Finally, A Song That Puts Dave Navarro’s Goatee In Its Fucking Place

From the Bugs (featuring Queers bassist Dangerous Dave on vocals) – “Dave Navarro’s Goatee Fucking Sucks.”

Now someone just needs to write a song about the gap between Flea’s teeth. That fuckin’ gap, always struttin’ around like it owns the place!

Pretty Much Everywhere, There’s Gonna Be Ghosts

Geek biscuits flipped this past weekend after MTV posted a chat with Harold Ramis that broached the subject of Ghostbusters 3 (which Egon is currently writing the first draft of with two guys from “The Office”). Harold sez GB3 will indeed revolve around the oft-considered plot point of the old Busters showing the ropes to a new generation of hot young Busters. Can’t wait to see Ernie Hudson wielding that nutrana wand one more time.

Fanboys are continuing to freak over this news, clogging up message boards and comment areas with their commands regarding who the new Busters should be. “No Seth Rogan or Ben Stiller!” they shout through congealed mustard stains on their lips. “Sarah Silverman as the sexy recruit Venkman tries to boink!” they salivate as their tiny boners gently rub against the same pair of Jamz they were wearing when they saw House Party 2 back during the first Bush Administration. “Janine DP scene with Aykroyd and Jude Law!” they whine through clenched teeth as beavers forcefully gnaw at their privates.

Look, I understand. I love Ghostbusters, and they gotta pick the right people here so as not to fuck the shit up royally (like Ninja Turtles II; replacing Corey Feldman with Adam Carl was bullshit!). I’m only gonna make one suggestion casting-wise, and then I’m gonna STFU. Makers of Ghostbusters 3: What Giant Thing Will We Make Walk This Time?, please consider the following five words when casting for the rookie group of g-busters: Arthur the Haitian Weather Man.

They could raise the price of movies to $35 a ticket, and I’d still pay to see ninety minutes of that guy trying out proton packs, laughing at Bill Murray, and reacting to ghosts. Harold Ramis, you have the power. Make it so.

In Arthur’s absence, I will accept this master of entertainment:

Who ya gonna call? Those muscles!

Unsolicited Mini-Reviews Of Films I Have Recently Watched

Forgetting Sarah Marshall – Satisfying dirty rom-com starring some hairless Bigfoot and his unnecessary schlong. I was pretty shocked when they introduced that topless photo of Mila Kunis into the proceedings. Turns out it was a fake (or so says the Internet). I’m kind of relieved. Those were some sizable nips. I’m disappointed more wasn’t done with the fake “CSI” starring Weirdo Baldwin. Potential goldmine ignored.

Baby Mama – Undercooked. Amy Poehler’s character wasn’t trashy enough, the subplot with Greg Kinnear wasn’t terribly believable, and Steve Martin’s stunt casting hurt my dick. There were a lot of “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” dudes in this, which was interesting. Also, the triumphant return of Siobhan Fallon! Remember those “Delta Delta Delta” skits she used to do with Melanie Hutsell? Those shits cracked me the f up.

Cast Away – Robert Zemeckis knows how to make epics that don’t really feel all that epic. I can’t believe Chris Noth played [SPOILER DELETED]. Am I the only person who thinks he looks like a fat Hammer Films vampire? Like Peter Cushing’s pudgy undead son.

American Movie – Still hilarious after all these years (until you listen to the commentary track and hear that Mark is still massively in debt and slightly worse for wear). I think my favorite scene in this movie is when Mark thinks he hears his daughter curse. He’s sort of incredulous she may have swore, she’s incredulous that she’s being accused (AND that her father is pathetically acting like he’s cool with it) – the minute or so of awkward tension between this grown man-child and his actual child is tastier than Nachos Bell Grande.

Super Troopers – Speaking of hilarity…this is probably my pick for funniest movie of the decade. Everything Farva does is a mushroom cloud of yuks. “Where’d ya get the Canadian tuxedo?” One of the few movies I’m not ashamed to admit I saw multiple times in the theater (as opposed to The Rock or The Cable Guy).

