Ending 2007 on its first high note

Well, it’s over. Good fucking riddance to 2007, undisputedly the worst year of my life.

I took a few steps backward, many steps to the left and right, and stumbled cluelessly throughout most of the year. Finding a highlight is as difficult as Patrik Elias finding the back of the net. There were some good times (finding Lola, the myriad pill events, writing for Spin), but mostly my life just sunk to depths rivaled only by my very-awkward 5th grade experience. What do they say about all that "fool me twice" bullshit?

But hey, suddenly, stabilization has come swiftly, and hopefully 2008 brings me back to where I was mentally, emotionally and physically in mid-2006 or so. I’m still very blah about everything, and still have Los Angeles in my sights for September (unless my spirits and impression of Boston Hate City improves drastically between now and June). But for the first time in more than a year, I like where my life is heading, even if it still lacks any coherent direction and focus. I guess I have another year to figure all that shit out.

In any event, tonight we celebrate, as '07 goes to heaven, and '08 promises the great. We (the pill) are throwing a dance party at O’Brien’s this evening, because fucked if I saw anything remotely interesting this New Year’s Eve. I’m not staying on the couch like I did last year; talk about a bad omen. As Jarvis Cocker sang so proudly, "dance, drink, and screw, because there’s nothing else to do."

See you in 2008, and thanks for reading Vanyaland. It’s been my best therapy yet. xo

Spin.com AOTD: Tigercity

Another day, another Spin.com Artist of the Day feature. This time around, it's by Brooklyn's Tigercity, no stranger to the Boston scene, and perhaps the modern era's answer to Hall & Oates. Yacht Rock now has original material to work with, and it's fucking aces. This is some smooth shit right here. Check it here.

Last minute birthday gift? (please?)

So if anyone is looking to get me a belated birthday present, look no further. This hideous thing of beauty is only $9.99 on eBay, and straight out of late-'80s Red Hot Chili Peppers video.

I've never bought anything on eBay (or sold, chicken strip seahorse sucka!), so the gift can even just be winning/purchasing it for me, and I'll promptly pay you back.

If I get this, I'll totally wear it backwards and to the side the way the singer in EMF did with his Oakland Athletics hat in the "Unbelievable" video. And I'll pimp my christmas tree Chris Terreri jersey and mack down the street like an unstoppable Lamorielloian soldier on a mission for the ghost of John McMullen.

Spin.com AOTD: Midnight Juggernauts

Midnight Juggernauts are a very cool Australian electro trio who toured the US with Justice earlier this year, and will soon headline their own springtime stateside romp. In the meantime, I wrote about them for Spin.com's Artist of the Day series.

Florida report: Day 2

Christmastime in Florida took on an all new tradition yesterday, as I hit the race track for the first time in my life. They Derby Lanes greyhound races in St. Petersburg have been the highlight of the trip so far, and I only lost about $20 after a few hours of racing. My big wins: $11.50 and $16. What a thrill, and I think I have a new addiction. I’m going to personally bring the Wonderland track back to prominence in Boston. Dog racing is the new coke, and it was certainly more thrilling than spending the night at some random aunt’s house surrounded by cousins I’ve never met before.

It was a fairly ho-hum, and muggy, Christmas Eve, drenched in Jager and Cosmos and pomegranate drinks while awkwardly surrounded by close-knit “relatives,” one of which is in law school in Vermont and kinda resembled Rocky Dennis from “Mask,” and another adorable, young, hopefully of-age cousin that strongly resembled the foreign exchange student from “Better off Dead.” I may or may not have been creepy towards her, I don’t remember. (I spent most of the dinner, augmented by the biggest King Crab legs I’ve ever seen and a full, seven-course seafood meal, trying to figure out what she’d look like sprawled out naked on the Christmas Eve dinner table with an apple stuffed in her mouth and clam shells draped around her still-developing body). Some of the elders kept bringing up politics, especially when the daily tab that pays my bills was brought up, but I wasn’t gonna bite.

Overall, it wasn’t terrible, and these are very friendly, well-meaning people, but once again vodka became my ally in the always-a-struggle familial battle. Then again, back home we spent Xmas Eve at my teeny-bit psychotic aunt’s house, who is now hopped up on meds, and without a husband since he ghosted after learning my dead grandmother didn’t exactly leave the bounty he anticipated. So it beat previous years, and the kids in the room (I hear they are cousins, but without a detailed family tree layed out in front of me, who the fuck knows) were duly impressed by my knowledge of Guitar Hero-creators Harmonix, and how I knew some of the Boston bands included in the game. One “cuz” was all into Freezepop from playing the game, but I declined to tell him about the bathroom shenanigans at the singer’s pill afterparty just, oh, 72 hours earlier. And even kids in Florida know who Bang Camaro is, another sure sign of the apocalypse.

But through it all, I still miss my kitten, and it’s my birthday. More on that to come later on. Maybe once I’m done swimming in the pool. On Christmas. Swimming. It’s still all wrong.

Florida Report: Day 1

So I’m in Florida, you may have heard.

