How Come No One Told Me There Was A Death Metal Tribute To Arnold Schwarzenegger?

I’m talking about Austrian Death Machine’s Total Brutal, an album that revolves entirely around the Governator’s most famous cinematic catchphrases (complete with Ahnald impersonator!). It came out in July and it officially gets my vote for Best Album of 2008. Samples:

“Get To The Choppa”

“Come With Me If You Want To Live”

“It’s Not A Tumor”

“Who Is Your Daddy And What Does He Do?”

“Screw You (Benny)”

“Speak Of This Not.”

So read the last line of the note on my friend Damon’s doorstep when he came home one evening in the early-to-mid 2000s. A female friend of his had stopped by earlier in the hopes he would be around; this friend, you see, desperately had to go to the bathroom. Why she couldn’t go to her own home or at least the nearest available public bathroom is beyond me. Whatever the case, she arrived at Damon’s house and frantically rang the doorbell/pounded on the door to no avail.

Realizing that Damon wasn’t home but still overcome by the call of nature, this girl broke her way into his abode and made a beeline for the toilet. ‘Twas quite a forceful evacuation on her part. In fact, this girl’s release was so intense that it manage to completely cripple Damon’s toilet. The way I remember Damon telling this story, his throne was beyond repair and in such a state he doubted it could have been the work of one human posterior.

Such a situation would be embarrassing for anyone, especially a member of the fairer gender. Yet, can extreme toilet desecration be absolved with a simple handwritten apology? Furthermore, can one truly expect the victim of a bowel-related B&E to “speak of this not,” particularly if their John has been reduced to a non-functioning slab of wet porcelain? By signing that note “Speak of this not,” that girl was pretty much ensuring Damon would speak of it forever.

And that’s just what happened. Damon told this story to anyone who would listen. In fact, he ended up writing a song about it for the band he was in at the time; before they played “Speak Of This Not” at every gig, Damon told the tale of the crazy girl who busted in his house and “done broke” his “terlet.”

I guess the moral of this story is if you break into someone’s house and fuck up their toilet, at least have the courtesy to wait around for them to get home so you can cut them a check or something.

By the way, the name of Damon’s band was the F-Pipes. I don’t think they exist anymore. You can hear some of their stuff on this Myspace page, including “The Madator” (a song about trying to fuck your own butt) and “Slick Leg” (a song about how inmates like to get their jollies). Alas, “Speak Of This Not” does not appear on this Myspace page. I’m not sure they ever recorded it.

Bizarre Soft Drinks I Have Recently Encountered: Final Fantasy Potion

WHAT IT IS: A beverage promoting the most recent Final Fantasy video game, Dissidia.

WHERE IT WAS DISCOVERED: Japan; my girlfriend has a cousin over there who was kind enough to pick up a couple of cans before she got on the plane to America last week.

WHO MAKES IT: Suntory Ltd.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: Painstakingly elaborate renderings of Final Fantasy characters on each can. The two I received featured Goddess of Harmony Cosmos (pictured above on Dissidia’s cover) and the God of Discourse Chaos. The terrifying depiction of Chaos, seen below, lead me to believe this Final Fantasy Potion would taste like demon testicles.

Jesus Christ. The opposite side of the can features a close-up of Chaos’s face. Just look at this nasty fucker. It’s like staring into your worst fears:

In total, there are sixteen different can designs; you can see them all here.

HOW IT TASTES: Like the role-playing bastard son of Fresca. Crisp, grapefruity, and/or pear-like (depending on the can).

NOTES: According to this article, Dissidia isn’t the first Final Fantasy game to boast a soft drink tie-in. This is shocking because I wasn’t aware people still played or cared about Final Fantasy in any part of the world. I thought it was a thing of the past, like CB radio or “Where’s the Beef?” Shows how much I know. Maybe it’s just (say it with me) big in Japan. At any rate, this potion isn’t something I’d bend over backwards to try and sneak into an elf’s dungeon or the next renaissance fair. In fact, I’m pretty sure the Cosmos can gave me a severe case of boneitis. Ouch. Thank God I wasn’t too busy being an Eighties guy to take care of it (POP CULTURE REFERENCE ALERT). Seriously, though, my bones hurt after drinking this stuff.

