November

And this concludes November, which has ended just as depressingly as it began. I think I need meds or some shit. Emergency Music at the pill tonight, which should be fun, but damn, I'm just not feeling much of anything right now.

DJing at Redline tonight, and the Weekend Ahead

I’ve been hibernating all week in a haze of pot smoke and stale buffalo sauce, so it’s high time to break out of the Joker’s Palace at le Barrows and do something/anything/everything. Just in time, too, as there’s much shit going on in the week ahead.

Tonight:
Kane of the Lie Society and I will be hitting the deks last minute at Redline in Harvard Square. Chill vibe, no cover and laid back while I bust out the electro jams and Kane reps the indie. If undesirables roll up, I have a full disc of lost French synthwave songs from 1979, courtesy of the BIPPP comp coming out in February.

Friday:
Our brothers in arms Emergency Music hits the pill for Night 1 of their CD release party. These are always a blast, and you can score a free copy of E-Mu’s new album, the wonderfully-titled “You’ll Be The Death Of Us All, Honey.”


Saturday:
Two options, of which I’m undecided: There are the Boston Music Awards at the dreadful Orpheum Theatre, where Extreme, Bobby Brown and Township will all share the stage. And across the river is the December Sound’s CD release party at T.T. the Bear’s. (Speaking of T.T.’s, Buffalo Tom is playing one of the many “Benefits for Jeanne” on Dec. 29, to help cancer-stricken bartender Jeanne Sheehy fend off a mountain of medical bills.)

Sunday:
Fenway Recordings does it again, in bringing you a dope band you’ll love three months from now. This Sunday, it’s the UK’s Los Campesinos, creators of my new profile song. Good enough to replace Cascada, good enough to catch on a lazy Sunday night.

Monday:
Church, the new joint in the Linwood space, has the best show so far of its young existence, with the pill’s new friends the Wonderful Spells and MMOSS, a Granite State band of hippies with flutes and shit proving more than just Ben Protokoll’s new band.

And later next week, the Chinese Stars play a free show at the Milky Way, the Uni Watch Conference hits Boston Beer Works and NYC's Jupiter One takeover the pill. Good times!

Killer cell phones

As loosely prophesized in Terminator, the machines have begun to kill us. In South Korea, an exploding cell phone has taken hold of its first victim. And it’s not Paris Hilton. Let's just hope this isn't some Order 66 kinda thing.

Bindi Irwin raps about pandas

Truly, there are no words to describe watching Croc Hunter daughter Bindi Irwin rap about pandas and other furry creatures. This might be the single most horrific thing on the internet, and the single most laughable rap performance since Brian Austin Green dropped "One Stop Carnival" on an unsuspecting public in the early '90s.

Yes, I know she's like 10 years old. Yes, I know she's not even a real human. Yes, I know her “True Hollywood Story: Hobbit Edition” in 2011 will be must-see TV.

But if we can make rehab jokes about the luscious Dakota Fanning, then we can admit that Bindi's mom needs to go for a swim in shallow waters off Queensland. Where the fuck is a stingray barb when you really need one.

Hollywood takes Allston, Extreme back together, the Joker

So this morning Harvard Avenue in Allston came to a celeb-standstill as the Hollywood Invasion 2.0 continues to reinforce Boston stereotypes to the rest of the world ("The Depahted was a wikkd pissah bra!"). This time, scenes were being shot at the Grecian Yearning Diner - perhaps the only storefront on Harv-Ave I've never even looked in - for some new flick called "The Lonely Maiden," starring Morgan Freeman and Christopher Walken. Yesterday in Southie, Ethan Hawke, Mark Ruffalo, A****a Peet and Donnie Wahlberg were milling about filming "Real Men Cry." Jason Corey needs to move back here stat.

But more importantly on the Boston news front, Extreme has reformed, and will play the Boston Music Awards this Saturday. Peep my chat with Nuno Bettancourt. First I interviewed Kip Winger a few months ago, now Nuno Bettancourt. It's like I'm seeking out all the bro-dudes my middle school girlfriends were thinking of while making out with me before Mr. Athanasian's math class in Brentwood USA.

