that Rockstar Games made another addition to the Playstation 2 library, I became really excited. I rented it yesterday, and even though I've only played it for a few hours, I think I can give State of Emergency a fair review.

(drum roll) It's no Grand Theft Auto. And while I don't expect Rockstar to spit out the same game after game, it just doesn't have the same feel. State of Emergency has more in common with the aforementioned Crazy Taxi than GTA. You choose a character, choose a location and run around blowing stuff up. The game is based on a points system, so the more points you earn, the more time you earn to get more points. So, if you kill a cop, you get X amount of points. Smash some windows, X amount of points. Kill civilians and lose points. It has a definite arcade feel to it, since there's no real story (although there is a mission based mode, but it seems like more of an afterthought).

First, let's start off with the positive. SOA is really brite and cartoony. The developers brag about the number of characters on the screen at once, and they should. The first level is a mall, and hundreds of people are running around you, screaming and looting. The controls are ok, it took me about 15 minutes to get a feel of what every button did.

Now on to the negative stuff. Where Grand Theft Auto III really came through, State of Emergency fails. GTA is very simple: Go from point A to point B, receive a reward. When you complete a mission and your bank account swells, you get a real sense of accomplishment. Especially in later levels where you replay missions over and over trying to get it right. SOA has the same kind of simplicity, but no reward. There's hidden characters to unlock, but it just kind of tosses you into the action with no real deviation from level to level. GTA starts you off with a baseball bat and a taxi, so when you fire an uzi from your stolen FBI car, you know you've made some progress. SOA hands you a rocket launcher within the first 10 minutes.

State of Emergency offers mindless fun for a while, but I wish it had some more depth to it. It became addictive once I got the hang of it, but it won't steal entire nights from me the way Grand Theft Auto did.

Related link: State of Emergency

For sale. '97 Cavalier. Some windshield damage. Not a homicidal death car.
Christmas at Chante Mallard's house | Thursday, 03.07.02
My Journalism and Comm Media class got me hooked on the Drudge Report. Today's update featured this headline: Man Lives 2 Days Stuck in Broken Windshield. Sounds like a miraculous story, right? It should have read Man Lives 2 Days Stuck in Broken Windshield, cries for help, receives none, then dies.

Now, of course this is a horrible story. If you're too lazy to click the links, some dingy broad was hepped up on goofballs, hit some guy with her car, and he gets lodged in the windshield. She drives her car home (with this guy's upper torso chillin' on her dashboard) parks her car in the garage, and the guy dies in two days. The story really hit home because a) I have the same car mentioned in the article and b) I have a small pebble stuck in my windshield.

I'm very anal about tiny imperfections. This pebble bothers the shit out of me. For months I thought it was magical bird poop that the windshield wipers were somehow passing over. I probably can't remove it even if I wanted to, but I've assured myself that even touching the small rock will collapse the entire windshield.

Now, that's a rock. The body of a 37 year old man lodged in my car might bother me a bit more. And I love driving drunk while on raver drugs as much as the next guy, but christ, what do you say to the person who's driving the car that you're currently lodged in besides, "For the love of sweet jesus, just hit the brakes and push on my face!"

Now, she drove the car to her house and left it in her garage while the guy screamed for help. How loudly do you have to turn up the latest Creed album to ignore a man slowly driving next to your weed wacker? She turned herself in a few days ago because she felt a little guilty for her actions. THIS HAPPENED IN OCTOBER! IT'S NOW MARCH! What was Christmas like at this woman's house?

Dingy broad: God, isn't it nice that we're all here together for the holidays in the house attached to the garage that isn't the site of a gruesome homicidal blood bath?
Dingy broad's mom: Why dearest, whatever do you mean?
Dingy broad: Oh, you know, just playing Christmas carols loud enough to drive the sound of human flesh being thrusted through a windshield out of my skull?
Dingy broad's father: Oh darn, I forgot to bring the gravy. Honey, let me just borrow your '97 Cavalier, parked conveniently enough in the garage, so that I may go to the store and buy said gravy.
Dingy broad: Ugh, gravy? Never touch the stuff. You don't need to take my car. What are you looking at? Can't you just walk to the store? IT'S ONLY 5 MILES AWAY! I DIDN'T KILL ANYONE! I HATE YOU! I'LL KILL YOU ALL WITH THE WINDSHIELD OF MY CAR!

Anyway, despite all the hijinks found in this update, someone did die, and for that I feel horrible. But, at the same time, some idiot is about to be fucked by the strong fist of the law, and for that America, I salute you.

