Larry Flynt and Joe Francis are bringing new meaning to the phrase ‘hard economic times’ by asking Congress for a $5 billion bailout package for the porn industry, in order to avoid pulling out of DVD sales and shooting a load all over the face of their retirement fund.

Both smut peddlers admit that while DVD sales are sagging like Nina Hartley’s boob job, Internet commerce is keeping the industry erect.  

But Flynt and Francis are more concerned about winning back the hearts, vaginas and dicks of the American people, who can’t even be bothered to get the lube out of the night stand with the economy so far down the crapper.

Francis, of Girls Gone Wild fame, likened his business to Apple Pie, the Star Spangled Banner and Bald Eagles, calling the porn industry “cherished” by the American people.

Flynt said that the people of America are too limp to be sexually active, something that is depressing the nation on the whole. “With all this economic misery and people losing all that money, sex is the farthest thing from their mind,” said Flynt in a statement. “It’s time for congress to rejuvenate the sexual appetite of America. The only way they can do this is by supporting the adult industry and doing it quickly.”

Congress, still preparing to sit for their first official gang bang of 2009, hasn’t discussed bailing out Big Porno, presumably because they’ve already rolled over and gone to sleep after the rodgering they gave the auto industry.

Dear Alexandra,

I was recently informed of your potential decision not to attend Taco-ween this year in favor of some lame ass party in Bumble, MA.

To which I say: What the shit?

I’m now going to go through a list of reasons why you should attend Taco-ween instead.

Reason the first: The theme is Guitar Hero: World Tour. Costumes will be based on band members from across time immemorial. You and Andrew may have started the trend last year with your 80’s rocker themed costume. You could easily reprise your Whitesnake-chick-homage without problem.

2. There will be tacos.

Thirdly, our friends are so much cooler than any of the batshitcrazy people that will be attending a party in where-ever-the-hell-it-is-that-isn’t-JP.

4. Western MA? Honestly? Who the hell lives there anyway? More importantly, who throws a party way the hell out there, forcing friends to drive a long distance in order to attend a party? Lame-ass-ed-ness.

Reason five: JP is T-accessible.

Six: The cab ride home will be a lot cheaper and quicker. Think of poor Jack. Who will, no doubt, be stuck in a crate wishing for nothing more than some attention and love – and possibly to squeeze out a big dookie the second you two walk in the door. Travelling from JP to Newtonville will surely be more expedient than travelling from where ever to Newtonville.

Seven: I’ll be there.

Reason the last: Taco-ween Guitar Hero World Tour Edition could bring world peace. Is a World War something you want pinned on your Bumble-bound shoulders? I should think not.

This recent turn of events seriously endangers our blossoming friendship. Sure, you left a raincoat on your mailbox for me the other day – which was awesome. But what will happen if I need a winter coat in November? After ditching out on, what will undoubtedly be, the Halloween party of the year, I may not consider asking Andrew for a winter coat. In that case, we all loose. Especially the children. That’s right, Al. Think of the children! Those poor, unwashed mashes of weeping children with no food who will greatly benefit from our rock n roll stylins that evening. What will they do if you don’t show up in white pumps with a blond wig? I dare say they will cry. And they will cry enormous pools of blood stained tears yearning for food, education and, eventually, good jobs.

All of that can easily be accomplished with a simple decision: Attend a Halloween party in JP – with tacos. I’ve made my case. The rest is on you, Alex.

The rest is on you.

Yours in Taco-ween unity,

Brian

Dear Hipsters,

I’m too fat to be a hipster. Huge fan of black. Black shirts. Black jeans. Maybe a skinny black tie here and there, you know, if the mood strikes me and I can offset it with the right striped shirt. I can’t fit into American Apparel Clothing. My vintage graphic tees are kitschy instead of edgy. They definitely aren’t one of kind.

Square-framed glasses and a round face just don’t jive. Besides, I have perfect vision and filling frames with clear glass is something Klosterman would do.

Speaking of Chuck, I read his oeuvre cover to cover. When I finished I told anyone in ear shot that I completely disagree with any stance he’s ever taken. Well, except for his essay on Billy Joel – Glass Houses is a fucking masterpiece.

I’m losing a lot of my hair, so I can’t get a unique hair cut to match the undiscovered gems on my iPod that – though you’re all hipsters – even you’ve never heard.

