That’s Like Putting A Bob’s Big Boy In The Kremlin

There’s a Checkers in Brooklyn now. That’s like putting a Hardee’s on the moon! Well, sort of. Anyway, I command you to read the story I wrote about the Checkers Gotham invasion for New York Press. I assure you I take no shots at Klosterman in it.

Relevent YouTube clip – Rap Cat:

I never grow tired of that song.

Cheese’s Price (Deny The Markup)

“Sleeveless shirts totally improve my guitar playing. Steve Vai and Yngwie Malmsteen can shove their ugly fucking scalloped guitars up their expanded assholes. Sleeveless shirts have way more impact. These guys are just too fucking lame to get it.”

The above quote comes from Bloodlights front man Captain Poon, whom I recently interviewed for Crawdaddy! Check it out if you’re into the Scandinavian rock scene. If you’re not, you could always read this shit I wrote about Devo.

Speaking of hard labor, an article I wrote about rock star day jobs is slated to be published in the next Canadian edition of Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. That junk just went to press, so it should be hitting book store shelves soon (end of the month?). I invite all the toque-wearing hose-heads trapped in America’s hat to get down on JG2’s first international funky book joint.

Hey, does anyone else remember when Zakk Wylde didn’t look like Captain Caveman? Way back in the early nineties, I mean. Back then, Zakk was just some normal-ass blonde guitar guy. At what point exactly did he transform into Beardo, the Beer-Swilling Rock Grizzly? Lately I’ve been walking by the Guitar Center near Union Square in the city a lot, and they have this big poster in the window of Zakk pre-Grizzly days. It’s very weird. Without his signature hypno-guitar, you’d never be able to identify him.

Meanwhile, next to dashing young Zakk, they have this photo of the Ramones from around the time they broke up. Joey and the gang look like the saddest, oldest sacks you’ve ever seen (Joey is totally rockin’ his purple XXL “I don’t give a fuck anymore” shirt in this pic). It’s sort of criminal that a business in NYC is allowed to display such a haggard photo of the Ramones. I’d complain, but that would require walking in to Guitar Center and talking to some jagoff who looks like every guy in Crazy Town.

“What’s up, bro? Can I help you with anything? You need some light gauge strings or something?”

In case you were wondering, the title of this post is a reference to a hilarious food-based parody I wrote of that old Alice In Chains chestnut “Man In The Box.” Hopefully I’ll finish my time machine soon so I can go back to 1992 and force “Weird Al” to record it. Then I’ll be rich as shit and I’ll never have any problems again.

You know what I’m really dreading? That Runaways movie with Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning. I bet that’s just gonna be melted dog shit.

National Buffoon’s Recession Vacation: The Post-Game Report

I turned thirty this year. Aside from the five hours of Lego Star Wars and the big greasy plate of Disco Fries I treated myself to on the actual date (1/3), I had to do something epic before the close of ‘09 to celebrate. An idea for a road trip was hatched, a road trip that would cover a wide, haphazard swath of U.S. soil previously unknown to yours truly. I’d try to see it all – California, Seattle, Yellowstone National Park, and of course, Boise.

Last month, the time finally came. I stole Mom and Dad’s credit card, kidnapped the prom queen, flew to San Francisco, rented a Ford Focus, and put this plan into action. What follows is a lengthy summary of my three weeks on the road – what I saw, some of what I ate, bizarre townies I encountered, and a few unflinching slabs of photographic evidence for the sake of that thing we call posterity.

Please, luxuriate in the continental deliciousness that is the National Buffoon’s Recession Vacation.

CALEEFORNYA

San Francisco just seems like a giant double dog dare. Do you have brass ones large enough to reside in a city of comically dangerous inclines that is also shrouded in fog thicker than Al Franken’s speaking voice four days out of the week? I’m not sure I do. On any given street, it seems, you could trip on something semi-visible and inadvertently launch yourself down an eighty-five degree hill. On the positive side, they have a statue of Yoda, Amoeba Music (a record store that finally lives up to the hype), and the rather satisfying In n’ Out Burger chain.