The Cornuzine Interviews: Lee Ving

Cornuzine [korn-yew-zeen] -noun. 1. A subpar Internet music magazine created by JG2 in 1999; folded 2003. 2. The best-selling foot ointment in outer Uzbekistan.

I think the intro I originally wrote for this piece is pretty solid, so I’m gonna leave it be. As for the interview itself, my only regret is not pressing Lee harder about the failure of the MD.45 project. What can I say? I was star-struck (in my world, this guy is like Bruce Willis).

JG2 GETS SCHOOLED BY LEE VING

Countless rumors surround Lee Ving, mysterious frontman for punk agitators Fear. Is he the bastard son of one of the Bowery Boys? Did he actually get his start as a singing waiter? Did he really schtup Madeline Kahn on the set of Clue? None of that came up in our interview. Instead, I focused on the real issues – Flea, beer, and that infamous appearance on “Saturday Night Live.”

JAMES GREENE, JR: I seem to recall reading something recently about a FEAR box set. Is this a reality or just a figment of my imagination? At any rate, what is the current state of Fear?

LEE VING: Box set in progress, state of Fear very strong.

JG2: Is the box set going to contain any Fear rarities, like “Hank Williams Was Queer?”

LV: No. All Barbara Streisand tunes.

JG2: A-ha. Many interesting characters have passed through the ranks of Fear. One such character was Flea. How exactly did that happen?

LV: By luck.

JG2: Did it have anything to do with the film you two made, Dudes?

LV: No.

JG2: Do you still keep in touch with him?

LV: Yes.

JG2: It’s my understanding that you played some acoustic gigs recently. Have you ever considered doing a whole acoustic solo record?

LV: Yes, [that's] in the works.

JG2: What do you make of this whole Dead Kennedys fracas?

LV: Who are they? What fracas?

JG2: Who are the Dead Kennedys? Oh, c’mon, Mr. Ving, surely you jest.

LV: I’m into music, not Frisco scene rabble.

JG2: Ouch. You did a record with Dave Mustaine a few years back called MD.45. How did that come about? Was it ever intended to be more than a side project?

LV: No.

JG2: Do I sense some animosity here?

LV: No, Capital [Records] just made sure the project failed.

JG2: I’ve been trying to avoid the cliché Fear questions, but after all these years, I am still fascinated by your appearance on “Saturday Night Live.” They show so many embarrassing and controversial moments from other episodes in syndication constantly, yet Fear’s wild performance they never rebroadcast. Why is that? I mean, did Lorne Michaels just throw the tapes away or something? Is NBC just a bunch of pricks?

LV: They are timid, lacking humor, and scared of their own shadows.

JG2: I agree. Mr. Ving, you like the beer. Is there any particular brand you just can’t stomach?

LV: Miller.

JG2: Have you seen Chuck Biscuits lately? No one seems to know where he is.

LV: I don”t know that name.

JG2: Chuck Biscuits…he was in Black Flag, D.O.A., uh, FEAR at one point, I believe…anyway, Gibby Haynes once stated, “It’s better to regret something you have done than something you haven’t done.” Would you agree with this philosophy?

LV: No.

JG2: Alrighty! Are there any musicians out there today that you’d really like to collaborate with?

LV: Yes. Chick Corea, Billy Cobham, and Stanley Clark.

JG2: Man, that would be some fucked up shit right there. Chick Corea alone…well, Mr. Ving, thanks for your time.

LV: All the best, man. Jazz forever.

- Cornuzine.com, 2000

Eartha Kitt: 1927-2008

Eartha Kitt, the sultry southern minx who famously sang the 1954 rich girl rant “Santa Baby” and who later used her irresistible feline inclinations to great acclaim as TV’s Catwoman, died yesterday at the saucy age of 81. Colon cancer was the sassy, sexy culprit.