Why iTunes Sucks Bawlz

The blogger over at Lost Turntable has posted a great rant covering why the trend of iTunes-exclusive album releases (and multiple version releasing in general) sucks mad bawlz. Excerpt:

“It’s getting very hard for me to get the music I want in an affordable and easy manner. First it was The Smashing Pumpkins Zeitgeist album, which was released in multiple versions with different tracklistings depending on where you bought it (none of these places being an independent record store) forcing fans who wanted to be legal to buy the same album four times. Then it was Depeche Mode with the bullshit iTunes Pass version of their upcoming Sounds Of The Universe, an $18.99 subscription to the album which promises to feature “exclusive” remixes and b-sides, none of which will be on the $99.99 special edition that I already pre-ordered. This week I finally snapped when I saw Mastodon including special instrumental tracks on the iTunes version of their new album Crack The Skye and Pearl Jam tacking on some bonus live cuts for the iTunes edition of the new Special Edition of Ten.

Both of these albums are also available in very expensive deluxe editions, and neither of them contain the iTunes “exclusive” tracks. The limited edition of Crack The Skye came with an awesome lithograph and extra artwork, and that clocked in at $40. That one was only available at Mastodon’s website (it’s sold out now) as was another special edition that included a t-shirt and a bonus single, which features two of the instrumentals that were supposedly “exclusive” to iTunes. Hardcore fans who bought the more expensive editions at Mastodon’s website got fucked over by being left out of the other tracks on the iTunes version. And of course, you can’t buy those tracks separately, you have to buy the album to get them all.

It’s even worse with the Pearl Jam album. The Super Deluxe version of Ten costs $150. It’s worth the money to hardcore fans (such as I) as it’s loaded with bonus vinyl, a DVD, live stuff, artwork, booklets and even a reproduction of Eddie’s demo for the band. However, it doesn’t include the Live At The Academy tracks that are on the iTunes edition. If I pay $140 bucks for a damn album, I think I should be getting all the shit that’s included on the $16.99 online edition.

I’d also like to point out that it’s not just big-time jerk-off rock acts that are doing this. Indie cartoon rapper MC Chris pulled this exact shit last year on his album MC Chris Is Dead. The iTunes version that I stupidly bought because I was too lazy to put on pants featured ten tracks. The physical CD version had seventeen. That’s twice the fucking album. That’s such a douche move. MC Chris is always bitching about how hard he works to keep his shit alive for “the fans,” and then he goes and only puts half his record on iTunes. It should have been listed as half an album and sold for $4.99.

LTB wraps things up by noting this kind of stuff “hurts the fans who just want the most music possible from their favorite bands, and it hurts the record industry by limited what independent record stores can sell.” So fucking true. Hey bands – stop trying to bleed us all dry. Be normal and save all your extra tracks and nonsense for awesome B side collections. You’re pissing us all off over here.

Too Much Awesome In One Room

Yes, that is a photo of Rob Zombie chillin’ with “Weird Al” on the set of the next Halloween movie. The Yank is apparently all up in that shiz. Is it too soon to start camping out?

I Failed The Typing Test That Racist Gave Me

Well, technically, he didn’t give it to me. His television show’s post production company did.

Lemme ’splain.

About a month ago, I got together with a friend I hadn’t seen in a few years for lunch. He’s a video editor. I asked him what his current job was. Suddenly, his voice got real soft.

“You know that show ‘Dog the Bounty Hunter?’” my pal muttered. Clearly, he wasn’t that proud. Who could blame him? After all, “Dog” star Duane Chapman is a well-documented racist.

I didn’t judge my friend, though, because I’m pretty sure he got the job prior to Dog’s apocalyptic n-bombing. Besides, people gotta eat. This was my thought moments after Unidentified JG2 Pal #1 made the following offer:

“You know, if you’re ever looking for part time work, they could always use a hand with transcription.”

Living in New York isn’t cheap. I get by, but it can be real stressful sometimes. I’m looking at a pretty expensive summer this season, too – I want to celebrate my thirtieth year with a trip across America and a jaunt to France. So the thought of pulling in some extra scratch typing up the ramblings of a reality TV star in my spare time, even if said star is the text book definition of white trash, was not verboten. I told my friend to try and hook me up if I could.

