Category: Art!

Happy happy joy joy

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What better lead-in to the 4th of July holiday weekend than some good old all-American music?

The Aaron Copland-inspired theme for The Magnificent Seven was, of course, composed in the Year of Our Lord 1960 (the year of my birth, actually—GOD, I’m old!) by one Elmer Bernstein, who I assume from the surname is one of them dirty, filthy, genocidal ***(((JooJooJooJOOOOOZ!!)))***

Update! Just gotta inclusde this: what has to be my personal all-time favorite cover version, a surf-twangy instro laid down by the aptly named John Barry Seven.



WHOA, that’s good squishy!

Film clip

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Tons of chatter about Uwe Bolt’s magnum opus out there, some pro, some con, but if this extended 7.5-minute snippet doesn’t motivate you to watch the whole thing, you’re probably a damned liberal.

Update! Direct, do-it-yourself justice is busting out all over, looks like.

Mexican Batman Duct-Tapes Alleged Motorcycle Thieves to Lamp Posts
A vigilante nicknamed ‘Batman of Lagos de Moreno’ has become known in the Mexican state of Jalisco for tying alleged motorcycle thieves to lamp posts

Tired of waiting for local police to do their duty and bring criminals to justice, a mysterious vigilante in the town of Lagos de Moreno, Mexico’s Jalisco state, has been duct-taping alleged motorcycle thieves to lamp posts and leaving them for authorities to find. At least five ‘victims’ have been found so far.

The mysterious ‘Batman’ started operating in Lagos de Moreno in mid-June. The first person was found duct-taped to a lamp post, with ‘thief’ written on his forehead, on June 13th. An allegedly stolen motorcycle was also found nearby, suggesting that the immobilized person was a thief. But this was only the beginning, as police have since discovered at least 4 other alleged thieves tied to lamp posts.

Yes, there are pictures, and they’re hilarious. Unfortunately, the “proper authorities” appear to have learned nothing whatsoever from all this (bold mine).

Although most people seem convinced this crusade against alleged motorcycle thieves is the work of a single vigilante, local authorities told news reporters that this might be the work of a gang of vigilantes. Interestingly, so far, the victims have not provided any clarification in that regard.

Jalisco’s Secretary of Public Security, Juan Pablo Hernández, reported that investigations are underway to clarify the attacks and locate those involved. He also emphasized that the five men found bound so far are currently being treated as victims, adding that no one should take the law into their own hands, regardless of their motives.

Yeah well, sorry to have to hip ya to it and all, pal, but people are only gonna take so much official crim-coddling, excuse-making, and hands-off, lackadaisical “policing” before they r’are up on their hind legs and start taking care of business for themselves. Expecting otherwise from them is a mug’s game, at best.

Remember, duct-taping the thieving skin-bags to a lamp post is the MODERATE response.

“Who was the most boring rock star?”

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Via my daily Quora Digest email: question asked, question answered. Well, kinda sorta.

Who was the most boring rock star?
I was the music director of a popular college rock station in the early 1980s, and as such, had the opportunity to interview or sit in on interviews with a lot of touring acts, whose A&R people would dutifully bring them by to help boost interest and airplay.

I can tell you there were a few good ones. David Johansen was boisterous and hilarious. Greg Kihn was cool and folksy. Steve Perry and Neil Schon of Journey probably would’ve been a great interview, but we were all punky and new wavy and our edgy drive time guy insulted them so they stormed off the set. Definitely not boring. And Nick Lowe was charming, clever, and full of stories, including a few about his longtime pal and running mate, Dave Edmunds.

You know who was boring as…well, really boring? Dave Edmunds! I don’t know if he was strung out from the road the day we got him, or bummed out to be stuck with a bunch of snooty kids, or whatever, but man, you could not crowbar a word from him. He just slouched in the chair, issuing monosyllabic grunts and such, until the interview mercifully ended.

The guy could really put on a show, and he was an amazing guitarist, and who even knows what he was like in real life back in the day, but in my sole encounter, for whatever reason, he was the most boring rock star. Hopefully someone has a story to counter this impression, so I can put the blame on me.

Been there done that myself, I’m afraid. One of the most embarrassing occasions of my whole life had to be the time we went to a local college radio station the morning after a gig in NOLA for an interview session. It being N’Awlins and all, naturally we weren’t merely hung over when we got there, we were still drunk as boiled owls. So every question received a mumbled, semi-coherent one or two word response. The poor DJ was totally at sea trying to make us sound lively and interesting, poor bastid.