What can you say about ol’ Eartha? She was a fierce lil’ lady who seemed like she’d be a lot of fun to go out on the town with. Always fun to listen to. She definitely made the best Catwoman (despite her lack of height). She was in Ernest Scared Stupid, which doesn’t really mean anything. I just wanted to mention it.

LeMar had Eartha K. in the Official 2008 JG2Land Death Pool & 401(k) Program, bringing his total score to 65. Goddamn, LeMar, when it comes to predicting high-scoring celebrity deaths, you are excellent. Score recap:

LeMar M. – 65
Nathan C. – 16
Me – 8
Everybody Else – 0

Rest in peace, Eartha. You were my favorite singer whose name closely resembled the name of our planet.

Could Christmas Eve Be Any Suckier?

Probably if someone I know died or if I got arrested. Still, it hasn’t exactly been candy canes and gingerbread for me this 12/24. To wit:

- First thing I saw on the Internet this morning: Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin hate each other. I want to believe this is some kind of manufactured joke fight the two actors came up with to generate publicity/make life more interesting, but let’s be real here. Alec Baldwin’s reputation for this kind of stuff is becoming legendary. The guy can’t even deal with his own daughter. Why should he be civil to Tina Fey? Depressing news for fans of “30 Rock” and comedy in general.

- I am experiencing a strange new phenomenon I have dubbed liplag. I was in Vermont Monday and Tuesday, where the temperature hovered around a very dry eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. Definite lip-chapping weather, although my teeth curtains were just fine. Today I awoke in moist, forty degree Brooklyn. JG2 feels fine – his lips, however, still believe they are in Vermont. The chapping is practically medieval. How can my lips not realize where they are? I can’t even see my breath outside. There’s no need for this pasty nonsense. Keep this up, lips, and I’ll inject you with something awful later in life.

- While crossing the street today near my apartment, the only other guy in the crosswalk saw it necessary to smash into me defensive end-style while angrily shouting, “Come on, now, come on!” Right before it happened, I tried to move out of his way, but then he purposely stepped back into alignment with me. As his meaty forearm connected with my chest, I was sure I was about to be mugged. Nope. This fellow stalked away, apparently on his way to Grinch the shit out of someone else’s Christmas Eve.

- Normally, when you crack an egg into a heated frying pan, it begins cooking immediately (you know, like in commercials and shit). That did not happen this afternoon when I tried to make myself some lunch. I cracked an egg into my heated frying pan and it just sat there, refusing to do anything but silently mock me while not cooking. After careful inspection of all present components, I determined that the egg in question was haunted. This was confirmed after I scooped it into the garbage and tried a second egg, which began cooking immediately.

- The minute I sat down to watch a little TV a few minutes ago, my neighbors began playing some very lively salsa music at volumes I’m sure would deafen Godzilla. Being a former drummer, I feel hypocritical complaining about vicinity noise issues, but come on, bro-hams. It’s Christmas Friggin’ Eve. At least lay down some “Frosty” or “Rudolph.”

- The only Christmas-related program I could find on TV was the animated “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” special. I think I’d rather watch a Della Reese gastric bypass.

- My aforementioned neighbors are now in the hallway re-enacting that hilarious and classic comedy bit in which two people shout “WHAT?” really quickly at one another as if they are both partially hard of hearing. This has been going on for ten minutes and shows no signs of stopping. Ever.

- My roommate just handed me a Christmas gift. I didn’t get him anything. FAIL.

- It’s three-thirty, I’m wearing pajama pants, and I have to go to the supermarket to shop for someone who has a nut allergy. I will resist the temptation to purchase $200 worth of Planter’s products.

- Blink-182’s “Dammit” just came up on my iTunes, reminding me that the late nineties did in fact happen and were not the abstract dream of some unnamed autistic child playing with a snow globe in his parents’ living room. Fuck.

Oh well. Maybe the rest of the day will be better. Merry Christmas, Juggalos.