And lastly, check the cover of Empire Magazine, pimpin out Heath Ledger as the Joker in the new Batman movie. "Batman Begins" was phe-fucking-nominal, an opinion I maintained long after the vicodin wore off from my first screening of it on Long Island with the 'rents. So I'm pretty excited for this next go-round with the Caped Crusader.

Quiet Riot singer dead at 52

On a day I interviewed Nuno Bettancourt of Extreme, news breaks that Kevin DuBrow died. My glam rock metal past (when I was 11, of course) can never be denied.

Sad news about DuBrow, though. While I can't stomache hearing "Cum on Feel the Noise" ever again, there's no debating it was a massive hit in the '80s and helped, for better or worse, usher in glam metal to MTV audiences.

Nothing doing this Thanksgiving (and notes)

Ok, the Thanksgiving extended weekend is almost over and I couldn’t be happier. It’s been a strange past few days, experiencing the holiday by myself for the first time in 28 years of existence, and generally just reflecting on how great life was this time last year. I knew the Thanksgiving-Christmas season was going to fuck with me all sorts of ways, and if nothing I’m just glad Part I is over.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that people who shop at Petco alone on a rainy Tuesday night are the loneliest people on the planet. Random strangers, shopping for small furry creatures who love them more than any human ever has, trying to find a modicum of happiness in a relationship with four-legged animals. It didn’t exactly uplift my spirits, but it reinforced that I’m not the only one by myself these days.

So with that, I admit my Thanksgiving was pretty unremarkable, and possibly downright miserable. I enjoyed the rest, enjoyed the freedom, and Lola and I enjoyed some turkey (that took way too long to cook) but missed the entropic fun of the traditional family get-together. I’m heading to the Sunshine State for Christmas (and my birthday), so I reserve the right to change my opinion on Thanksgiving once the four-year-old mid-state town of Trinity has its way with me. But even then, there will be something of an escape to rest upon.

Other random shit:

My hockey jersey collection is 50+ strong, but nothing beats a game worn jersey, especially if it’s a game-worn from a dead Dallas Star who hanged himself amid rumors he thought he contracted HIV. (And in honor of my former copy editor Peg Finucane, RIP see below, I remind folks that pictures are hung, and people are hanged)

And somewhat related, a great find by Phil coming across a complete rundown of NHL players to die young.

A woman in Idaho was struck by lightning and instantly turned into Max Headroom.

I loathe few things as much as the Toronto Blue Jays’ black abortion jerseys, so if this alternate throwback design is coming in 2008, I’ll be wikkid psyched and my summers will once again be all rainbows and puppies. Reminds me of the Crime Dog.

Reports on largest bug ever. Alert the "Cloverfield" nerds.

Season ticket holders for the Edmonton Oilers donated their tickets to a weekend tilt to Canadian soldiers, and it looks like most took part.

iPod Touch has many "Boyfriends"

So the new iPod commercial is making several musicians people famous, according to yours truly in today's Herald.

Though the ad features CSS’s "Music is my Hot Hot Sex," people are hearing the first lyric "Music is my boyfriend," and searching for those words on Google. This misguided hunt leads them to songs of the same title by indie folk band the Hidden Cameras and some shit-tastic metal-core chick named Skye Sweetnam, who now boasts 70,000-plus listens to her song of that title on her MySpace.

Ironically, both bands are from Canada, where that pesky music is stealing mad bitches by the second, and surely Younge Street is littered by recently-single waif-like boys crying into their argyle scarves.

Nevertheless, this might be the first time an iPod ad made three bands famous while only playing one song. The Fratellis and Jet got undivided attention, but Cansei de Ser Sexy must share this Apple pie.

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.

RIP Peg Finucane

RIP to Peg Finucane, a former Newsday editor and one of my professors at Hofstra University, who passed away this week. She taught me copy editing (stop snickering), and was truly a class act. Seven years later, and I'd give anything to go back to my senior year at Hofstra.

The Internet is now complete

Just when you think the Internet has reached its apex, along comes a YouTube video of two chickens breaking up a fight between two rabbits. Amazing, and much more uplifting than singing murder reports in Morrissey's voice.