Immediately after this conversation, I talked to a few friends about it. Would people respect me less if I was employed for “Dog” in any capacity? Everyone I talked to was of the following mindset: there are far worse ways you could be making money in this economy. I’m starting to get real sick of that phrase. IN THIS ECONOMY. In this economy, you just can’t afford not to move dead kittens around with a pitchfork.

About a week after lunching with my editor friend, his employer called me. An interview was scheduled for the following day at noon. I tried to get in the zone, but it was tough. This call really couldn’t have come at a worse time; late afternoon on a very busy writing day. I had already consumed about a gallon of coffee. I would be up until at least four that night. Oh, and that morning, I inexplicably decided to give myself a haircut after showering. I had only tried that once before. Hence, my ‘do was all different lengths and shapes.

You can see where this is going. I turned off my alarm the following morn when it rang at nine-thrity; I didn’t wake up until eleven. I didn’t have time to shower, so I just threw some gunk in my hair (which made me look like metrosexual Gumby) and got ready to slip into the only suit I own. Tragically, I’ve gained just enough weight since last wearing my suit that it now looks like sausage casing. I was forced to wear some of my baggy old “fat” clothes. I looked like a toasted sales rep for a skateboard company.

The funny thing is, even though I looked like a teenager dressed up for some kind of high school assembly, this crackhead still pointed to me on the subway and said to his friend, “All these Wall Street guys are losing their jobs, man! They don’t know what to do!”

I got to the place a little after noon; I immediately felt like an overdressed idiot when I met my interviewer, who was rocking a look similar to the one Warren G had in the “Regulate” video. More interesting – this person was not Caucasian. I came very close to asking Unidentified Interviewer if they were really comfortable working for a program whose star was vocally opposed to interracial dating. At the last second, I decided it would probably be a little uncouth to bring that up.

Not that that really mattered; I mean, less than thirty seconds into the interview, I already had one strike against me.

“Have you ever done transcription work before?”

“Ah, no, no I haven’t.”

A disappointed look overcame Interviewer’s face. This wiener’s never even done this shit before! Strike two came a few minutes later when I asked about the hours.

“Oh, it would be a night shift, 6 PM to 2 AM.”

“Oh, really? Huh. That probably won’t work. I was really hoping for a morning shift.”

Beggers can’t be choosers, you weird-haired fuck.

Strike three came with this typing test I had to take. It was just some thing on the Internet, not very official at all. I hadn’t taken one of these since middle school. The Interviewer didn’t give me any instructions, and there weren’t any on the screen. I was also still in editing mode mentally, so I just read through the paragraph onscreen a few times looking for typos. There weren’t any. I struck a few keys and a timer started counting down. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. This is one of those instances that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that my ancestors are from Poland.

I realized what the deal was after a few minutes of Zoolander-esque computer exploration. Interviewer had to restart the test a couple of times due to my poor comprehension skills. I’m sure that sealed my fate. I fell about twenty words short of their per minute requirement anyway. This was disappointing, because I’ve always considered myself a pretty quick typist. I blame the sample paragraph, which was apparently lifted from the opening of Wizard of Oz. It was all, “Dorothy lived with her aunt and uncle in Kansas in a house yay big that didn’t even have room for a garret!”

What the fuck is a garret? Where’s the damn Scarecrow already?

I left feeling pretty lousy, yet I was partially relieved I wouldn’t have to carefully doctor my résumé to include “transcription for mulleted racist from Hawaii.” The rest of my day was just as comically aggravating; a whiny child ruined my lunch at a pizza shop, I bought a root beer float that tasted like rhino ass, I developed an awful headache on the ride home, the DVR forgot to record the “MonsterQuest” episode about alligators in New York sewers, and my roommate continued his campaign to stub all of my toes with his carefully placed box of pornographic VHS tapes in the living room.

At least that crackhead thought I was Wall Street.

