Skip navigation

Monthly Archives: November 2008

…is still Animal, from the Muppets.

The wise and powerful Rock Geeks have spoken.

Recently named Metamucil’s spokesband. Here we see the group on the video shoot for “Owner of a Congestive Heart.”

So I guess Queen has re-formed, with Paul Rodgers (formerly of Free, Bad Company, and testosterone spank-fest The Firm) at the helm. I want to know who in the hell masterminded THIS geriatric disaster of seismic proportions.

Queen without Freddie Mercury is like… Queen without Freddie Mercury. There is no analogy appropriate enough to express this.

Seriously. Get the cane.

Here’s our remix of their hit single.

This kick-ass bassist and occasional vocalist for the Drive By Truckers is an inspiration to all girls who wanna rock! Pure, unadulterated, no-bullshit ROCK.

If Mick Jagger rode across the blazing desert on a fine Arab charger, wearing a suit of shining armor, coming to your emotional rescue, would that suit of armor stink worse than that album?

To wit: “A sweet sweet booty but stone stone cold!” Ew.

So my friend and co-worker, Pete, quit smoking over the weekend and frankly, I’m worried. Over the past 16 months, I’ve come to learn that whenever he’s stressed out and cranky, he blasts Sublime. I suspect that it’s now on permanent repeat, judging from how many times I’ve heard “Santeria” this morning.

It’s going to be a long week.

Last night, after shopping at North Street Records in Normal, we had dinner with Marty and Danielle. Cristy explained to them that she was a “cheapskate” when it came to buying music. Which left hanging in the air the implication that became my confession: “I tend more to be, in Freudian terms, a bit anal-expulsive.”

I lived in Rosmarie and Keith Waldrop’s house for a year. They’ve got some books and CDs and records. When I asked Keith the naive, studently question what his theory was on book collecting, he shrugged. He said: “I don’t have a theory. It’s just that, where ever I stand, piles of books seem to grow around me.”

I subscribe to apocalypse thinking. I believe that I may end up being the last person alive, who inherits the responsibility for curating human coolness (or at least English-language coolness): rock and roll’s steward who must ensure that when the cats rise to claim the planet, they will learn guitar.

When the aliens land, and say TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER, I’ll be standing in my living room, with a foot of white beard, holding up a copy of Hopscotch, raving: “You got to read this book, man! … Here: listen to the Kinks!”


“Water? Wow. I don’t even know that band, man.”