People actually live on this crazy, bitch-ass street.

Rural California answered my childhood question of “Where are they getting these weird landscapes from for all the model train sets?” I thought all those rolling mounds of yellow grass dotted by small green pube bushes were the sly fantasy of some forgotten Wonka-like toy exec. Turns out that nature is real deal Holyfied (in the Golden State, at least). I half expected a mammoth middle-aged train enthusiast to rise up menacingly over the horizon, complete with conductor’s hat and overalls, looking down upon his miniature world with feelings of joy and subtle sexual excitement he could no longer mine from his harried, frigid wife.

All things considered, Cali gets an A minus from this intrepid, itchy traveler.

PACIFIC NORTHWEST

In Twin Peaks, stupid pants are legal.

Did not see Bigfoot. I think it was too hot. The general Seattle area was experiencing a record-breaking heat wave during our visit. It was ninety-five degrees in the shade, which didn’t make me feel all that anxious to go exploring. I found the apartment where Layne Staley died (on a quiet, not-as-creepy-as-I-expected street) and called the whole thing off. Had some pretty good Pad Thai at a place with a cutesy name like Phuq Yoo or Phuq Awph or Go Phuq Yourselph. The presence of Starbuck’s was noticeably diminished; my woman and I encountered far more Peet’s and Dutch Brothers (both were pretty tasty).

Driving through Grant’s Pass, Oregon, on the search for the bear statues pictured below, I noticed that Peter Frampton was coming to a theater about the size of my apartment in Brooklyn. That profoundly depressed me. We also visited the famous “Twin Peaks” diner just outside Seattle. Kyle MacLachlan is a good actor. That cherry pie was balls. The sheriff station from “Peaks” currently houses some kind of construction company. The guy mowing the lawn there eyed us suspiciously, as if he knew our secret plan to have wild, spider monkey-style sex on the front steps.

This could be a Renaissance painting.

Did I mention the grasshopper situation in Oregon was sort of out of control? We stopped the car on the side of the highway once to take a picture of the sunset, and a veritable plague of leaping insects attacked our pant legs. Someone needs to get on that pronto.

BOISE

The heart of Idaho democracy.

A twelve dollar parking ticket? Ha. I scoff at your ridiculously low fine, Boise. That amount of money can barely buy you a hamburger where I live. Idaho’s capitol was cuter and more lively than I expected, but it was still sort of like the Twilight Zone. The lady behind the counter at the welcome center couldn’t remember where Disney World was located.

“I know Disney LAND is in California,” she said as if she were about to phone a friend on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” I told her Florida, and she nodded as if to say, “Yeah, sure, whatever you say, kid.” I could have said Mars and she would have agreed.

YELLOWSTONE

More untouched natural beauty than Angelina Jolie circa The Bone Collector. With the amount of traffic that goes through Yellowstone, it’s amazing how pristine it all remains. Then again, I imagine the majority of people who visit that park are serious outdoorsy types who would rather sacrifice their first born than do anything to upset Mother Earth. We stayed in this awesome motel on the Montana side of Y-stone that was littered with deliciously passive aggressive notes (“No smoking in the rooms – if we smell smoke, you will be charged, even if you DIDN’T smoke!”; “Please sign in to use computer – the Internet DOES cost money, you know!”).

Don’t you just want to dive in to all that nature and roll around like a pig in slop?

The only bummers about Yellowstone: we saw but one bear, and it was so far away it could have been a stray dog; the contact lens in my right eye ripped on the way out of Yogi’s hood, forcing me to drive treacherous Wyoming roads for a couple of hours with what felt like shards of glass in my peeper. They have Coke machines and gas stations and hotels and a post office and even a fucking CHURCH in the middle of America’s oldest (and largest?) national park, but not a single Lens Crafters. Thanks again to Stacey at the Cody, Wyoming, Wal-Mart Vision Center for hooking me up with a new lens. You’re the shit, Stacey.