I started something... no I didn't

So a 13-year-old girl with mental problems in Missouri kills herself when a month-long online flirtation abruptly ends. Turns out, the flirtation was between her and some fake-profile on MySpace, which was run by the mother of the girl's friend, who wanted to see if the soon-to-be-dead girl was talking mad shit about others in the ol' neighborhood. Oh boy. Levittown, this ain't.

But I’m not sure what’s more fucked up – the fact that a 13-year-old girl with mental problems killed herself, or the fact that I couldn’t help but read the headline and pull quote "absolutely vile" as sung by Morrissey from the Smiths song, which made me chuckle to myself and lose interest in this stupid ass story about the mom suing the neighbors. Aww, the girl was lonely. So is every other 13-year-old girl not whoring herself out to score coke for her 17-year-old boyfriend.

Harper's feeling heat after racial incident

It may very well be an undesirable venue with by far the most insufferable collection of door staff asshole Todds I’ve ever witnessed, but the recent discussion about Harper’s Ferry in Allston being a racist venue is being blown out of proportion. Here’s the recap of last week’s events, courtesy of the Basstown blog.

For the anti-link crowd, apparently one of the HF sound guys used a racial slur during the sound check at last Tuesday’s Bus Driver show. Regan Farquhar of Bus Driver was dining at Grasshopper at the time, but was relayed this info by his DJ, of whom the slur was indirectly spoken, and after group deliberation Bus Driver decided to cancel the performance. The sound guy was sent home immediately, and fired the next morning.

It seems the venue acted swiftly at the time, and acted properly the next day in the aftermath of the incident. I’m not sure what Harper’s could have done to prevent this, outside of screening for racial hate during the interview process. Harper’s is a pretty diverse venue that caters to several genres (even though it specializes mainly in white boy jam shit) and there’s been more independent hip hop shows there than any other venue this side of the Middle East. Allowing one sound guy to brand the venue and its staff is unfair.

New pill flyer

It was the weekend of divides, from the exceptionally good (sold out and ace night at the pill Friday, Martin Brodeur finally winning his 500th game Saturday) to the bad (Revs losing the MLS Cup for the 4th time in 6 seasons, an awkward party in the shadow of former flames). Busy times, but we at the Barrows compound found enough strength to shoot a flyer, featuring the lovely Clementine. Wearing something of Emily’s.

Poor Jake Peavy

So Barry Bonds has been indicted on federal perjury charges, and Alex Rodriguez signs a 10-year, $275 million deal with the Yankees. Within an hour this became the biggest off-season day in baseball history.

And from this moment on, no one will ever remember that the Padres' Jake Peavy won the 2007 NL Cy Young.

Pithy thoughts on the Project Runway premiere

The 4th season of Project Runway began last night, and while the cast doesn’t seem as strong as the previous seasons, the show still gets all angles right. For some reason I feel like I’ve already seen these 15 cats on that interior design show over the summer, but I might just be getting old. I can't even say some shit like "young people all look the same to me," because only two of these "rising designers" are younger than I am. Thank you Project Runway, for making me feel young again!

But anyway. I will say that Christian is, as predicted, a complete tool, and he lacks any and all bite to accompany his wanna-be sass. I think Kit Pistol has the goods to win the whole thing, though I can see Chris, the token overweight gay dude, battling out through Bryant Park. He seems to possess the spontaneous ingenuity that’s required on this crack TV show.

As far as the rest of the cast, Pixie made it known how much she hates the already-established Elisa, who while I'm trying to figure out if is fuckable or not, has already been already coated in Vogue’s glittery spooge. (Hearts Like Stars with the scoop!) Oh, her Wikiis here.

And I can’t get over how much Carmen looks like the dude from King’s X. The rest are a collection of pretty weak personalities and 8-ball-in-a-sock-smacked faces, though I suspect Jillian has some hidden bite beneath the Elaine Bennett demeanor. I already hate the dude from Chicago who looks like the singer from UB40, and wonder how long Marion the Florist will last when his nose starts to grow after discussing his sexuality.

So yeah, that’s pretty much what the premiere of Project Runway is all about – decoding the characters and finding their celebrity look-alikes (Kevin resembles Joey Fatone too much for me to take him seriously). Yes, I know they partook in a challenge, but most of the results actually made Milan's attire look desirable, with the exception of Kit Pistol's "I'm the new Jeffrey Yay!" cocktail dress.