Related link: Bizarre details of man's death revealed

You've got to punch the clock, too scared to punch your boss.
Any anti-workplace Dead Kennedys lyric is appropriate here | Wednesday, 03.06.02

Today was the end of an era, as I threw my red vest onto a pile of garbage and walked out the automatic doors of CVS for the very last time. Well, at least until my two remaining checks come in. Or if I have an urgent need for 90% marked down Valentine's Day candy. A word of warning: ghetto Ju-Ju hearts don't keep well.

Now I must rid my brain of the placement of products around the store. I don't want to walk into my bathroom, notice that I'm out of Q-Tips and figure out the quickest way to get to aisle 7b, bottom shelf. I don't want to know that the enemas are in aisle 20, or that boxes of tissues are located in aisle 3, 6, 18, 20 and in front of the pharmacy. Useless knowledge of product placement, get out of my head!

"Please have your ExtraCare card ready when you go to the register to receive discounts and special offers throughout the store. If you don't have an ExtraCare card, simply ask a CVS employee, and they will give you a card that you can use today!"

Oh, mindlessly happy woman who made this announcement over the speaker system every 15 minutes, leave my skull!

Related link: I sold my soul for $5.50/hour

Start dancing to the music of Gorillaz in a happy mood.
Gorillaz review, but mostly me bitching about some guy | Monday, 03.04.02
Damn were the Gorillaz good. I mean, you couldn't tell from the audience reaction, who basically stood there watching the bright seizure-inducing cartoons, nodding slightly. Sure there were a few drunks dancing here and there, but mostly standing. I'd say at least half the audience was older than I was.

The one person I didn't want to see was there, the guy me and Rachel affectionately call "that fucking MSI guy." When we went to meet System of a Down at Tower Records, there was this 8 foot tall black dude with an MSI visor making friends with anyone within earshot. Alright, making friends is a bit of an overstatement, as he was just walking around and bumping into people; if you decided to talk to him it was your own fault. Anyway, I, being the idiot that I am, was wearing my MSI shirt, thereby causing that fucking MSI guy to shit himself and talk to me. And talk to me. And talk to me...

MSI Guy: Man, have you seen them live before? Like dude, man."
Me:Yeah, twice.
MSI Guy: Man, I've seen them like seventeen times or some shit.
Me:Please wash. Thanks.

So me and Rachel are walking towards the Hammerstein, and there he is, that fucking MSI guy. Luckily he didn't see me, although I don't think he would have remembered me, as most of his life probably exists between 30 second periods in which he's not shooting heroin.

The Gorillaz show itself was, as aforementioned, really damned good. For about an hour you become absorbed into their cartoon world, and you forget that there's real live people playing behind the huge screen. The only real complaint I have is the presence of D-12, Eminem's Dirty Dozen rap posse (even though there's like, I don't know, five of them or something). They provided the rap part of Clint Eastwood and it just wasn't the same. But, the rest of the show was great, definitely up there with the best live shows I've ever seen.

Related link: Gorillaz

Catch da mouse squash his head
I attempt to review a Radiohead cd | Friday, 03.01.02
I have this really cool class this semester called Arts Criticism, taught by the New York Times arts critic Terry Teachout. Anyway, our last assignment was to get a cd that we didn't think we would like and write two reviews, each expressing the same opinion but using different language. I've been looking for a reason to pick up a Radiohead cd for quite some time, and this was perfect. Part of me thought I'd see right throught their pretentious crap, while another part of me said, "john, you're in college, it's time to start listening to Radiohead and embrace the clothing styles of Weezer."

Well, anyway, I actually liked their new cd, and here are the reviews. I wrote the first one with Spin or Rolling Stone in mind, while the second is more generic.

Radioheadís Amnesiac is a small girl hunched over an Alice in Wonderland coloring book, happily scribbling with two thick black Sharpies. Youíll become lost in the bleak landscape of drum loops and subtle guitar work, only to be found by Thom Yorkeís quiet whispers. Amnesiac begins mechanically and ends oddly with a brass section, but the middle tracks shine through the heavy sludge since they have an audible structure. Radioheadís latest effort has enough pop to be catchy, and enough melodrama to be indie.

The members of Radiohead have once again defied genres with their latest release Amnesiac. Although this album contains leftovers from the Kid-A sessions, Amnesiac has more dignity than a collection of scrapped B-sides. The moody ambience can be a bit overbearing upon the first listen, while "Knives Out," "Morning Bell/Amnesiac" and "Life in a Glass House" stand out immediately. Amnesiac gently flows from one track to the next, taking the listener to beautiful places and crowning Radiohead as the kings of experimentation.



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