GOOOOOD squishy!

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And now for something completely different.

Although I never was what anybody would call a huge fan of Neil Young—when I was a teenager we used to laugh him off as “Neil DUNG”—I do have tremendous respect for his songwriting skills, which are damned near miraculous; the above is probably the best example of that I know of offhand. “Don’t Let It Bring You Down” has been covered by everybody and his sister’s cat’s grandmother by now, and I do mean EVERYBODY: Annie Lennox, the Cowboy Junkies, Chris Cornell, Guns & Roses (!!!), and Paul McCartney, just to name a few. That constitutes a pretty dang powerful endorsement all on its own, actually.

It’s an achingly lovely, haunting tune, both melodically and lyrics-wise, about which Young himself once sardonicized:

On (CSN&Y’s 1971 live album)  4 Way Street, Young says, “Here is a new song, it’s guaranteed to bring you right down, it’s called ‘Don’t Let It Bring You Down’. It sorta starts off real slow and then fizzles out altogether.” The crowd then roars with laughter.

As well they might’ve. In Korb’s jazz-trio version above, what Salieri said in Amadeus of Mozart’s work is even more apropos: Displace one note and there would be diminishment. Displace one phrase and the structure would fall.

Update! Having recently discussed the vital importance of phrasing to any vocal performance, irrespective of musical genre, I would be remiss not to call Ms Korb’s impeccable style to y’all’s attention. Keep a close ear on that piano break, also.

Ruh-roh

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Leave it to the fine folks at the Bee to get right to the meat of the matter.


Heh. Who indeed.

Update! Via Stephen, another excellent Xweet that I felt really needed to be on the main page here too.


The ones that really slay me are the ones who, like lying douchenozzle, shithouse pud-puller, and serial female-abuser Adolf Platner, think it’s FederalGovCo’s job to see to it that it never, ever happens again. Just who the actual fuck do you goobermint wastrels think you are, anyhow?

Supreme expression of the parodist’s art

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This one is popping up everywhere today, and with good reason: it perfectly encapsulates liberal shibboleths about open borders, feral nig-nogs, RAYCISSISSISM!™, and the innate superiority of violent, savage boogaloos imported from the Dark Continent and foisted onto an advanced civilization they are in no way, shape, or form either interested in or capable of assimilating into.

Getting the band back together

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Too bad the original line-up sucked out loud also.


You gotta love the guy

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Why? Oh, no reason, I just felt like saying it.


Heh.

1
1

AT LAST, some good news!

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The Hut is back, baybeee.

Pizza Hut brings back its old-school restaurant features as nostalgic customers rejoice: ‘So excited’
Back to the good old days.

2026 has proven to be the year of nostalgia. Youngsters are resorting to old-school tech like vintage flip phones and iPods. Others are returning to analog hobbies and activities.

Even beloved restaurant chain Pizza Hut is going back in time, reverting to its retro glory — red checkered tablecloths and all.

Tim Sparks, president of Daland Corporation, a Kansas-based company that operates almost 100 Pizza Hut locations across the country, is helping keep Pizza Hut alive by rewinding the clock and redecorating over 80 annoyingly modern, stark-looking locations to make them look like they did decades ago.

Red roof? Check

Red-checkered tablecloths, vinyl booths and Tiffany-style lamps? Check, check and check.

The beloved salad bar and red plastic cups will be back.

Even the old-school Pac-Man machines will return.

Unsurprisingly, customers are losing their minds over this massive change.

As well they might—although, as a few others in the NYP article point out, what WON’T be coming back is the original recipe for the various pizzas and such-like. FederalGovCo banned all the ingredients decades ago, see. For our own good, of course and as always.

Why, whatever would we do without them? Surely there must be some way we could try just to find out, isn’t there?

RIP David Allan Coe

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The perfect country song.

BACKSTORY: At NYC’s great old dive-bar, the Village Idiot (the original on 1st Ave, that would be, not the later incarnation over on W 14th), whenever the above tune came on the jukebox, whoever was tending bar would crank it waaaay up, every fist in the joint would be raised high in the air in gleeful defiance of…whatever, and every hoarse, cracked, alcohol-dehydrated voice would sing along with every last syllable. I tells ya, it was some of the most fun I ever did have in my life.