SOUTH DAKOTA

My patriotism fell to an all-time low in this state after visiting Mount Rushmore. I don’t know how they make that famous monument look so big in pictures and movies – in real life, bitch is smaller than Tom Cruise’s penis. You wade through this icky tourist trap known as Keystone (Olde fashioned fudge! Chainsaw art! Museums dedicated to the guy who created Mt. Rushmore!), drive up this huge winding mountain, wait for this massive conglomeration of Presidential faces to hit you, and then – [CUE SAD TRUMPET NOISE] you see something roughly the same size as the loose change rattling around in your pocket.

On top of that, if you want a good damn look at the thing, you have to pay ten fucking dollars to park in some Universal Studios-style parking complex run by curt teenagers and dusty old men. The whole thing made me wanna piss in my own Corn Flakes. Then I went over the Crazy Horse monument and really had my soul flattened. Another ten for parking, and then they wanna charge you a four dollar bus ride to get within walking distance of the thing. Hey Uncle Sam – suck my left one.

Objects in American history books are smaller and surrounded by more useless crap than they appear.

MINNEAPOLIS/ST. PAUL

I had been to this area once before, so I knew it was pretty dope in a clean, liberal, Midwestern kinda way. It’s still confusing as hell to get around, though. How many highways do they need runnin’ through that city? Why does every road abruptly stop and then start again in some completely different location? Jesus H. Christmas. And that sculpture garden, don’t even get me started. Don’t get me started! At least the local food was good (I highly recommend the Wienery and Sea Salt, despite the ridiculous wait time of the latter).

The apartment in Minneapolis where Replacements guitarist Bob Stinson died.

At this point, the rental car was supposed to be returned and we were to fly back to NYC. Sadly, our rental agreement stipulated we return the trusty Ford Focus to San Francisco, lest we be charged nine hundred big ones. So we relented and added four days to our already extreme ‘09 vacatabration.

DES MOINES

Hot. Humid. Not as corn-centric as imagined. They’re even building some kind of post modern Nightmare Before Christmas sculpture garden in the middle of downtown. A stop at a vegetarian café was hampered by (of all things) a bumbling street magician who managed to spill a pitcher of water all over the floor next to our table while attempting to do some kind of slight-of-hand card trick. I don’t think I’ve been in a more awkward situation in my life.

SALT LAKE CITY

Mormons, Mormons, MORMONS! Old Mormons, young Mormons, hot Mormons, ugly Mormons – you name ‘em, they got ‘em! This was the only U.S. city I’ve ever been to where grain elevators are visible from the downtown area. If that doesn’t give you an idea of how exciting SLC is, the true highlight of my visit was watching The Nine Lives of Marion Barry on HBO in the hotel room that night.

RENO

I enjoy the illusion of facial hair this picture suggests.

Every motel had weekly and monthly rates. Thus, every hotel had desperate gamblers living in it, complete with their mangy pets and angry, soulless lovers. I did actually go into a casino, but I fought the genetic urge to gamble the few pennies I had left away. Instead, I went back to my room and watched some yazz on TV until the sun came up and I was sure it was completely safe to go buy donuts.

CALEEFORNYA AGAIN

Before returning to SF, we stopped in Sacramento. My plan was to find the Governor’s Mansion and give Ah-nuld a piece of my mind RE: Kindergarten Cop. Alas, he wasn’t home. Now I just read on Wiki Answers that he doesn’t even live at the Governor’s Mansion. Nope, turns out ol’ Thunder Thighs does his governing at a hotel across the street from the State Capitol Building when he’s in town. What a dried-up Austrian bitch that guy is. Get to tha Hyatt Regency!!!!!!

You want to see a picture of the saddest bear in the world? Look below.

I saw this guy in a candy shop in “Old” Sacramento, the part of the city they keep looking like Hill Valley 1885 so people like me can pretend they’re about to showdown with Mad Dog Tannen when in reality they’re walking by a Subway sandwich shop and staring at assorted low quality “Governator” t-shirts. Anyway, this bear looked so depressed, which is weird because it lives in a candy shop. I guess you can have too much of a good thing.