What else did we learn... Ohh! In this upcoming season, the two big hooks are a surprise guest (either Santino, Jeffrey or Daniel V, I bet) and a "shocking" announcement, which is so obvious "the Real World’s" Pedro Zamora is blushing. (If dead people could blush.)

So hopefully soon, we’ll see which attitude emerges, since you know by now the producers are casting for conflict as much as stylistic results. But you can’t help but think that after three seasons of this, we have the same problem that soured "the Real World" by the time Season 4 hit London: All these designers have seen the show, and know the framework of the competition. We’re past the point where people "stop being polite and start getting real," and thankfully this show centers around talent and not chillaxin on the couch all day.

But Christian knows if he’s catty he’ll stick around even if he makes dresses as shitty as Simone’s. I’m not entirely sold on this group, but it’s up to him – and the rest of these interior designer cast-offs – to make it worth watching. Curiosity and reputation are good for a only a fortnight of attention.

And in the meantime, can someone get Michael Kors a new fucking wardrobe?

Where there is smoke, there are Pipettes

So that free Pipettes show ended abruptly when a malfunctioning speaker mistook Jake Ivory's for the Station in West Warwick. Full report found in today's Herald.

Random: Jesus pancake, Tlusty likes to party, Project Runway

Well, I lost out. As you all know, no one bid a cent on my chicken strip seahorse. But a pancake resembling Jesus Christ scores $338 on eBay. Fucking hell. As Kristin duly noted last night, I should have somehow tied in the seahorse as a good luck charm of the Boston Red Sox, since I got it right before the World Series. Or marketed it to idiots in Florida.

As I mentally prepare for the monumental Devils-Rangers game tonight (Oh, just Scott Gomez’ return to Jersey and Martin Brodeur sitting on 499 career Wins) it appears the Maple Leafs’ Jiri Tlusty likes to photograph his penis, and make out with dudes at parties. Good to see Jiri puts the "lust" in Tlusty, but we fear that’s not Maple on his Leaf.

Another season of Project Runway begins tonight (Bravo, 10 p.m.), which serves only as another thing to make me reminisce about people I don't want to think about. Who knows if I’ll watch it... But I do know that Christian, pictured, looks like a tool. I wonder what kind of scarf Daniel Vosovic is wearing these days. Lauren Beckham Falcone talked to Tim Gun and Heidi Klum about Season 4.

Lastly, I interviewed Dane Cook last week, and the Herald story ran today. I also briefly wrote about the Dead Trees moving to Oregon, and other random shit in today's column.

Free Pipettes show tonight on Lansdowne

Rumor has it the Pipettes are playing a free show tonight at Jake Ivories, bringing their polkla-dotted retro girl-group pop to Lansdowne Street, of all places. The Jeff Buckley-as-fuck-sounding Shills are opening, and shit is apparently free. Quite the score for those left out of the Pipettes Great Scott gig on Thursday.

Update: It's true. Apparently it's a part of something called Rock 'n Rag, and you need to bring an article of clothing to get in. More details from Filter Mag here. A highlight: "Beginning on November 13th at Jake’s Ivory in Boston, American Rag is teaming up with the Pipettes to deliver a night of fashion and music and the best part of it all, it’s free. So what’s the catch? All you have to do is bring in one article of clothing for donation and you can glutton yourself on as much fashion, music, and Macy’s gift cards as possible."

Scott Stevens inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame

It’s Monday, but not really. I’m told today is a holiday, but so was yesterday apparently, so all bets are off. But as the country celebrates Veterans Day yesterday and today, this evening represents an unofficial holiday to fans of the New Jersey Devils hockey club.

Tonight, Scott Stevens becomes the first Devil player to enter the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto, not too far from his hometown of Kitchener, Ontario.

Though he began his career in Washington, as an offensive defensemen no less, and came to the swamp from his beloved St. Louis, Stevens will always be remembered as a New Jersey Devil. Drafted 5th overall in 1982 by the Caps with a reputation for pounding physical play and a flair for offense, he flourished in the defense-first system implemented in New Jersey, a system the league is still feeling repercussions from.

