In other news, I have really been enjoying the long-playing record Neil Hamburger Sings Country Winners, which came out two years ago on the Drag City label but which I got from my neighbor Virginia for $1 at my own yard sale last Sunday.

And, for the record, those penis-sized holes in the bathroom at Spaceland have always been there.

I read a lot of internet discussions, often “lurking” for months without adding to a comment thread because usually some more prolific jerk will eventually get around to stating my case for me, saving me the hassles of crafting a response. It’s only the internet, anyway. In the heat of virtual battle, no one expects you to be Clarence fucking Darrow.

However.

There are a few internet things that you should just stop doing. Please. These verbal tropes suck the air out of any argument. Everyone has read them before, so they have been long drained of any humor value or damaging sting. They are old as dirt, which means that exponentially, in internet terms, they actually predate the Big Bang, which is almost impossible, I think. Ask an astrophysicist. To use one of these not-at-all-funny-or-clever turns of phrase marks you as a poser, a hack, a lazy thinker… about as hip as Strom Thurmond, who has been dead for several years now. In my opinion, even ol’ Strom seems fresher at this point.

Beyond the glaringly obvious examples (we all know no one is really ROFLing or LOLing or LMFAOing, but that war on stupidity was lost long ago), the following interweb stinkers are tough and insidious. If you adopt these, I’m calling you out, motherfucker. Please feel free to hit the comment section and list other clichés you’re glad I missed.

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“That’s ___ minutes/hours of my life that I’ll never get back.”
The SNL of web clichés. This one just won’t go away, and variations seem to be employed by everyone, from cretinous YouTuber youths, to that great-grandmother who’s using her neighbor’s dialup connection to send you inspirational e-Cards. Sometimes overheard when walking out of a movie theatre.

The premise is faulty. Take it from someone who’s basically wasted his entire life – you weren’t going to use that lost time for anything constructive, anyway.

“I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”
This unsolicited medical report is not the least bit convincing. Anyone who repeats it should be required to undergo some sort of breathalyzer test for traces of vomit. Interestingly, this expression seems to mostly be utilized by females. Now, I realize that you delicate ladies need to express your online disdain more frequently than we disgusting, brutish males do, but there’s gotta be a better way!

(Note: Lesser corollaries to this cliché will make reference to stabbing out one’s eyeballs or rinsing them with bleach.)

“(clumsily altered text) – There, fixed that for you.”
A smarmy way to use your HTML skills to modify the words of your opponent into something you wish you’d said. This was slightly clever the very first time it was used in an internet brawl. Since then, it’s been just an obnoxious method of turning a level debate into a bonfire of straw. By the way, that guy who originally invented it lost his argument anyway, so fuck you let that be a lesson.

“Wow. Just wow.” / “Eww. Just eww.”
A simple “gosh golly gee” or “that’s gross” would express your astonishment/nausea a lot better. This is as overplayed as yelling “whaasssup!!” like you’re starring in a ‘90s Budweiser ad.

“How’s that working out for ya?”
This is the same as saying, “I really deserve a punch in the face, but we’re on the internet, so nyaah nyaah nyaah.” Why would you want to imitate the smug cadence of Sarah Palin in your internet comments? Don’t be a douchebag.

“______ just shot out of my nose. You owe me a new keyboard/monitor.”
No, it didn’t. Clichés came out of your ass. No one owes you anything.

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Arthur Tracy – “Pennies From Heaven”

In our opinion, the institutionalized exclusion of these two cultural wunderkinds from the hallowed grounds of elite critical discussion is no less than a crime against art.

“Is it humanly possible to feel completely sick to the stomach when your [sic] around someone?

yes-√     no-☐

Glad you agree with me! Now I need you to please go home and take a shower to wash off the smell of camel and corn. Please.”

...

“I would normally say you aren’t worthy enough to fuck a human but I seriously can’t let myself as a P.E.T.A. member to [sic] allow you to fornicate with animals either. It’s complete animal cruelty! Please do the world a favor and shoot yourself in the face.”