And though my awkward, chubby and Old Navy clad appearance may might not the fit the bill, I’m willing to have a Hipster-off any time you want. I always win because I cheat. You’ve heard of the Republic Tigers? Yeah, I saw them on Conan, too. They did the late night circuit after I bought them all a beer one night. Name your bands. I’ve got more. Ever heard of ‘Internet Browser Tool Bar’ or ‘Orange Water Bottle’ or ‘Black Moth Super Rainbow’? You know why? I just made all of those band names up. Except for Black Moth. I saw them play after the Republic Tigers, natch.

Natch, incidentally, is a phrase I coined a while ago back stage at a rock show. I said it to the lead singer of a band you’ve played for someone to show them how deep you are. He took it as his own and used it on stage that night. It spread. Later, we drank Colt .45s and smoked a pack of American Spirits.

Even though I’m busy hanging out at all the same shows you’re at — and a bunch of shows you’ve never even heard of — I’m always the odd man out. Girl jeans always give me wedgies and skinny ties look ridiculous on a big body.

Have you even seen me in American Apparel? No, obviously you haven’t, because if you did, I’d be sixty pounds skinnier and you’d be propping me up as your totally independent minded, wildly well coiffed and blessed-with-the-ability-to-herd-hipsters-like-retarded-cats leader. But such dreams infrequently come true, and that makes me long for things in life that are far out of my reach. Like red headed Punk Rock Girls.

That longing, paired with my solidly white, middle class upbringing make us a perfect match, even though the jeans will never fit quite right.

But, come on, I’ve got the semi underground Chuck Taylors that you all still wear. They always look good with my Polo shirt.

Ironic, isn’t it?

There’s one other potential problem that I’ve been loath to mention until now, but it’s got to be said: Death Cab For Cutie still sucks.

See you at the next secret underground show. I’ll be the guy with my hands in my pockets who outwardly appears to be even less into the music than you.

Brian

I wrote an album review for the local magazine that I freelance for, Performer Magazine, and was trying to find a different word for “showcase.” I asked a few other editors if they had any ideas, but nothing captured exactly what I was trying to express.

That’s OK, I thought, there’s still the world of online thesauri. First I tried the old standby, Thesaurus.com. I typed in ‘showcase’ then ‘show case’ and didn’t get a single result for either version. Well, actually, Thesaurus.com asked if I meant ‘show case’ instead of ‘showcase.’ Looks promising. Sure, I clicked, why not? No results came up.

After a couple of minutes of questioning Thesaurus.com’s ability to function as an actual thesaurus, I moved on to Merriam-Webster – that paragon of Word of the Day. Again I tried both ‘showcase’ and ‘show case.’ Again, I got no results. Well, almost no results. Merriam-Webster didn’t exactly say: ‘We ain’t found shit!’ But it was close.

Instead, it asked if I could’ve been searching for either of these two words:

Jocose
Sausage

Really. Sausage. Showcase. Jocose. Showcase. Sausage. Oh yeah, I can see how those might be related.

Fail.

I love reading Wired. They’ve got interesting stories. There’s some wit. The writing is usually pretty good. And occasionally they offer up some random, random gadgets.

My most recent favorite was passed along to me this morning:

“Need to Slice Through a Boulder? Try a 10,000-Degree Tactical Cutter“

My favorite part of the story is where they list the uses as: Melting through doors or concrete bunkers.

Come on, dude. That’s what I’ve got a lightsaber for!

This is the story of three editors and a vendor. See what happens when writers stop being sober and start being: drunk.

Mark, Jay, Matt and I got an invite from Marilyn Monroe on the Las Vegas Convention Center floor to attend an open bar at the Hooters Hotel and Casino. This screamed class to me. Of course we were going. Marilyn Monroe + Hooters girls + Open bar = Mandatory attendance.

The liquor was provided by a company called ShowRack which Matt kept calling ‘the RackShow.’ Classy AND appropriate.  I started the evening off by ordering a Bud Light then changed my mind to a Jack and Coke. I got both anyway. I’d been at the party 45 seconds and I was already double fisting. Yup. That’s just the way we roll.

Three shots of whiskey and three glasses of Jack and coke later — I was chasing shots of Jim Beam with Jack and coke, which is always wise — the open bar closed an hour early. Daunted, but determined, the four of us wandered downstairs to the Hooters bar to keep imbibing what I like to call ‘adult soda pops.’ Which we did. For a long time.

Eventually, Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ start blaring over the PA. We’d been loudly drunk for a while now, but hadn’t reached abnoxious quite yet. That all changed with one word: Meow. Jay, a non-journalist, but all around great guy had been kind of quiet while we were at the bar. I thought he was just hammered, but I now realize he was simply biding his time. Waiting for the right moment to make his move.