UPDATE: The remainder of Xmas Eve ‘08 was actually pretty tight. I stuffed my fat face with Cuban-style pork for dinner, and Santa Girlfriend bestowed a Brian Fellows t-shirt upon me just before bed. So let the zombie apocalypse begin – I don’t care because I got Tracy Morgan on my chest.

Indeed, sir, the sanity of this particular event demands to be called into question.

Unsolicited Nerves Review

The Nerves
One Way Ticket
Alive
2008

This is the band that originally did “Hanging On The Telephone,” the song Blondie covered to above average success on their 1978 album Parallel Lines. I didn’t even know that song was a cover until earlier this year. I guess I was blinded by Debbie Harry’s shimmering beauty…or Clem Burke’s strange Ewok hair.

The Nerves released one self-titled EP in 1976 and then faded into new wave obscurity. This year, Alive Records remastered that singular Nerves EP, threw on a bunch of extra demos and live tracks, and released the final product as One Way Ticket. Humanity now has a concrete digital document of the gooey L.A. power pop trio that helped pave the way for groups like the Knack and [OTHER SKINNY TIE BAND CIRCA 1981]. Hooray.

Power pop is such a weird term. Like, these guys are aggressively melodic. They’re mainstream, but they’re not wimps! It comes across as being loaded with latent machismo. I bet a guy who wore lots of sleeveless shirts coined that term.

ANYWAY, the standout track on One Way Ticket is, of course, “Hanging On The Telephone.” That song paints a brilliant picture of pained teenage anticipation with a vocal/melody combo that’s both achingly cute and desperate. That’s probably why Blondie chose to record their own version of it as opposed to, oh, say, “Paper Dolls” or the watery “When You Find Out.” Indeed, the rest of the Nerves’ material leans a little too heavily on non-threatening sixties-inspired guitar jangle, the kind of musical Gerber’s they cram between the Supremes and the Beatles on oldies stations. Blecch.

Occasionally Das Nerves (who, for the record, consisted of singer/guitarist Jack Lee, bassist Peter Case, and drummer Paul Collins) strike up a driving beat that forces out the shimmies, shakes, Shemps, and Smurfs. I speak of songs like “Walking Out On Love” and the Replacementy “It’s Hot Outside.” Most of the time, though, this One Way Ticket will make you regret not opting for round trip. OHHHHH, BURRRRRRRRRRN. What a bitchy thing to say. That’s like something you’d read in a fashion magazine. This kitten has CLAWS!!

Hey, did you know there was a guy in the Knack named Prescott Niles? Did you know there was another guy in the Knack named Berton Averre? Jesus, were they a band or a country club? To steal a phrase from a former roommate, sheeshamundo.

Any way, final score for the Nerves: one and a half obscure white guys (out of four). Now enjoy a video of two-thirds of the original Nerves playing “Hanging On The Telephone” in a record store somewhere:

Now here’s the super-famous Blondie version, which oddly enough was the soundtrack to the corporate dissatisfaction I experienced a few years ago at Harcourt School Publishers (long, stupid story):

Muppet Thoughts

I did not see the latest Muppet special that aired this week, “A Muppet Christmas: Letters To Santa,” but I heard it was a pile of ass. Not surprising. The previous Muppet Xmas outing wasn’t all that hot, either – 2002’s “It’s A Very Merry Muppet Christmas Movie.” You know you’re in trouble when the best you can offer is an over-the-shoulder Yoda cameo.

The Muppets have been in something of a free-fall for the past decade, failing to give us anything all that inspired or magical beyond 1999’s semi-ok Muppets From Space. I, of course, blame Disney, who acquired our favorite felt outfit in 2004. The Mouse isn’t exactly known for quality outside the parameters of its theme parks or star-studded CG vehicles. Why should they direct any of their energy or dollars into a franchise that’s at best a hazy seventies Gen X memory? They shouldn’t, I guess, since the current gen is way more into human Pinocchio-types that sing and play guitars.