“Dear fuckface: I wanted to again let you know my deep and concerned appreciation for you working here. *clears throat* You working here has turned my delicate life into a everlasting nightmare surrounded by little demons tearing at my flesh… Every moment with you makes me beg for mercy from god to take my life. So thank you!... you heatheness banshee for making my days twice as long and making all my fears come to life. Without you I might just be happy! ♡ Melissa”

When, finally, the future scholars of aesthetic history locate these works and endeavor to illuminate the profound oeuvre of Trish and Melissa, these works will undoubtedly end up sold for thousands of hundreds of Euros at auction.

Until then, please remember to be courteous to girls who work in filing rooms.

“Listen slut. Your breath smells. I can smell it all the way over here. It smells like you were eating rotten snatch. Get a breath mint. You are making our office stink. Go wash your mouth with some soap and water. I am so tired. Let’s leave!! You are stupid. I have to piss. What are you doing over there? Besides not working? You are stupid. I can hear you humming over there. SHUT THE FUCK UP STUPID! You are stupid.”

“Look here you shell of a hag. My breath might stink but at least I don’t have some type of air-born [sic] disease coming out of my vag and mouth. Everytime you open your legs or mouth the Department of Health shows up just to make sure you haven’t infected anyone. I’m seriously gonna have to talk to someone about the health hazard I work with. You’ve made me sicker as soon as you stepped in the room. You decrepit piece of shit. You fucker. You fucking suck! You fucker! Die you piece of shit! ha!! Of course I mean every single word of this and may the curse I place on you be transmitted to your children and family threw [sic] your disease infested mouth and vagina! Good day! I SAID GOOD DAY!”

More to come.

Anyway, the city was awesome, as predicted. I love this place. When I was younger, I would dream of traveling. Idle dreams. It didn’t become clear until later that international travel doesn’t just happen to you – you actually have to do things.

Of course, these days it’s a little harder in some ways. At LAX, on the way to my flight, an eagle-eyed, superstitious DHS airport screener literally yelped with glee to see my half-drunk bottle of water going through the xray machine.

Her: Oh! What’s this? You’re not allowed to bring this in here.

Me: There weren’t any signs saying that.

Her: It’s been on the news.

Me: Yeah, I just really thought we’d be over that stuff by now.

Her (deadly serious): Oh, no. It’s going to get worse! They tried to blow up a plane. As long as they can make bombs with this stuff, it’s going to get worse. We can’t let you take liquid on a plane.

Me: But that’s not true. It’s scientifically impossible…

Her: It is true, sir.

Naturally, I wasn’t allowed to drink the remainder of my potentially explosive dihydrogen monoxide on the spot, in front of her. This rule might seem kinda counterintuitive if – as I had assumed – the purpose is to screen out toxins and liguids other than water! But that’s some pre-9/11 thinking right there. Who knows if terrorists have figured out a way to combine a colorless, odorless liquid with stomach acids to form a time-released explosion with the power to depressurize a cabin at 35,000 feet? I think it was in that 24 episode where Jack Bauer’s adversary had the really awful diarrhea.

Apparently, Kip Hawley isn’t the only idiot around here. And here I am bitching about our Homeland overlords; that’s so 2003.

Anyways, back to the fun stuff: Japan! Please check out my 130+ gallery of memories... and don’t judge me for photo-stalking the Singapore Air hostesses. You haven’t flown a mile in my pants.

In the weeks to come, I will be sharing rips of some great-looking records I scored in Tokyo. I also got a lot of old weird japanese pop stuff from the bargain bin at punk store NAT Records in Shinjuku (Shinmei Building 2F, 7-33 Nishi-Shinjuku, Tokyo 160), but trust me, I made the rounds. This is only about half of the 7-inches that I nabbed, and we’re not even talking about all the magazines, comix and CDs. Just what I needed! (Sarcasm.) However, your gain is my loss, or will be, or something.