The Curse Of The 9:30 “TGIF” Time Slot

EDITORIAL NOTE: The introduction I whipped up for this entry is shockingly similar to one I wrote last year for this PopMatters piece. This was not intentional. I apologize for my lack of creativity. Personally, I think the PopMatters one is better.

From fifth grade until about the time I could drive, Friday nights were all about one thing: ABC’s “TGIF” lineup, a solid two hours of family-friendly sitcoms that were usually too corny for their own good. I’d diligently plop myself in front of the tube at the end of every week and dial our TV to Channel 7, eagerly awaiting the buffoonery of such lovable characters as Balki Bartokomous, “Uncle” Joey Gladstone, and that high priest of obnoxious Steve Urkel. I took great solace in the fact that, no matter how awful my life seemed, I wasn’t some thirty-six year old idiot living in his best friend’s basement doing Bullwinkle impressions to impress children I wasn’t even related to (at least not yet).

Joey Gladstone: a text book case of Everest-sized failure.

One odd thing struck me about “TGIF” then and now: for the longest time, they could not find a show to anchor the 9:30 slot. During the glory years of this programming block (1988-1993), the first three time slots were always made up of some variation of “Full House,” “Family Matters,” “Perfect Strangers,” and/or “Step By Step.” There was no getting around that. These were “TGIF’s” flagship shows. Yet nothing in that last half hour ever came close to replicating the wild success of a “Full House” or a “Perfect Strangers.” I’d like to examine this phenomenon in great detail right now starting with ABC’s first little show that couldn’t: “Just The Ten Of Us.”

“Just The Ten Of Us” was a spin-off of “Growing Pains,” the Kirk Cameron-based sitcom that predated “TGIF” by a few years and probably had just enough class to avoid ever being sandwiched between Urkel and Patrick Duffy on Friday nights (I’m pretty sure “Growing Pains” aired on Monday or Tuesday). Anyway, “Ten Of Us,” which premiered in April of 1988, centered around the character of Mike Seaver’s gym teacher, one Graham T. Lubbock, who suddenly decides to move his giant family from Long Island to California because the ratings might be better on that side of the country. No, seriously, he got a job at a Catholic school, which is every balding gym teacher’s dream, right?

Lubbock was played by Bill Kirchenbauer, a guy who in all honesty could do “clean” funny better than five Mark Lynn-Bakers or three Dave Couliers. Still, the Kirch wasn’t much to look at. To give “Ten” some youth/sex appeal, the producers loaded the show with Coach Lubbock’s four hot daughters, including Heather Langenkamp of Nightmare On Elm Street fame. They also threw in a snotty young son, a precocious daughter, newborn twins, a cute dog, and Dennis Haysbert. I know what you’re thinking. With all that shit crammed in there, how could “Just The Ten Of Us” miss?

The truth is, it didn’t. According to Wikipedia, “Just The Ten Of Us” racked up impressive ratings and was on its way to cementing itself in that 9:30 slot after just two seasons. Unfortunately for Graham T. Lubbock and his super-sized clan, the suits at ABC decided to be total dicks. The network wanted all four “TGIF” sitcoms to be produced by Miller-Boyett Productions; “Ten Of Us” was produced by someone else (Dan Guntzelman and Steve Marshall, to be exact). Thus, the axe was swung.

Now, I don’t want to go around spreading wild rumors here, but simple logic dictates an embittered Bill Kirchenbauer placed some kind of voodoo curse on “TGIF” and their 9:30 slot a la Billy Sianis. There’s just no other explanation for the years of failure that followed in “Ten’s” wake. I mean, yeah, the shows were generally awful and insipid, but really, when has that hampered TV’s popularity before?

The Lubbock family prepares to meet the Hale-Bop Comet. Note the affable expression on Bill Kirchenbauer’s face; it masks a true evil.

Viewing audiences by and large could relate to the trials of Graham Lubbock trying to make ends meet and maintain his sanity as the head of his healthy brood. What they couldn’t relate to was the story of four television writers sharing a beach house with the kid who played Phil Hartman’s son in CB4. That’s essentially what “Going Places,” the first Miller-Boyett-approved “Just The Ten Of Us” replacement, was; a sitcom about how hard it is to write for television. The cast was impressive – Heather Locklear, Alan Ruck, Jerry Levine (a.k.a. the guy who played Stiles in Teen Wolf) – but America was still smarting over the loss of those irrepressible Lubbocks. Too cold and meta to play in Peoria, “Going Places” would only last twenty-two vacant episodes. No one’s seen Jerry Levine since.