ODDS AND ENDS

- Classic rock radio in this country plays entirely too much Queen, AC/DC, and Aerosmith. I think if I had a time machine, I’d go back in time and try to eradicate one of those bands from existence just to see who would shift into their place now. Can you imagine if Loverboy’s “Working For The Weekend” had been used in Wayne’s World instead of “Bohemian Rhapsody?”

- Local newscasters in Wyoming and Iowa have no clue what they’re doing. You’d think they were MC-ing a church bake sale. Come on, Stretch, you’re talking to the Secretary of Labor. Pull yourself together already.

- Bottles of Vault go for seventy-nine cents everywhere in the country but New York City. I could fuckin’ cry.

- At least once on this trip, a toothless hillbilly asked where we were from. Upon hearing Brooklyn, he laughed heartily and said, “You a looooong way from home, ain’t cha?”

- Second best reaction to “We’re from Brooklyn,” courtesy of some goofy lady at a Holiday Inn Express in South Dakota: “Wow! What’s that like? I bet it’s just like New Orleans, isn’t it?”

- Thanks to the copious amounts of driving I was doing every day (coupled with the various time zone changes we encountered), I never really had a good grasp on what time it was during this trip at any given juncture. We rolled into Minneapolis and stopped to ask directions at a gas station. The girl was like, “Well, I don’t want to put you on the highway now, because of the traffic.” I’m thinking, It’s like ten-thirty in the morning on a Tuesday…what kind of traffic could there be? I looked up at a nearby clock. It was five-thirty in evening. Goddamn radiant summer sun.

- On the flight home, the pilot pointed out Area 51. “As you can see, there’s nothing there.” Did the government force him to say that?

Inaccurate Hip Hop Lyrics Vol. 3(?)

“Internationally known as the Keebler Elf/can’t keep a catalog up on the shelf.”

- Beastie Boys, “Shazam!”

While Keebler remains the second largest cookie/cracker manufacturer in the United States, the company has had rather minimal penetration in foreign lands. My girlfriend is from France; while she came to America familiar with such U.S. institutions as chili fries, “Diff’rent Strokes,” and Beck Hansen, she had no knowledge of the Ernie the Keebler Elf or his delicious products before I lead her down a grocery aisle in downtown Brooklyn so many months ago.

Like the Beastie Boys, I too yearn for the day the Keebler Elf is the ultimate snack salesman on every shore from here to Tokyo. Unfortunately, recent company sales reports suggest Ernie’s global dominance is still many years away.

The Taco Bell Dog: 1994-2009

Gidget, the adorable chihuahua who was granted the voice of the guy from “Reno 911!” in the late nineties to help sell various Taco Bell products, died Tuesday at the ripe old age of fifteen. To think, most humans are just starting to really enjoy the pleasures of masturbation and driving with a learner’s permit at that age. For dogs, fifteen is like having one foot in the grave. Did Gidget even remember making all those Taco Bell ads? I doubt it.

I worked at Taco Bell when Gidget was introduced, and I can’t even tell you how many middle aged women and children she delighted by pretending to demand gorditas in Spanish. A certain segment of the American population just went nuts for that dog. One of the most frenzied nights of my entire TB career was the eve we rolled out the talking Gidget plushies. My mom still has hers, encased in glass behind a myriad of high security bank vault lasers.

I too have held on to my Gidget paraphernalia, including a work shirt emblazoned with her disembodied head and a word bubble featuring that hilarious catchphrase, “Yo quiero Taco Bell!” I guess there are just too many memories attached to let it go. Sigh. Those really were simpler times back then. Animals didn’t have to be all ironic on YouTube to make us happy. All they had to do was be cute, semi-bilingual, and make witty remarks about Godzilla from time to time. God, how I wish I could turn back the clock.

Rest in peace, Gidget. Say hi to Morris the Cat for me.