The sad fact is the Muppets’ best years are behind them. They had a great run, but maybe it’s time to stop trying to squeeze out whatever tasty green frog juice is left in Kermit’s dry little frog body. It’s like any great band or movie franchise – you want to see them get out of the game with some dignity. Shit, I don’t want to hear anyone but Jim Henson voice Rowlf. That shit, as “Family Guy” deftly observed, is just wrong.

I would be just fine if Disney just cut their Muppet losses now and relied on pimping the classics (DVDs of “The Muppet Show” and the theatrical Muppet movies, whatever they can do with “Muppet Babies,” that fantastic exhibit they have at their movie studio park known as “Muppetvision 3-D,” etc). I don’t want to wake up this time next year to see Fozzie and Gonzo farting around some half-assed Twilight parody or playing a rival band in the next Jonas Brothers movie.

Total Faggots/Fag Cop

Every year, the AV Club publishes a list of the worst band names its staff encountered that year. It’s the only consistently interesting and entertaining year-end list any media outlet in the world releases; thus, I was quite happy to wake up this morning and find 2008’s roundup posted on their site.

I would like to draw attention to two bands from this year’s list that not only struck me as having incredible names but who also author some pretty hot jamz. The Total Faggots hail from Austin, TX, and play an overblown brand of rock/metal that teeters on the verge of complete parody. I mean, the way they talk about doing blow in “Oh Yeah Alright” leads me to believe they’ve never actually done it. Also, who can take “Squeeze” (an ode to touching boobs) seriously on any planet? Of course, these notions are reflected in the name, which is the kind of genius I was waiting for all year. Alas, if the flyers on their Myspace page are accurate, it appears the Total Faggots have totally fagged out and changed their name to Camp Gorgeous. That’s still an amazing name, but it’s no Total Faggots.

Fag Cop is a slightly harsher rock outfit who want us to believe they’re from Syria; my guess is they live somewhere in Ohio. I really dig “Gimme Fag Agenda,” but I have to wonder – does this mean their name used to be Gimme Fag, or are they demanding to know the fag agenda? I should listen to the lyrics again. At any rate, Fag Cop is definitely what I should have told people in high school was the name of my band.

If any JG2Land readers take offense to either of these bands’ names and/or this post, I would like to cover my ass by saying I thought these people were all talking about cigarettes. Also, I believe it was Oscar Wilde who once said any band whose name isn’t dangerous is unworthy of being called a band at all. That’s a direct quote, swear to God.

Bizarre Soft Drinks I Have Recently Encountered: Sidral Mundet

Picture swiped from some other part of the Innernet.

WHAT IT IS: A Mexican apple cider soda dating back to 1902 that’s believed by some to have medicinal properties.

WHERE IT WAS DISCOVERED: A vaguely Hispanic grocery store in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn.

WHO MAKES IT: FEMSA S.A de C.V, although here in the U.S. it’s distributed in by a company called Novamex.

HOW IT TASTES: Like a very subtle (and decidedly light) apple cider.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: There’s an apple embossed on the glass bottle, although I didn’t notice it until the bottle was empty. The label also proudly announces that Sidral Mundet has been pasteurized (hence the belief it’s something of a cure-all). Who knew you could pasteurize soda? I thought that was a milk-only thing. Is it obvious yet I never made it past Earth Science in high school? Oh, Mr. Nichols, why did you have to flunk me?

NOTES: Sidral Mundet is a cousin of the popular Jarritos line you see all over the place here in Brooklyn, although based on the unassuming brownish color of the pop and its Indian-sounding name, you wouldn’t really know it. Sidral just kind of hangs out in the back of the fridge in most bodegas like the cool stoner from your eleventh grade history class. Yeah, he wants you to drink him, but he’s not gonna bust his ass or act all desperate to try to get your attention. Does he really have medicinal properties? Psssh, he doesn’t know, just like he doesn’t know anything about the War of 1812 or his dad because he’s never around. Let’s face it; Sidral Mundret is the Fonzie of turn of the century Mexican sodas.