Stepping up to pinch hit for “Going Places” in the Spring of 1991 was something you could almost consider high concept (next to the never-ending mishaps of Balki and Cousin Larry, anyway). “Hi Honey, I’m Home!” detailed the lives of a generic TV family placed in the “Sitcom Relocation Program” after their popular 1950s weekly went off the air. The Nielsen clan (GET IT? HAR HAR) clung steadily to their “Father Knows Best” lifestyle despite the rapidly changing world outside their black and white walls. It was kind of like those “Brady Bunch” movies they made a few years later, although not as deft. “Hi Honey, I’m Home” was not exactly the kind of thing you could shut your brain off for (which is what most TV viewers want to do at 9:30 on a Friday night). The Nielsens were canceled once again after fourteen episodes.

Hey, don’t you just love it when babies talk and act like adults? No, of course you don’t. No one does. That explains the epic fail of “Baby Talk,” the TV adaptation of the Look Who’s Talking movies that crashed and burned in “TGIF’s” 9:30 slot in the Fall of ‘91. This show was so bad they couldn’t keep any of the damn actors on it. Julia Duffy, Mary Page Keller, Scott Baio, William Hickey, Polly Bergen, and a very desperate George Clooney all cycled through “Baby Talk.” The only constant was Tony Danza, who voiced the baby. Ugh. Did you feel that? I just shuddered from my tail bone to the top of my head.

One version of the “Baby Talk” cast. Test audience’s found the baby’s comically oversized hat to be distracting.

In the Spring of 1992, ABC threw “Billy” into the “TGIF” mix hoping America would go ape for Scottish comedian Billy Connolly as a teacher who marries someone to get his green card. They didn’t. “Billy” (technically a spin-off of “Head Of The Class”) was summarily rejected, which paved the way for “Camp Wilder.” That sunuvabitch saw Mary Page Keller’s triumphant return as a single mother/nurse raising her precocious kid and younger siblings in the house of her dead parents. The combined talents of short-lived “SNL” funnyman Jay Mohr, burgeoning hunk Jerry O’Connell, giant tooth receptacle Hilary Swank, and Tina “Kid From Waterworld” Majorino were not enough to make anyone give a shit about “Camp Wilder.” That shit was off the air by February of ‘93.

Now we come to the failed “TGIF” 9:30 sitcom that my mother inexplicably adored: “Where I Live,” a fourth-wall breaking exercise starring Doug E. Doug of Cool Runnings fame. The show was basically just Doug walking around Harlem and saying, “Wow, isn’t my neighborhood wacky?” I remember 90% of it literally taking place on a stoop. I could be mistaken, but how else do you explain “Where I Live’s” brief twenty episode run? I mean, it couldn’t have been that Doug wasn’t sitcom material. You saw him in the That Darn Cat remake with Christina Ricci. The guy is a comedy MACHINE. Who knows. Maybe ABC thought they were getting Doug E. Fresh and there’d be a lot more rapping on the show.

Fall, 1993: a watershed moment in “TGIF” history. ABC moves its somewhat successful 8:30 Tuesday show “Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper” to the dreaded 9:30 Friday slot and it manages to thrive there until 1996. That’s an unprecedented three seasons! What was it about this tale of a retired basketball player trying to get his groove on as a substitute teacher in Oakland, California, that helped it survive? I have no friggin’ idea, but I can tell you “Cooper” endured a lot of changes to make it work. First the theme song was by En Vogue, then it was “Soul Man”; they threw Raven-Symoné and Nell Carter up in that shit for maximum yuk potential; hottie Holly Robinson famously left, but then she came back…man, you never knew what the hell was going on with Cooper. I guess the genial charm of Mark Curry is all we were looking for for all those years.

“Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper & Fine-Ass Holly Robinson Who Left The Show But Then Came Back.”