Menu For The Ramones-Themed Restaurant I Plan To Open One Day

HEY HO, LET’S GOs!
315 Bowery
New York, NY

“Where the elite meet ta eat (an’ sniff glue).”

EAT THAT RAT (APPETIZERS):

Blitzkrieg Poppers – jalapeño poppers served w/ creamy dipping sauce.

Adios Amigos – you’ll need a siesta after this nacho platter.

Chicken Beak Boy Strips – they’re free if you stand on the table and cluck like a chicken.

Joey’s Delight – a handful of wheat germin shoved in your mouth by your server.

TODAY YOUR LUNCH, TOMORROW THE WORLD:

Beat on the Bratwurst – what can you do with a brat like that? Eat it!

Havana Affiar – our delicious Cuban sandwich.

The Sloth – our regular cheeseburger.

The Animal Boy – our bacon cheeseburger.

The Wart Hog – our double bacon cheeseburger.

The Doofus of Erasmus – our triple bacon cheeseburger topped with onion rings.

Everytime I Eat This Vegetable Patty It Makes Me Think of You – for all the non-meat eaters at this gig.

NOW I WANNA EAT A GOOD SALAD:

The Cobb That Ate My Brain – sure to drive you crazy.

The Garden of Serenity – our delectable Caesar salad.

NOW I WANNA SNIFF SOME SOUP:

Cream of Chicken Beak Boy – served with a real beak!

Dee Dee’s Lobster Bisque – if you don’t like it, you can kiss his cherry red asshole!

YOU’RE GONNA EAT THAT DINNER:

Johnny’s Long Island Strip Steak – first rule is it comes with your choice of sides.

Teenage Lobsterbotomy – a mouthful in more ways than one.

Psycho Therapy Pasta Bowl – the ultimate comfort dish.

We’re a Happy Fajitas – stuffed with your choice of chicken, steak, or veggies.

Chicken Vindaloo – Joey’s favorite!

The Weasel Face – a BBQ platter including brisket, pulled pork, and ribs.

Too Tough To Diet – all you can eat ribs.

SOMEBODY PUT SOMETHING IN THESE DRINKS:

Rockaway Sex on the Beach – you’ll have to hitch a ride after this one.

Forest Hills Iced Tea – a favorite of bums everywhere.

My Brain is Hanging Upside Down – our twisted version of gin and tonic.

BRAIN DRAIN (DESSERTS):

Tommy’s Death By Chocolate – if it doesn’t kill you, the guilt will!

Richie’s Raspberry Cheesecake – all he wanted was some of that t-shirt money!

The Mervin – a giant bowl of vanilla or chocolate ice cream covered in melted fudge, nuts, banana slices, and topped with an obscene amount of whipped cream.

NOTES: All the servers at HEY HO, LET’S GOs! will wear ripped jeans with sleeveless Mickey Mouse t-shirts. Naturally, there will be tons of goofy Ramones crap on the walls (tubes of glue, Pinhead masks). Whenever it’s someone’s birthday, four guys in leather jackets will race out of the kitchen and reenact the Ramones’ famous appearance on “The Simpsons.”

Point/Counterpoint

SIGNS THIS WEEK MIGHT BE TOTALLY AWESOME:

- a bunch of Tim Hortons opened in NYC today; their Canuck-bred foodstuffs are generally so top notch I don’t mind the lack of apostrophe in their name

- possible new job opportunity I don’t wanna talk about because I’ve become mad superstitious like that (especially in THIS ECONOMY)

- I haven’t heard anyone besides myself use the phrase “in THIS ECONOMY” in the past twenty-four hours

- there is enough cloud cover outside to prevent the sun from turning my apartment into the giant rotisserie chicken oven it usually becomes on hot days

- Drew Barrymore be lookin’ pretty fine again

Thanks, Mac Guy.