“I see a little silloutte-o of a man/meow meow MEOW/meow meow MEOW/Can you do the fandango?”

You know that surprised look that you sometimes get on your face when someone drops some knowledge on you after drinking for a while? He got it from the three of us in spades. And thus began the long and magnificent decline that lead to the videos you see here.

We must have sat at the bar and meowed for a solid two and a half hours. We drove patrons away. Bartenders tried to ignore us. Hookers looked for easier pray. And still, we meowed. No song was untouchable. Eddie Money? Journey?Alice in Chains? Barry Manillow? Meow.

Finally, Tom Petty slithered down from the speakers to where we sat at the elbow of the bar. I remembered my phone and its video capabilities. I started filming.  I don’t fancy myself much of a documentarian, but had I actually been doing a study of the affect of the word ‘Meow’ on drunk reporters in concert with music that is easily parroted, I’d be booking a flight to Cannes. As it is, cell phone video. 15 second clips. I hope you enjoy.

True story.

I had two interviews for a new position at work today. It’s a lateral move to a new group, but, for me, it’s the right thing to do. I’ve been looking to get out of this position and into a new one for a couple months now.

The first interview was this morning with the editor who originally hired me to work for the company two years ago this month. We had a half hour scheduled, but talked for an hour. I felt confident leaving the conference room. “I’ve got one more internal candidate to interview today, but I’m sure you’ll hear back from me later.”

Feeling good.

Sure enough, around 2 o’clock I got an email from the editorial director of the group – that’s two steps up the food chain from my position, my potential new boss’s boss. She, the editorial director, wanted to meet with me around 3:15 to talk about the position — give me her spiel and ask me a few questions.

I talked to her for half an hour. It went well, I think. She made it sound like I was part of the team already. “We’ve just got to talk to HR about internal transfer processes and notice for your current gig. We’ll talk soon.”

Jubilation.

Fist pumping. Chest thumping.

Thoughts of nasty emails I’ll likely never send.

Good times. Good times.

I left and went home. I took off my coat and set down my computer. Walked to the bathroom and went to undue my fly.

It was already down. And had been for about three hours – including the whole time I’d been interviewing with the editorial director.

I didn’t notice her peeping at my dong, but I was sitting with one leg crossed, crotch flying. Willy waving in the breeze.

It’s good to stay humble.

I’m still here, but I’ve been focusing  on a different creative endeavor that I will — hopefully — post parts of here once it reaches a sort of critical mass. It’s selfish and navel gazing-centric, but I’m ok with that. More on that as it develops.

In the meantime, enjoy this post from The Onion: Pitchfork Gives Music 6.8. My favorite paragraph:

“Coming in at an exhausting 7,000 years long, music is weighed down by a few too many mid- tempo tunes, most notably ‘Liebesträume No. 3 in A flat’ by Franz Liszt and ‘Closing Time’ by ’90s alt-rock group Semisonic,” Schreiber wrote. “In the end, though music can be brilliant at times, the whole medium comes off as derivative of Pavement.”

Any time Liszt, Semisonic and Stephen Malkmus can be worked into a single quote, I’m game.

If you haven’t seen it yet, you should. The funniest clip I’ve seen in a long, long time.

Enjoy the Dramatic Chipmunk

Five seconds long. You’ll thank me later.

My Dearest Google Reader,

I’m sorry I haven’t been using you much lately. You know that you’re still my source for news, blogs and music updates from around the world.

I realize I’ve been neglecting you, but my boss is riding me hard. I’ve got a big project at work that needs to get finished this week.

I swear I haven’t been using Digg or Bloglines or even the RSS functionality in Firefox. Baby, you’re my one and only. Your XML feed aggregation is still just as sexy to me as it was the day I first subscribed to Google news. Your filters and – ahem – easy functionality keep me coming back for more.

How else am I going to read the BBC news? Or get snarky comments about technology from Gizmodo? You introduced me to Gizmodo. I couldn’t read it anywhere else without thinking about the good times we had.

You remember the day you brought me a video of a man having his head swallowed up by the butt of an elephant. We laughed for hours about it. I couldn’t do that with just any old RSS feed – you make it special.

So just let me finish this project – it should be done soon. Then it’ll just be you and I basking in the soft glow of the computer screen, smoking cigarettes and reading about archeologists with funny names again.

It won’t be long now. So just enjoy your downtime and I’ll be back before you know it.