Anyway, I’d like to thank all my Tokyo pals for the warm welcome they gave me in spite of my rude ways and Western odor. Shout outs to Onoching, Masami, Wild OX, Terumi, Elizabeth, Mike, Nori, Atchan, Rockin’ Jellybean, Shaku, and all the other cool folks whose names I cannot recall right now. Special thanks to Kazuha for letting me crash in her Nakano manshon, among her literally priceless collection of 1950s porcelain, Funny Face and Weird-Ohs premiums, Sailor Jerry flash art, and her handsome tomcat Sue.

==============================
Miami soul singer George McCrae is mainly known for this monster disco hit from my childhood. There’s probably a good “A Star is Born”-style film drama to be drawn from his former romantic/management relationship with his hitmaking ex-wife Gwen McCrae (I like her records, too), but George was there first in 1974, riding the crest of the disco wave with some smooth crossover soul for those of us too young to Hustle. The steady rockin’ backing group is none other than KC’s Sunshine Band!

George is still going strong – check out his rather primitive webpage that makes my browser crash. Read his grandiose bio that, with its superstar hyperbole, deserves an audiobook reading by the guy from J&H Productions! No matter, this is still a great song. Now let me get back to my nihongo benkyo o suru. What? Oh, that’s French, baby. It means, “You are incredible.”

George McCrae – “Rock Your Baby”
George McCrae – “Rock Your Baby (Pt. 2)”

Roy used to be in NYC’s the Reverb Motherfuckers (story here, here, here and here) and was also once wed to my pal Sally from the Honeymoon Killers. When I met him way back in the day, I had no clue he was such a good writer. But he’s learned some smart lessons, and the truth of his point really pisses me off. As once-excited music fans get older and deader and more brittle, and start legislating suffocating boredom upon the younger generations, they ought to remember just what they paved over in their new-age law enforcing zeal.

For movie lovers, Criticwatch covers the shameful activities of fawning media quotewhores Paul Fischer, Harry Knowles, Bill Bregoli, Clay Smith, Pete Hammond, Jeffrey Lyons and Shawn Edwards (and last, but certainly not best, the legendary Earl Dittman), as they suck up to every megacorporation or publicist who offers them a shrimp platter or an official baseball cap, then foist their fluffy, drooling, content-free reviews on the viewing public. This is comedy with a burning core of righteousness. Ignore the myriad pop-up ads and sign their petition; it’s a good cause.

Then, via Hit and Run, here’s a bizarre little classroom movie one might call Planet of the Bike-Riding Apes.

And the Joke of the Week, late as usual.

Satisfied?

I was on the freeway last October, in my old car which was built with useless old-fashioned shoulder safety straps (they basically work the same way as lashing your spine to the back of your seat with a length of rope, and they won’t stay connected anyway) and no right side mirror. Not a problem – I use the lap belt, which enables me to turn and lean forward or sideways, basically all the mobility necessary for safe vision when navigating.

A motorcycle cop stopped me, so as to pump up his monthly stats. Not interested in facts about old vehicles or theories regarding the logic of personal responsibilty, this super duper tax agent on wheels wrote me up a citation for being dangerous to myself. After my court date passed (I couldn’t take a day off work, especially when I knew there was zero chance of getting justice in traffic court), I got a threatening notice, and so promptly sent the full $300. Three weeks passed. They finally got around to cashing my check – after they waited to ensure the deadline had passed – so the fine magically doubled. Now I owed another $300. I received a bill from a collection agency. I paid the new amount over the phone along with a hefty $25 Western Union surcharge. (Have I mentioned that I am literally made of money? Yes, wealthy beyond belief, that’s me, pal.)

That last part was three weeks ago. Today I got a cheery note in the mail.

What does all this mean? I can’t figure out if I’m just supposed to kill myself now. Maybe someone with connections in the supreme Soviet bureaucracy can explain how to get these retarded, parasitic slugs out of my life. How? And why? I try to be a good person. I try to mind my own business.

I’m gonna cry now.