SIGNS THIS WEEK MIGHT SUCK TOTAL GOAT BAWLZ:

- they’re making a fuckin’ Thor movie

- they’re making a fuckin’ Hong Kong Fooey movie

- I’m pretty sure I have about fifteen dollars in library fines thanks to my misplacement of Sarah Vowell’s last book (which wasn’t even THAT GOOD)

- I’m on Day 4 or 5 of Canker Sore Beach Party in my mouth

- a clean, reliable post office did not spring up overnight across the street from my apartment

- there’s absolutely no soda in the house right now

Jacko’s Wacko Grape-Throwing On “Captain EO” Set

A few years ago, I wrote a book of humorous essays revolving around Star Wars fan culture entitled Star Wars Ruined My Life. I came this close to getting the thing into book stores, but then every interested publisher suddenly realized I wasn’t some super famous jack-off from the movies, TV, or the Internet. They then basically all told me to go “build an audience” and come back when I was a profitable commodity. Instead, I bought a gun and tried to shoot the President.

No, I’m kidding. I tried to “build an audience” by not leaving my house and eating ice cream all day, but that didn’t work. Fast forward to 6/25/09. Michael Jackson dies, and I remember that one chapter in Star Wars Ruined My Life extensively covered Jacko’s 3-D EPCOT attraction Captain EO (1986). You all remember that one. It had singing, dancing, puppets, and Anjelica Huston. On the whole, far more entertaining than that crap inside the giant golf ball OR Ellen’s Energy Adventure.

Like Star Wars, but with more squealing and crotch-grabbing.

Captain EO was produced by George Lucas, who at the same time was burdened with the task of creating a separate Disney attraction based on his blockbuster Star Wars movies. Obviously EO, directed by George’s buddy Francis Ford Coppola, was of higher priority. That fact was punctuated sharply when the lackluster Star Wars ride, Star Tours, finally debuted at MGM Studios in 1987. The five minute zip around space with C-3PO, R2-D2, and some robot voiced by Pee Wee Herman was less exciting than some of the bathrooms in the park.

So I wrote this chapter that directly blamed the King of Pop for the suckiness of Star Tours. The whole EO project was his idea in the first place; since he was the almighty MJ, all he had to do was call a few people and that was enough to make everything else on the entire planet secondary. The original text I cobbled together makes it clear just how ridiculous Michael Jackson’s Seventeen Minute Intergalactic Third Tier Muppet Freak-Out was in terms of time and money:

“Captain EO was one of the most expensive movies ever made, at one million dollars per minute of film. I know that doesn’t seem like a lot, especially when you consider the fact that 1997’s Titanic cost about 12 jillion dollars per nanosecond, but in 1986 seventeen million dollars was a lot of money. The highest-grossing movie of that year, Top Gun, was budgeted at $15 million, and they used real fighter jets and aircraft carriers in that one. Captain EO cost two million dollars more, and the majority of the cast was foam rubber. Plus, Captain EO was ninety-three minutes shorter than Top Gun! It was the 1980s, though, a time when money was thrown around like Styrofoam packing material, especially by people like Michael Jackson.”

Aw, he did the same shit in “Thriller.”

Indeed, Captain EO was pricey. Yet, it was all up there on the screen, and the thing must have been popular. Disney didn’t remove EO from their parks entirely until 1997, long after MJ’s career had imploded and most people were afraid of leaving the guy alone with minors. That has to speak to the film’s quality, right? Tourists won’t put up with any ol’ kind of 3-D puppet-related crap, no matter HOW good that icy seventeen minutes of air conditioning feels. Then again, Disney replaced Captain EO with Honey, I Shrunk The Audience, a show based on a decade-old Rick Moranis franchise. Maybe they have no idea what they’re doing down there (and maybe all tourists are complete heat-exhausted idiots).

But I digress. I interviewed a handful of people who actually worked on EO for this chapter, but only one managed to provide me with the strange, funny, and sometimes sad background stories I craved as a gossip-hungry member of John Q. Public. That person was Terri Hardin, a Hollywood costume builder/sculptor who not only created creatures for EO but also portrayed two of its characters – Idy and Ody – and did stunts for Anjelica Huston. I didn’t include much of what Terri said in the original chapter because it didn’t seem all that relevant, but now her stories/insights prove to be most interesting (because, you know, Michael Jackson just died). Here now, some selected quotes from Terri about the Captain EO experience.