Though I was only 11, I remember the day he was “awarded” to Jersey. Before free agency in hockey was fully ironed out, compensation was awarded to teams that lost star players through Type II Free Agency.

When the Blues signed Brendan Shanahan (the reason the date still resonates, as I loved Shanny) in July 1991, the two teams couldn’t agree on compensation. The Blues reportedly offered Rod Brind’Amour, Curtis Joseph and several draft picks (The Devils drafted Martin Brodeur with the 20th overall pick in the 1990 Entry Draft, so CuJo was useless). The Devils countered with Stevens. Two months later, an independent arbitrator awarded Scott Stevens to the Devils, much to the chagrin of the Blues and Stevens himself, who at first refused to report to the so-called “Mickey Mouse organization” still searching for an identity in the ever-changing NHL.

Looking back, it’s hard to blame him. The Devils were a blip on the NYC Metro sports map, and barely registered in the high-flying NHL of the ‘80s.

Apparently, General Manager Lou Lamoriello convinced Scotty that coming to Jersey, and (whether they knew it or not) forming the foundation of a new NHL dynasty, would benefit his career. Though he continued to put up offensive numbers his first three seasons (an impressive 59, 57, and 78 points respectively), it was in the 1995 season that Stevens fully bought into the stay-at-home style preached by second-year Trapmeister coach Jacques Lemaire. His offensive output dropped by 56 points, but in exchange for offense (the Devils way, innit) Stevens perfected his craft in becoming the most feared open-ice hitter of all time.

He first served notice in the 1995 Stanley Cup finals against the heavily favored Detroit Red Wings. Though the Devils methodically swept the tilt in four games, the series effectively ended in Game 2, when Stevens leveled Slava Kozlov with what remains the most brutal hit I’ve ever seen. Like a freight-train, Stevens threw his entire weight into his shoulder and crushed an unsuspecting Kozlov, who then lay perfectly still on the ice as if just shot with a machine gun.

"For the next 10 minutes after the hit, I didn't remember a lot, I can tell you that," Kozlov recently told the Toronto Sun.

Moments afterwards, Stevens looked toward the Red Wings bench, pointed at Dino Ciccarelli, and shouted “You’re next.” Series over.

Over the next decade – and over two more Stanley Cup championships in 2000 and 2003 – Stevens’ victim list reads like an NHL All-Star lineup: Ron Francis (ironically inducted into the same HOF class tonight), Paul Kariya, Tomas Kaberle, Daymond Langkow, Kevyn Adams, Shane Willis and Eric Lindros, who was sent to the hospital about 10 minutes after returning from a concussion in Game 7 of the 2000 Eastern Conference Final.

(Stevens may be known mostly for the Lindros hit, but it paled in comparison to the one levied on Kozlov. Check out a collection of hits – and other Stevens highlights - here.

In the three years after Stevens retired in 2004, his past on-ice presence was magnified in his absence. Teams now routinely rough up New Jersey, and constantly crash Brodeur without fear of retribution. Teams like Carolina and Ottawa have beaten the Devils to a pulp on their way to playoff advancement. The team, still, has no true captain. The Devils have players who wear the C, and have their share of enforcers – but Stevens filled both roles with passion and intensity matched by few in the game’s storied history.

When Stevens came to New Jersey, we were a rudderless squad in ugly Christmas Tree uniforms, never advancing to the Cup finals in its brief 10 year existence. Upon retirement, The New Jersey Devils are recognized as a model franchise, with three Stanley Cup banners, countless division titles and Number 4 hanging from the rafters.

Stevens’ tenure in the swamp was not without controversy. His refusal to first report in 1991 was only topped by his re-signing with the Blues for $17 million after the 1994 season, though the Devils leveled tampering charges against the Blues and won a settlement that included cash, draft picks and most importantly, the right to retain their captain. It was the season after that, it should be noted, that Stevens truly came into his own as a feared defender.