My old roomie Lisa bartended at the Idiot on Wednesday afternoons, and most of those days she’d call me at home around 5 or so demanding that I get down there right away because she was lonely and bored to tears by then. Afternoons tended to be kinda dull at the Idiot; the place didn’t really start to approach escape velocity until around ten or so, see.

Which request for company I was always quite happy to oblige. This reminiscence might convey some of the cheap-beer-sodden ambience of that truly magical place.

THE VILLAGE IDIOT
When I was 19 years old, I got a job working at a bar on the Lower East Side in New York City. You would’ve thought I had gotten into Harvard by how happy I was. The place, The Village Idiot, was a popular hole in the wall on 1st Avenue and 10th Street – far from Harvard.

The owner, Tommy, was a giant Irish guy with an afro. Tommy was from Queens, and his success came from the authenticity of the bar he opened. Everyone loved him and his bar. There was nothing self-conscious about The Village Idiot, or Tommy, for that matter. He was a generous, kind man who loved to party and everybody loved him for it.

So that was Tommy – he was the brand and the bar was his product. Just like any great product, it was honest. It was honest because it was exactly the kind of place Tommy would have hung out had he not opened it himself. It was not a concept, and the people that came there intuitively knew that, so they came back, and they always brought a friend.

The Idiot, as it was lovingly referred to, was a narrow, dank “box car,” but not as big. There was a juke box up front that was on from the moment we opened at 10:00 am until the time we closed – sometimes 4:00 am, sometimes 2:00 am. This was dependent on how drunk Tommy got that night. One of his “tells” was if he came in licking his lips, hide the money. If his lips were dry, you were probably going to be okay.

The juke box was stocked with a collection of country music that was vast, impressive, and perfect. “The Box” had to be full blast at all times. Tommy lived above the bar – and he would call down, “Turn the box up! I can’t hear it.” We sold Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can for a dollar, and Tommy would occasionally bite the middle out of a can of beer to thrill his patrons if things seemed a little slow.

All of the bartenders were women, and were encouraged to drink with the customers. I started making fake pitchers of kamikaze shots because I would get so drunk I couldn’t do my job. Literally – I could not function. I’d pour you a real shot and I’d drink watered down kamikaze mix. No one ever caught me or cared. We were not allowed to wear hats behind the bar because Tommy said that was bad luck.

Another thing I well remember about the Idiot was something the girls working behind the stick called “the Idiot Virgin Ceremony,” a privilege reserved for those lucky souls who were experiencing their very first trip to the seedy, smelly little joint.

See, the unsuspecting newb was required to sit on a barstool with his back to the bar, bending his torso far enough back so that his head rested atop the bar. The on-duty bartendress would then tuck a rolled-up towel around the victim’s neck below his chin to cope with any potential overspill, grab a fifth of bourbon and one of tequila, clamber up onto the bar, straddle the victim’s head, squat down, and turn up both bottles into the guy’s mouth, inevitably splashing raw booze all over said victim’s face, neck, head, and shoulders. The vic had been sternly instructed beforehand that he was NOT to raise his head off the bar, scream for rescue, or in any way refuse the “service” he was being provided as an Idiot Virgin, on pain of punishment most dire.

I learned about the IVC when my friend Joe came up to visit from North Cackalacky, and Lisa did it to him. They ended up falling in love L-U-V, whereupon she moved out of our cramped shithole on Ave B and down to NC and in with him, staying together for several years before the formerly happy couple blew apart like an A-bomb.

True story

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I checked the Morehead City PD’s Fakeberg page and no shit, it’s for real.

As I said to a cpl friends of mine earlier: I would drive a hundred MPH right through the middle of Morehead City just to get pulled over by that thing, then resist arrest so’s I could get a look inside. The cop-shop Wienermobile is not merely cool as some cucumbers, it’s fucking GLORIOUS.

Marketing genius

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Once upon a time, there was a lovely old song went a little something like this:

Now, down the years since it was written there have been many versions of this particular song cut by many artists, many of them females. I just used this one because, I mean, come ON, man, it’s Nat King Cole—of COURSE I did!

Which is not germane to the central point of this post; no, this remarkable story of marketing superdupergenius is.

Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders
The Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders are the official National Football League cheerleading squad representing the Los Angeles Rams team.