On working with Coppola:

“He always wears Bermuda shorts. He is so casual that the first time I met him I did not recognize him. This was good, because I handled myself well, instead of [acting like] a blubbering fan.

“Coppola had us improv. There I was, acting with Angelica Huston and Michael Jackson. In one scene we did, Angelica was the boss of a camp, Michael was the camp counselor, and we were the spoiled children. Francis [went] to Angelica and whispered, ‘you are going to fire Michael.’ And to Michael, he whispered, ‘You must get these kids to behave.’ And to the rest of us, the children, we were told not to behave under any circumstances.

“Well, Michael kept asking us to behave, and we just kept being brats. Then Angelica storms in, grabs Michael by the shirt, and literally lifts him off his feet and says, ‘You insignificant little worm – YOU’RE FIRED!’ She then throws him across the room. We rehearsed in large studio and the floors were slick; Michael slid a long way on his butt, and shuttered in fear. Real fear. After that, he would not go near Angelica. He was very frighted of her.”

“Where’s that little shit Prince? I wanna throw him around, too.”

On working with MJ:

“Working with Michael was quite interesting. So many people loved this guy in ‘85. Not like today, where he is labeled as a freak. He had the mind of a twelve year old then, and I used to talk to him as I would a young boy. He loved to have grape fights in the morning. He would have a crate of grapes sent to his trailer every day just for this purpose.

“Michael also loved to play jokes on me, as I can be very gullible. His favorite was the rattlesnake egg joke. This is the one where you approach someone and tell them that you have just gotten some rattlesnake eggs sent to you and you hand your chosen victim the envelope. When they open it, there is a bobby pin with a rubber band and it makes a rattling sound and scares the crap out of your victim. I was always the victim. Michael would pull this prank again and again on me. As far as dancing or music, though, he was the master. Never had I seen such raw talent.

“[And he] could remember you name, no matter who you were. Once you had met him, he could call you by name from then on. Think of all the folks who have crossed his path. Amazing!”

On the kids from SpaceCamp being total dicks:

“On one occasion, the kids from that production walked over to Michael’s trailer and when he did not come out, they grabbed hold of it and began to shake it violently. Chucky, a security guard lent to Michael by Stevie Wonder, had to literally pull these assholes off the trailer. And these are supposed to be professionals.”

Every single one of these kids is an epic douchebag.

On Anjelica Huston’s star trip:

“When I first met Anjelica, she was an angry, demanding woman. She insisted she play the queen as well as the witch, and the girl who was to play the princess originally and be a love interest for Capt. EO was fired. You see, Angelica was up for an Academy Award, and the Disney folks really wanted her in the film.

“I thought that she could not really be this angry. So each day, I would open her trailer, say, ‘Morning, Angelica!’ and slam the door. I did this for about three days before she demanded I step inside. When she asked me what my problem was, I told her that I knew she could not be as angry as she seemed and that I felt she needed a smiling good morning to cheer her up. She laughed and we were friends from that day forward.

“It was Angelica who suggested me to stunt double her for the flying sequences as she would not do those.”

Interesting stuff, and nothing too freaky. Grape fights, LOL – way to waste food, you rich asshole. Guess that’s where all that money went. I wonder what Anjelica Huston has to say about her Captain EO experience. Would she own up to being such a mega-bitch at the start of the production? I don’t know, I’ve never even met her!

Just for the record, Terri also mentioned that no less than Sophia Loren and Babs Streisand were calling MJ on a daily basis during EO’s production and leaving him breathy, lovey-dovey messages. Also, Tony Cox (the little person from Bad Santa) played Hooter in EO, and there was apparently an incident one day where Cox almost passed out from heat exhaustion and no one did anything until Terri picked up Hooter’s head and threw it across the floor out of anger/disgust.