It should be noted that “Perfect Strangers” went off the air around the same time “Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper” arrived. I think that helped by lowering the general zany quotient that seemed to be fucking with the rest of “TGIF’s” programming. I mean, the other shows had to resort to some real crazy shit just to keep up with Balki. “Step By Step” introduced a werewolf plot line, “Full House” had the damn Beach Boys on – Jesus, don’t even get me started on Steve and Carl traveling through time and all that shit on “Family Matters.” At one point, they even rocketed Urkel (literally, via jetpack) across all the other “TGIF” shows! That trumped any kind of craziness Balki could pull out his vaguely Greek ass…but just barely.

Submitted for your approval – a number of actual plot summaries from the eight out-of-control seasons of “Perfect Strangers”: Larry and Balki get trapped at a ski resort and must tunnel their way out (Season 2); Larry and Balki get trapped on their boss’s roof trying to take a picture (Season 2); Balki is hypnotized into believing he is Elvis during a tax audit (Season 4); Larry, Balki, and the rest of the show’s primary characters almost all drown in a flooded basement (Season 5); Larry engages in a duel with Balki’s sworn rival Zolton Bauchelitis (Season 6); and, my personal favorite, Balki becomes a hot new rapper named Fresh Young Balki B whose popularity is only due to a Milli Vanilli-style fake-out (Season 6).

God damn, I love the Fresh Young Balki B episode of “Perfect Strangers.” Its climax revolves around Cousin Larry entering a rooftop dressed in neon hip-hop gear while toting a giant ghetto blaster. That imagine was burned into my subconscious the moment I first saw it. If only I could plug a USB port into my brain to show it to you. When I typed “Cousin Larry rapper” into Google Image Search, the following picture was the only usable one that came up:

Oh, this must have been the episode where Larry drank that potion that made him old and Balki was turned into a baby by aliens.

The only period where “TGIF” was truly firing on all cylinders came in the Fall of 1995. That season saw “Family Matters” at 8, “Boy Meets World” (the beloved Ben Savage vehicle that entranced a generation with its “will they, won’t they?” Corey/Topanga plot line) at 8:30, “Step By Step” at 9, and “Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper” holdin’ strong at the previously unloved 9:30 spot. It was beautiful, albeit brief; soon, “Cooper” would be gone, “Family Matters” would jump to CBS, “Step By Step” would collapse under the weight of its own sexual innuendo, and ABC would be forced to prop up “Boy Meets World” with complete junk like “Teen Angel” (dead kidz LOL) and an “I Dream Of Jeannie” revamp called “You Wish.” The latter starred Jerry Van Dyke. It was Van Awful.

By the time I was paying actual money to attend (and do terribly in) various academic institutions, “TGIF” was in its death throes. The famed two hour sitcom block unofficially expired sometime in 2001 (an attempt to revive it mid-decade was met with more apathy than Endless Summer 2). I was long removed from the likes of Carl Winslow and Waldo Geraldo Faldo at this point, preferring to spend my TV time watching slightly more mature fare like “Space Ghost: Coast To Coast” or “Late Night with Conan O’Brien.” I never forgot those gentle Friday nights, though, and my perceived curse of the 9:30 time slot. Lubbock Babes, I hardly knew ye.

The moral of the story? Don’t ever fucking cross Bill Kirchenbauer. That motherfucker’s got powers. I’m not calling him a witch, I’m just sayin’…powers.

Five Danzig-Era Misfits Songs I Could Live Without

I wrote a post like this a while back about the Ramones. Same concept; I love the Misfits, but man, I would not complain if the following songs of theirs were strapped to a rocket and fired into deep space:

“Children In Heat” – More forced than Rock Hudson’s marriage. The verse is super clunky. Plus, it’s not scary to sing about children. Ever.

“Nike-A-Go-Go” – This one takes a while to get where it’s going, and when it finally does, the payoff is weaker than Arnold Horseshack.