History
They were established in 1974 during the team’s original tenure in Los Angeles and were known as the Embraceable Ewes. The cheerleading organization became known as the “St. Louis Rams Cheerleaders” when the team moved to St. Louis, Missouri. Beginning with the 2016 NFL season, the organization changed its name to the “Los Angeles Rams Cheerleaders” to associate themselves with the recently relocated Los Angeles Rams football team. They also have their own television show by the name of LA Rams Cheerleaders: Making the Squad.

Heh. Bold mine, because I absolutely love it.

YOICKS!

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And now, ladies and germs, are you ready for…Batgirl?

Yep, that’s the one, the only Yvonne Craig, also seen below.

Tally friggin’ HO!!! (Special thanks to Dave Dietz for the supercalifragilistic YC photo up top)

Update! Well how ‘bout that: Turns out the smokin’ hot Miss Y was also on ST-TOS back in the day.

Updated update! As promised/threatened, for SteveF.

Julie Newmar. Also Julie Newmar:

YOWSA!!!

Update to the updated update! Now THIS is what I’m talking about, people.

I repeat: YOWSA!!!

They’re going to shit all over LOTR again

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Gird your loins, John Ronald Reuel lovers.

If ‘Lord of the Rings’ Isn’t Quite Dead, This Guy Can Finish It Off
The Fellowship of the Ring — the opening chapter of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, one of the greatest achievements in movie history — turns 25 this December, and since then, Hollywood has inflicted one indignity after another on Tolkien’s masterpiece. The worst may be yet to come.

What’s it called when the greedy mining company takes the tailings from its strip mine and runs them through the smelter one more time with all the reckless abandon of Gollum diving after the One Ring into Mount Doom?

Ah, yes — it’s called The Lord of the Rings: Shadows of the Past, and lame-duck late-night host Stephen Colbert will co-write it with his son, screenwriter Peter McGee, for Jackson and Warner Bros, which now owns New Line. Variety reported late Tuesday that Colbert, “a vocal Tolkien fanatic,” and McGee will write a screenplay “from chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring that didn’t make it into Jackson’s 2001 adaptation.”

Or as the movie’s official logline put it, “Fourteen years after the passing of Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin set out to retrace the first steps of their adventure. Meanwhile, Sam’s daughter, Elanor, has discovered a long-buried secret and is determined to uncover why the War of the Ring was very nearly lost before it even began.”

So Shadows of the Past won’t really take us back to 2001 and fill in the missing parts of Fellowship. It will take aging versions of Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin and saddle them with an all-new girl-boss.

Fan reactions on X range from “I’d rather jump into the fires of Mount Doom” to “What is this need to mar great artistic works with slop fan fiction manglings?” Despite my best time-wasting efforts, I was unable to find a single positive response.

Maybe Colbert is a vocal enough Tolkien fan to make this work. Or maybe Jackson and his crew should do what Saruman couldn’t, and just leave the Shire alone.

A big, fat AAAAA-fargin’-MEN to that, Steve.

Update! Ace puts in his two cents:

Disaster! Warner Bros. Hires New Writer for Lord of the Rings Mid-quel: Steven Colbert
—Disinformation Expert Ace

Good heavens, what an absolute disaster.

We have the Hunt for Gollum coming up, directed by Andy Serkis, who just remade Animal Farm as a pro-socialism, anti-capitalism message movie.

And now Warner Bros. has hired this absolute assclown to write a draft of what is being called “The Shadow of the Past.” The concept of the movie is not terrible: A good part of Fellowship of the Ring was cut out of the Lord of the Rings movies because of time restrictions and also because it contains the character Tom Bombadil, who is just a big ball of plot questions. Like, given that he has godlike power that makes even Gandalf and Elrond envious, why doesn’t he just take the ring? (Tolkien’s lame answer: Because he’s flighty and would eventually just forget about the ring and let it go back to Sauron.)

The reason this section of the book is worth possibly making a movie about is the creepy, scary encounter with the Barrow Wights. If you know, you know.

So Colbert, I guess, pitched the idea of doing these four chapters of LOTR as a stand-alone mid-quel movie.

Couldn’t they just have said “Yes that’s an okay idea, here’s $20,000 as a finder’s fee, now fuck off”?

Sure they could’ve. But being shitlibs, they’d have never, ever, dreamed of doing such a thing, thereby offering tacit insult to one of their most iconic Trump-deranged heroes.

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