On the ice, there was no one like him. The only player to win a Conn Smythe (playoff MVP, 2000) based on defensiveness and physicality alone, Scott Stevens was hell on skates. He won playoff series’ with his presence and intimidation. He won games with his head. And despite a litany of open-ice hits that effectively ended careers (where have you gone, Willis?) he was only assessed three elbowing penalties in his entire career. All of his demolitions were within the NHL rules.

Despite that, opponents called him a dirty cheap-shot artist. But we called him our captain. And with the help of Lou Lams upstairs and Marty in net, that shinny new arena in Newark is truly the house that Scott Stevens built. The Devils are a team known for defense, and Stevens was our greatest defender.

But more than that, he was an ambassador who put the New Jersey Devils on the map. And gave Devils fans everywhere a sense of pride never felt before.

Thank you, Scott.

Scott Stevens’ HOF induction ceremony airs tonight at 7 p.m. on the NHL Network, Channel 259 on Boston-area Comcast. Congrats also to fellow ’07 inductees Ron Francis and Al MacInnis. Mark Messier can still suck my ass, as far as I’m concerned.

the pill wins Best Friday Night award

Well this certainly rules. The Weekly Dig’s 2007 “Dig This” awards named the pill as the best Friday Night in Boston. Like, overall.

Now usually we win stuff like "Best Dance Night," or "Best Night that Still Acknowledges Suede as a Significant Band" or "Best Night that Features DJs That Still Own Stacks of Select Magazine and Wear Too Much Merc and Ben Sherman."

Pretty cool shit, especially now that we’ve sprinted past the 10-year mark like a mod-ern day Roger Bannister. The beat rolls on tonight with Hiss & Chambers hitting the stage around 11pm, and DJ Ken and I spinning it up with the Britpop & Modern Indie until curfew.

(On a side note, I saw A Place To Bury Strangers last night, and my ears are bleeding. Word is they might be back at Great Scott in March.)

See you tonight. Dig it.

A Place To Bury Strangers

It's rare that I make a distinct effort to catch a band every time they're in town. But tonight at the Middle East, one of the best – and loudest - bands on the planet takes over the Upstairs room, and I wouldn't miss it for anything. Brooklyn’s A Place to Bury Strangers play insanely catchy pop songs coated in waves of distorted feedback and white noise. Part shoegaze, part punk, part head-splitting aural assault... Shit is just relentless. I get inspired when I see shit like this. Hell, even Pitchfork gave their new album an 8.4 or something ridiculously un-Pitchforkian like that.

Here’s what I wrote about them in January, when they played Great Scott on a snowy Saturday with the December Sound.

<< A Place to Bury Strangers is on the other side of the spectrum - piercing, noise-layered sonic booms that echo a modern-day Jesus and Mary Chain. They've been aptly dubbed New York's loudest band.

"I'm gonna turn it up, and then after the first song we are gonna turn it up more," singer/guitarist Oliver Ackerman warned the Herald. "Then you're gonna be yelling in your buddies' ear, `Hey, this hurts.' Then it's just gonna get louder."


Somewhere, Manowar is weeping.

"Then you're gonna want to leave, but we'll have locked the doors," Ackerman continued, without missing a beat. "Then we are gonna play this, like, 20-minute feedback jam and the owner is gonna be like, 'Turn it down.' And well, we aren't gonna listen and then that's when we start turning on the other amps.">>

Uni Watch conference in Boston

Some people are gaming nerds, some people are D&D nerds, some people are just nerds. Myself, I'm a hockey jersey nerd, and while adulthood and its myriad financial burdens has curbed my jersey-buying habit, I still have about 50 sweaters in my collection, with maybe a half-dozen baseball jerseys and random soccer kits.

So imagine my thrill when I read this on Uni Watch yesterday: Uni Watch Road Trip: I’m gonna be in Boston on December 6th and will probably be convening a Uni Watch party around 8:45 that evening. Details to follow shortly.

My god! What do I wear?!?!?! Do I go with the 1990 white Quebec Nordiques Sakic 19 jersey (pictured)? Or the NNOB 1988 Houston Astros "rainbow shoulder" top? Or the white 1992 Vancouver Canucks Linden 19 sweater (my fav)?!?! I could go Isles Fishticks, Christmas tree Devils jersey with Terreri 31 or even San Diego Gulls IHL from the early '90s. Or even the bootleg (but very pretty) Sergei Fedorov Russian National Team jersey I got for one pretty ruble in an outdoor St-Peterburg market in 2004?