“Wolfsblood” – I never know what the hell’s going on in this song. It feels like a verse is missing or something. As it stands, it’s just a pile of unwiped ass. I take issue with “Wolfsblood’s” length as well. It’s too long to be cutesy like “Demonomania,” but it’s too short to be a real song. You’re not even REAL, “Wolfsblood!” Go away! We don’t want you any more!

“Static Age” – This song is just a B version of “TV Casualty,” right? Was Danzig trying to write a television-based rock opera? I don’t understand. Open E chords are boring after two minutes.

“Come Back” – Five minute love dirge that feels like ten. Danzig, stop trying to bore me to death! The only good part is that bass scale Jerry Only plays during the bridge. Of course, Danzig probably came up with that bass scale and just told Jerry to play it. ‘Cause, you know, Danzig did EVERYTHING in the Misfits. He wrote all the music, he wrote all the words, he crafted all their instruments from trees that were struck by lightening, and he cooked sloppy joes for the whole gang after every practice.

Glenn, I love you.

The Further Adventures Of The Kid Who Supposedly Had Sex In The Principal’s Office In Eight Grade

If you’ve read my epic three-part high school reunion recap, then perhaps you remember reference to a character known as One Of The Kids Who Supposedly Had Sex In The Principal’s Office In Eighth Grade. As his moniker suggests, this kid reportedly got it on and banged a gong with a female classmate during an after school detention session way back in the eighth grade. Although some people question whether or not these two actually went “all the way” on that faithful afternoon, the rumor alone would be enough to catapult the pair to adolescent God status.

For most dudes, deflowering a girl on school grounds before ninth grade would be a big enough chunk of wild n’ crazy for one lifetime. Not so for the male in this particular equation, whom I shall refer to exclusively as Racer X from here on out (I’m too lazy to type Kid Who Supposedly Had Sex In The Principal’s Office In Eight Grade every single time I need to use his name). Nay, Racer X was really just getting started in the ways of unprecedented Dubayew Tee Effery. I would now like to present you, the thirsty JG2Land reader, with six more incredible (and somewhat truncated) adventures involving this strange figure from my youth. As far as I know, all of the following tales are 100% fact:

- One day when we were all still in high school, Racer X decided he needed get the hell out of his house. So instead of hopping on his bike or walking to the bus stop, homeboy goes over to his neighbors’ house, walks in the front door, grabs their car keys, and makes off with their car. This kid drove from Connecticut to some place crazy, like just over the border in Canada. He definitely at least made it out of state. Naturally, Racer X gets pulled over at some point. He tells the cop he’s his neighbors’ kid, so the cop calls the neighbors. Officer Friendly asks if they know the whereabouts of their son. The neighbors are like, “Yeah, he’s in the living room watching TV. Our car is missing, though.” I feel like when I originally heard this story, it involved the car smashing in to something or almost going off a cliff. I really need to get this verified by someone in the know. I’m not even sure what Racer X’s ultimate punishment for this insanity was.

- Another high school-era instance found Racer X sharing a History or English class with a very well-endowed girl he didn’t care all that much for. During one class period, the girl was making a point about something, and X, completely disgusted by what this girl was saying, loudly interrupted with the following amazing quote: “You know, So-and-So, the only reason ANYONE listens to you is because you have big hooters.” Jaws dropped (this was the very PC early nineties), and the girl’s boyfriend threatened to kick Racer X’s ass. The funny part here, I think, is the boyfriend in question was obviously swinging for the other team and was probably only dating this girl because she was the perfect beard. I feel situations like this happen every year in every high school class in America. At any rate, Racer X’s ass remained noticeably unkicked in the weeks following this event.

- In college, Racer X came really close to marrying a girl from a foreign country he met at the Zebra Club so she could get her green card. His justification? “She’s so hot.” A friend talked him out of this potentially disastrous move.

- From JB (a.k.a. The Kid Who Said He’d Lend Me His Zooropa Cassette But Then Never Did): “One time, I was running on North Street when I was home from college. Racer X passed me in his car, turned around and gunned it back at me, screeched to a stop, got out of his car and sprinted after me, challenging me to a race. Oh, he was barefoot.”