Lotta throwin’ on that movie! I guess that’s just how people communicate on film sets.

Another interesting note to end on: the kids from SpaceCamp got a karmic kick in the ass when their stupid little movie was forced to come out shortly after the Challenger explosion. The shuttle malfunction that befell Lea Thompson and wee Leaf Phoenix in the film was almost identical to the one that blew up the real rocket ship in January of 1986, claiming seven lives; moviegoers trying to forget the disaster stayed away in droves. So fuck you, Larry B. Scott and Kelly Preston, for fucking with Michael Jackson’s trailer!

Bizarre Soft Drinks I Have Recently Encountered: Mtn Dew Game Fuel (WoW Edition)

WHAT IT IS: A liquid reminder that World Of Warcraft, the incredibly expansive online role-playing game that’s probably directly responsible for at least 40% of the morbid obesity cases in this country, still exists.

WHERE IT WAS DISCOVERED: Food Dimensions, Brooklyn, NY. This junk is pretty much everywhere.

WHO MAKES IT: Pepsi, a company firmly dedicated to flooding the market with every variation of Mountain Dew imaginable. Get ready for next year’s X-Treme Throwback “Three’s Company” John Ritter 1970s Swinger Dew!

HOW IT TASTES: There are two flavors – wild berry and cherry. Both are impossibly sweet and sort of taste like they just plopped giant lumps of sugar into the formula.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: Fuckin’ elves on the label n’ shit. Characters from WoW, obviously. The ogre on the cherry flavor looks enough like Shrek to initiate a lawsuit, I think. I guess there are only so many ways you can draw an ogre.

NOTES: I wish Pepsi had been more creative with the flavors. How many cherry/wild berry sodas have they thrown at us already? 6,000? Jeez. How about a kiwi something-or-other, or maybe some kind of watermelon thing? The box these guys refuse to think outside of must be impossibly small, like Stuart Little’s car. It probably smells terrible, too. Hey Pepsi, get out of your small, smelly box and make an interesting Mtn Dew flavor already! Gimme appletini banana swirl!

Bizzare Soft Drinks I Have Recently Encountered: Drank

WHAT IT IS: Corporate America’s latest attempt to co-opt black youth culture. Those crazy rappers love the extreme calm they feel when they mix their drugs into generic purple cough syrup – why shouldn’t children and housewives across the country be allowed to experience the closest legal approximation? Utilizing melatonin, valerian root, and rose hips, Drank will zone little Timmy and Suzie out just like their diamond-grilled hero Lil’ Jon!

WHERE IT WAS DISCOVERED: Not in Fort Lee, NJ. I managed to snag a can while on vacation in Central Florida. To see if Drank is available in your area, look at this not-entirely-accurate map.

WHO MAKES IT: The Innovative Beverage Group out of Houston, TX. What a name, huh? About one step away from the Really Awesome And Super Cool Beverage Group.

HOW IT TASTES: Like carbonated bubble gum mixed with dry ice.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: For starters, Drank is an “anti-energy” drink, bucking the popular adrenaline-pumping trend started by brands like Jolt, Rockstar, and Monster. Translation: you’re buying a carbonated herbal tea here. Then there’s the official Drank slogan – “Slow your roll.” I heard they bought it dirt cheap at one of Dr. Dre’s garage sales. They also picked up Eazy E’s Compton hat and the distribution rights to Above The Rim.

NOTES: Drank succeeded in slowing my basic jittery and cynical roll, but it did not provide the hazy cocoon of warmth and love I was anticipating. Instead, it just made me feel like I was overdosing on Sudafed. This had to be the ground level of whatever euphoric malaise Three 6 Mafia made famous in their “Sippin’ On Some Syrup” song; on top of that, the “high” only lasted about twenty minutes. The disappointment was as bright and undeniable as the crisp candy taste.

Come on, Suits, I know you can do better than this. Drop some morphine in that Drank, for the love of Young Jeezy. I wanna get laid out already.