What's a boy to wear to a gala like this?

Catching up with the bomb scare fellow

Edit 11.08: Fox 25 News did a piece on this last night... I wonder where they got the story from?! I knew about it on Monday, didn't have a column Tuesday, then published it on Wednesday. Later that night, it's news on Fox. Hmmm....

If you were wondering what good ol’ Peter Berdovsky’s been up to lately, here’s the scoop from today's Herald column. Seems the man behind the Jan. 31 Aqua Teen Hunger Force bomb scare was voted 12th best visual artist in the world by DJ Magazine, and has used his community service time painting murals at Spaulding. Be sure to check the growing list of comments telling me I’m wasting my time and how this dude should be in jail.

While I’m of the opinion the city grossly overreacted to the entire ordeal, most Herald readers believe he should spent the rest of his life in prison. But I have a new respect for him, after he allowed me to interview him twice (first was in the summer for his visual light show at the Phoenix Landing) despite my newspaper raking him over the coals in the Mooninite aftermath. Clearly I’m more interested in his art moving forward (his goal is to make new media respected form of fine art) and not rehashing one of the more embarrassing days to be a Bostonian.

Bowie's "Starman"

The first video from Halloween has been put on YouTube: It's an unedited, single-camera video of Bowie's Starman, as performed by the Daily Pravda. More to come.

Patriots roll on. Country reacts in horror.

- I never really followed football, but I’ve already grabbed a cozy seat on the Patriots bandwagon this year. I’ve always liked Randy Moss, and watching this destruction of the NFL has been really enjoyable. And while I’m new to all this football stuff despite years of only following Hofstra players (from Chrebet to Schulters to Prime Time Colston) and some imaginary guy named Lee Sluggs, I justify my newfound fandom like this: Longtime fans of the Pats root for the Patriots, as an organization, and always have. But I’m rooting for New England, as the region collectively says fuck you to the entire NFL and the rest of the country. It’s insane how many people outside this region hate this team -- and us. All this shit about "cheating" (when every team does it) to running up the score (this ain’t Pop Warner, it’s a league with a salary cap) to our surly coach (he may be bitter, but his child never opted for being dead over the son of an NFL head coach like Angel Dungy in cornland over there) and all that jazz about playing dirty and without integrity (which is more than just a bad Cleveland hardcore band, apparently)... Well, another Super Bowl looks inevitable. Fuck You, I'll be eating Matt Jeff's chili and dropping unmarked pills with Max at a Super Bowl party in mid-winter, like every year. Signed, the superior citizens of New England.

- I love watching Peyton Manning lose. It's like he's a natural born New York Ranger or some shit.

- Every time I see another commercial for "Prison Break," I expect to see a guest appearance by Andy Reid’s kids.

- Want another New England championship? The Revolution play the hated Chicago Fire in the Eastern Conference championship at the Razor on Thursday. I haven't been to a game since the MLS Cup a few years ago. That Carlos Ruiz goal still hurts.

- So apparently that new movie "Hitman" is based off some video game, and the main dude has a silly-ass barcode on the back of his head. I wonder if he got it with my ex-girlfriend, who inexplicably* has one on her neck. For this reason alone I will boycott this movie**

- It was on eBay for a week, but no one bid on the chicken strip seahorse. The entire affair was as exhausting as it was educational, but I’m glad it’s over. For now.

- I might end my boycott to see that bad-ass flick where that warrior guy rides a freaking polar bear into battle. Oh my god.

- No links today, because I am lazy and it's Sunday.

* Let the record show I have a New Jersey Devils tattoo, so what the fuck do I know about permanently putting ridiculous shit on our bodies.

** I never go to the movies anyway.

A rare peek into Cat City

One of my many projects at the Barrows has been the construction and documentation of Cat City, a utopian feline society of paws and whiskers rivaled by only the most ambitious projects of Dubai. That’s all I can really say about this Top Secret development, but I can reveal three screen shots from pivotal scenes early this morning.