- Racer X and his brother went up to Boston once with a mutual friend when they were all still adolescents. As the trio wandered the City of Beans, the brother, who looked a tad older than his natural age, was propositioned by a prostitute. The kid negotiated a blowjob for five bucks, which he allegedly got while Racer X and the friend stood outside the prostitute’s apartment. I feel like this story and the next one I’m gonna lay on you may have just been products of an overactive imagination, but on the other hand, this kid stole his neighbor’s car on a whim one day and drove to another country (I think). Thus, I’m not ruling anything out.

- Once, during a fairly serious conversation about health, Racer X confided to me that he had tried crack cocaine on at least one occasion. I’d place this story around seventh, eighth grade.

Today, Racer X lives somewhere in New York, undoubtedly doing something to earn money. Like I said in that first high school reunion post, I was a little afraid to talk to him last time we crossed paths. He seems happy, though.

By the way, Racer X is NOT the same kid I talk about in this story.

Recent Entries From JG2’s TV Journal

“MonsterQuest”: This show has squeezed out a surprising three seasons, proving the world of cryptids extends far beyond the holy trinity of Bigfoot, Loch Ness, and Chupacabra. Granted, they never flippin’ find anything (aside from the Greenland Shark, “MonsterQuest’s” sole success story), but I think the point of this show is merely to raise awareness. For instance, I had no idea there was a “Grass Man” in Ohio – I mean, aside from Purple Pete, the dealer behind the Donut Hole on 5th Street in Akron. So far, the episodes this year have been great. The one about the Jersey Devil was particularly excellent. I don’t know what was scarier – the old timey reenactments of the Jersey Devil’s “birth,” the sculpture that guy made based on the sighting that kid and his mom had, or the kid’s pale adolescent visage replete with long hair and “fuck you” scruff. Chills n’ thrills all around. Love the announcer’s smokey voice, too. I bet he’s wet the panties of more than one willing lass at the airport’s Holiday Inn lounge.

“Late Night with Jimmy Fallon”: Conan’s replacement has experienced a pretty wonky liftoff (as expected), but he brings enough funny at 12:30 to justify his existence. Asking Mayor Bloomberg to pose for a picture in front of Castle Grayskull was alotta yuks, especially when they were having so much trouble getting it up on the green screen. Giving everyone in the audience Warheads was slightly inspired. Still, in terms of personality, Craig Ferguson nukes Jimmy Fallon back to the stone age every night. Fergie rants and raves and goes on wild, no return tangents unlike anyone else on the tube right now (yes, Regis, I agree with you). Even if Giggly Jim pulls his act together, I think history will ultimately remember Craig as the superior host, the guy who whole-heartedly deserves the next serious late shift promotion.

“Reaper”: I feel like someone pitched a Ghostbusters TV series based on Ayroyd’s original “hell on earth” script idea for GB3 and this is what we got when Sony wouldn’t license Venkman and his pals. “Reaper” is amusing, but it suffers from too many stock characters, too many predictable jokes, and, on occasion, some really awful special effects. Kevin Smith had/has something to do with this show, which I’m sure is affecting my bias. That guy needs to take his comic books and bowling shirts and mumbly back-of-the-classroom demeanor and do something not gratingly obnoxious already.

“American Dad”: This show has really come into its own. Great rhythm, great stories, fresh jokes, great performances by the voice cast…totally my current TV obsession. The first show in ages that I’ll purposely watch episodes of over and over again just for the LULZ. So many quotables. “Are we talking Q? Are we talking Q?” “An autopsy showed the hamster was pregnant.” “Son of a bitch Superman II’d me!” That last one’s constantly on the tip of my tongue. I’ve been waiting very patiently for someone to come along and Superman II me already (by which I mean I’ve been waiting for someone to hire Richard Lester to complete me).

“Throwdown with Bobby Flay”: I never see Bobby Flay win any of these. I’m not even sure he really knows how to cook. He lost one the other night that was fried chicken because he made his oil too hot. What the flarg? What the hell does this guy make in his restaurant? Grilled cheese and Tollhouse cookies? If I see Bobby Flay get his ass handed to him in another one of these throwdowns, I’m gonna petition for his Food Network resignation.