Kill All Nostalgia On My Mark

WBCN‘s final farewell party was held last night at the Paradise Rock Club on Commonwealth Avenue in Downtown Boston, culminating at least a month and a half of various and sundry farewell parties that have been held by numerous parties since CBS Radio announced the station’s closing back in July. Meaning that I have seen these people almost as much in the past two months as I did when I was working there, and I have been embarassingly, staggeringly drunk around them, well, at a pretty much one-to-one ratio.

This, however, was the big one: all the legends from when the station was huge and legendary were there, from Charles Laquidara to Mark Parenteau to Ken Shelton… and based on how they look today, apparently the station was huge and legendary a lot longer ago than I thought.

It was interesting to meet some of those guys who were there when WBCN was one of the biggest radio stations in the world because every single one of them felt as proud to be a part of that history as I did, and more importantly: every single one of them was a shitfaced as I was. I spent a few beers and cigarettes with a producer from the old morning show formulating a scheme to glorify the memory of WBCN by promoting the new “Freeform WBCN” streaming radio station with a free liquor and marijuana WBCN cruise in international waters for 2 grand a head. We actually spent ten minutes pitching this idea to Sam Kopper – WBCN’s original program director and current PD of the streaming station – before being kindly told that we should set out sights a little lower. So we spent fifteen seconds formulating a new plan to glorify the memory of WBCN by setting Dan Mason on fire… and gave up after spending five minutes failing to find either of our car keys.

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Shelob Shrugged

Thanks to days upon days of day gig demands, parental obligations and crippling hangovers, I have no less than three half and three-quarters finished pieces glaring at me from my “drafts” folder in a recriminatory manner… and thanks to yet another “write the code, monkey” email from parties to remain unidentified, they will all remain unfinished for today.

I couldn’t, however, ignore… this. Without further ado, today’s atrocity is brought to you via Kung Fu Monkey (Safe for work. Your frontal lobes, however, are your own damn business):

It’s like Adobe After Effects partnered up with 1984 to rape Tolkien and then wiped their dicks on my monitor.

[tags]Chris Dane Owens, Shine On Me, dark humor[/tags]

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Acting Consigliere

Email received at The American Jerk Home Office this morning from Gariana at Popcorn Mafia:

Me & Grae were invited to the Playboy Mansion on Saturday.  I will strip down naked and swim in the grotto.  I owe it to you and every guy that ever held their own penis in their hand screaming the fake name of some dull-eyed coked up 19 year old that had to let Hef diddle her just so she could be in the magazine!  I OWE IT TO AMERICA!

–The G

A good plan, Gariana, but come on: I know from personal experience that you and Grae are warriors, and can top this plan. So go get a pen, and write this down, because you don’t have much time.

Go to a drugstore and get an old-school Mead composition notebook (You can get one here, but you’ll have to get it overnighted). Accept no substitutes; no other notebook simultaneously projects the “childish writing” and “John Doe from Seven” vibe you’re going to want for this project.

Now go here and order the Playboy Bunny logo rhinestone t-shirt… and get it three sizes too big, because you’re going to wash it was a shitload of bleach, dry it on Nuclear with a bunch of rocks in the machine, and pick about one of every ten rhinestones out of the logo. The point is to make it look well-worn, like it’s seen a lot of miles on your back. Don’t forget to scrawl, say, three autograph-style scribbles in black Sharpie thick and dark enough to survive the bleach.

Once the shirt’s ready, go to your bathroom mirror and practice clutching the notebook to you like a security blanket while breathing through your mouth and not blinking. You’ve been to Comic-Con, so you should know what look you’re going for here: a socially maladjusted teenaged borderline-Asperger’s case with an obsession with obscure manga magazines… only your obsession is with Playboy magazines.

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Ghost: The Sequel

After lo, these many weeks, I woke up all set to finally write about Kanye West and his genius hacking of the MTV Video Music Awards. After all, he made the front page of every newspaper in the English speaking world, and because of his antics, I now know who Taylor Swift is… and if she’s not at least making arrangements to swallow his load right now, she doesn’t know the definition of the word “grateful.”

But then Patrick Swayze had to up and die, which means I guess I’m supposed to go ahead and mock him, which, after all, is the kind of asshole thing that I do. And God knows that I’ve got the motivation for it, because that bastard made it nearly impossible to deal with women for most of my teenage and young adult years.

Dirty Dancing, the movie that launched a thousand prom themes, came out when I was sixteen years old, meaning I had to suffer through what felt like a million band parties where girls suddenly demanded that I be able to dance, or want to dance, or be able to count to four in a rudimentarily rhythmic manner. I was cursed by this development, interminably forced to shuffle awkwardly to Stairway to Heaven while silently cursing Swayze for not doing a romantic movie that included skill sets I had. Was pretty boy too much of a prima donna to take a chance on starring in Dirty Galaga? No? How about Dirty Star Wars Trivia? Pussy.

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Posted in Editorial, Foul-Mouthed Demagoguery | Tagged | 2 Comments

Nerd Prom 2009 – Denouemount is French For ConSARS

CONSARS – con-sars – Noun. Upper respiratory infection caught at a pop culture convention, such as a comic book, anime or film convention. Infection usually coincides with extended airline trip. Symptoms include nasal and chest congestion, fatigue, rage, and hatred toward one’s fellow man. Etiology – Wil Wheaton, March 2008 -The American Jerk Dictionary, 2009.

For a comic book freak, there is nothing sweeter than being at Comic-Con. You get to hear inside information for the next year’s worth of books, some creators like Geoff Johns and J. Michael Straczynski seem to take particular glee in spitting out spoilers about what they’re working on (Straczynski said, “I’m working on a project for DC Comics that they told me I cannot say a WORD about.” Then he hummed the Superman theme.), and it just generally gets you excited about the fact that you’re spending thousands and thousand of dollars a year on something your mom yelled at you about, without the pesky gangrene of heroin addiction.

The problem is that it gets EVERY comic book fan excited, so they all show up with you… and the character of Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons was not created in a vacuum. Grossly overweight, stewing in their own juices thanks to the parka the insist upon wearing despite the California heat, picking up discarded freebies from the bathroom floor… and sometimes in panels, they sit next to YOU, ranting at Bob Wayne for not releasing Young Justice in trade paperback form… and thus spitting microbes at everyone within a five-seat radius. He or she will eventually waddle back to their moms’ basements with bags full of swag, absently wiping the snot from their nose since the discomfort of the bug pales next to their irregular heartbeats. YOU, however, will be left with the conSARS.

Which is what I am battling with as I pack up to check out and spend six hours in a pressurized tube. Therefore, this will remain short; there will be more on Comic-Con tomorrow after a long rest and medicinal whiskey to get over the bug and the timechange.

In the meantime, I was the guest on the latest episode of Popcorn Mafia. Check it out and hear a man fogged with mucus argue that Harry Potter is nothing but a story about rampant pedophilia in English public schools.

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