Halloween pics

We found the cord. The pictures, about 50, have been uploaded on the pill's Flickr. Some of my favorites include:

the Perennials as the Libertines


Mako as the Stone Roses


the Lie Society as Blur


the Daily Pravda as David Bowie


Gretchen and I, in the only pic where I don't look like a fool. Ermm, well, this is the least foolish of the lot.

Ozzy used as pawn in Fargo string operation

A local a sheriff in Forgo N. D., wants a heavy medal for his sting operation last week, but the ordeal has left Ozzy Osborne livid.

The former Black Sabbath front man is furious after county sheriff Paul D. Laney lured wanted men by offering VIP perks at a pre-concert party before Ozzy’s show at the Fargodome on Oct. 29.

Laney sent the invites, with included perks normally offered by Osborne’s VIP packages as well as two concert tickets, to 40 unsuspecting recipients. When the "winners" appeared at the scene, they were promptly arrested on outstanding warrants. Laney immediately took to the media and smiled on camera, bragging about his operation.

Ozzy, however, wasn’t feeling it.

"Instead of holding a press conference to pat himself on the back," Osborne said in a statement released by MSO PR, "Sheriff Laney should be apologizing to me for using my name in connection with these arrests. It’s insulting to me and to my audience."

The Dark Prince was offended that the sting suggested his concerts "attract a criminal element," and said his VIP ticket sales have in part contributed to raising more than $1 million for his wife’s colon cancer charity.

"My audiences are good hard-working people who have been hugely supportive of my music for nearly four decades,” Osborne stated. "It’s obvious to me that this sheriff has an agenda and is just trying to make a name for himself on my back."

Osboune said he holds no ill will toward Forgo’s metal-loving citizens, and will return to the city to perform.

Halloween pics: Libertines & the Stone Roses

So the Halloween show was Wednesday, and I needed 13 hours of sleep last night to fully recover. It was perhaps the best Halloween party we've ever had, and I think we set a Great Scott-era attendance record for a pill event. Some highlights:

-- the Daily Pravda as ealy '70s era David Bowie was legendary, and people walked away in awe. I think someone filmed it, so look for it soon on YouTube. "Life on Mars" was epic.
-- Mako ripping a 10-minute "I am the Resurrection," complete with freakout jam outro. The Stone Roses never sounded so good.
-- the Lie Society inviting everyone on-stage for a "Tender" sing-along, and giving Blur's "Beetlebum" a run for their money.
-- An absolutely flawless drunkenly debauched take on the Libertines, as performed by a spot-on the Perennials.

Here are some pics from the Libertines (taken by Margot Tannanbaum and posted on Lemmingtrail) and the Stone Roses (taken by Bethany Pickard). My photos, and images of Blur and Bowie, will be up this weekend.

White Rapper in RV crash near Hofstra

Oh man. Hingham's favorite white rapper progeny, Sullee of VH-1's "White Rapper Show," was almost killed going to a gig at Hofstra University. I don't know where to begin, but first off, it's great to see the Student Activities division at my alma mater is still targeting the best in music and pop culture. When I was a proud Flying Dutchman in the late '90s, they broke the bank to bring us Third Eye Blind and Eve 6 (Yes, our tender hearts somehow ended up in a blender).

This Herald report doesn't say where the accident occured, but my guess is the Meadowbrook or Northern State Parkway. Poor Sullee got a TV thrown in his grill after his RV scraped the bottom of an overpass. Someone, I'm convinced Persia is involved. We really need a White Rapper Show Season 2, by the way.

Random acts of niceness

There's a guy here in the newsroom who worships the Red Sox and goes to Vegas a few times a year. In the spring, he gave a bunch of people, including me, a $10 ticket from Harrahs Casino that payed out $50 if the Sox won the World Series.

Not only am I now $50 richer because of his generosity, but he just gave me a 50 dollar bill in exchange for my ticket, which he's taking to Vegas next week to cash himself. Otherwise, I'd have to sign it and mail it there myself and wait a few weeks.

I'm pretty much floored by this. I offered to buy him lunch or something, but he waved me off. I feel like now i have to do something equally considerate for another relative stranger, but we all know I perobably won't. Pay it backward. (Oh yeah, Halloween photos and report later tonight!)