The first day here has been pretty chill, and yesterday’s flight was, thankfully, fairly painless. I got about five hours sleep after Sean Lifestyle’s afterhours, drove down to Quincy to drop Lolabear of at Kristin’s, then trudged north on 93 to fly out of Manch Vegs. Nothing like being hung over with a bunch of ugly snowbird New Hampshire people in an equally ugly airport more than an hour away. My life is a Disney film, it really is.

But to my shock and amazement, the flight flew by, as I started -- and finished -- “The Soiling of Old Glory: The Story of a Photograph that Shocked America” (working title: “Another Book About Boston Racism, This Time Eschewing A Noose in Favor of Clever Usage of the Stars and Stripes”). It’s a book passed on to me last week by the Weekly Dig’s David Day about a photo that ran in the Herald American in 1976, of a white teen attempting to harpoon an American flag-draped flag pole into the chest of a helpless black lawyer caught in a busing protest. Good read (review coming later, maybe when it’s released in March) and even the meek brunette hermaphrodite sitting beside me seemed to be interested as well. Now, I often board Southwest in Group A, race to the back of the plane, saddle up next to the window and pray that the fattest fuck boarding the plane doesn’t plop his ass next to me. (Mind you, I’m in NH, so the odds of a Dunkin Donut-fueled double-man sitting next to me are tripled than when jetting out of Providence, the other SWA hub.)

But things got a bit awkward when I, feeling all inspired-like, decided to tackle Book II. After taking a racial romp through photojournalism history, I pulled out “Money Shot: Wild Days and Lonely Nights Inside the Black Porn Industry,” which shoulda just been called “A Year in the Life of Lexington Steele and his Monster 11-inch Dick.” The hermaph was visibly startled, and it suddenly made me uncomfortable. So I settled on playing Tetris on my pink 1997-model Game Boy. You pick your battles when flying to Florida alongside subjects of Porno for Pyros songs.

My parents have a fake tree, which is fitting, as Christmas in Florida is pretty fucking artificial. But I'm warn, so whatever.


But that was it for ambition. Since I’ve arrived, I’ve done very little, as according to plan. Within 24-hours or so, I’ve watched several movies: the Departed, Rocky IV, Rocky V, Christmas Vacation, the 40-Year Old Virgin, and the overrated feature called The Pats Own the Dolphins. I’ve lounged around and sang Bertie Higgins’ “Key Largo” in my head over and over. I thought I saw the Olsen twins this morning, but it was just two other anorexic hobbit daughters of some other retired parents here at the oh-so-elite Heritage Springs country club clubhouse. I’ve drank way too much Jager and enjoyed a breakfast buffet and two ace home-cooked meals from Momma Dukes. Tastes like Bay Shore in my belly, and I couldn’t ask for more. Not having to do scrum-fuck all day is fantabulous, though waiting for ESPNews to show the Devils-Flames highlights is sawing away at my patience stick.

Tomorrow we’re going to the dog track in St Petersburg, and I will try my bloody hardest to reenact the “Parklife” album cover. Then we’re going to the house of some relative I’ve never heard of, and before I know it I’ll be 29 and heading back to my own personal snow-ridden hell. As Belinda Carlisle once so graciously sang, “leave a light on for me.”

Heading south for winter

I have my birthday dance party tonight at the pill, then I leave bright, early and hungover tomorrow morning for sunny Florida. Get me the hell out of here. See you on the flip.

Best of 2007

Because I'm too lazy to do a separate, more comprehensive Best of 2007 list (and because the year kinda sucked), I'll just reprint my list that was printed in today's Boston Herald, which includes all releases: CDs, DVDs, videos, commercials, whatever. Anything music-related that was "released."

1. Bat For Lashes, video for "What’s a Girl to Do"
Donnie Darko on a bicycle, set to the spookiest single of ’07.
2. Editors, "An End Has a Start" (Epic/Fader)
On this album, a band breaks away from its idols in a meteor shower of sonic haze.
3. Jupiter One, "Countdown" (Cordless/WMG)
Space rock ascends to dizzying heights in this New York band’s single.
4. Wonderful Spells, "The Prophecy of Smarmulous Rex" (self-released)
A sterling EP debut from Boston’s new melody makers.
5. Justice, video/single for "D.A.N.C.E." (Ed Banger/Vice)
Neon T-shirts flash along in this video to one of the year’s best dance singles.
6. A Place to Bury Strangers, "A Place to Bury Strangers" (Killer Pimp/Vacancy)
Avalanches of piercing noise cradle this CD’s infectious pop melodies.
7. "Control" (Rhino)
A movie soundtrack reminder of how music used to be, even with the Killers involved.
8. Feist’s "1234" iPod ad
At 20 seconds, the song’s irresistible; at three minutes, a bit overdone.
9. Okkervil River, "The Stage Names" (Jagjaguwar)
Underrated band making its way to a mainstream breakthrough.
10. "The Brit Box: UK Indie, Shoegaze, and Brit-Pop Gems of the Last Millennium" (Rhino).
A concise four-CD history lesson.

Other releases I’ve enjoyed: The Information’s “Natural Language” EP*, Emergency Music’s “You’ll Be the Death of Us All, Honey”*, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Baby 81,” Kaiser Chiefs’ “Yours Truly Angry Mob,” the entire Bat for Lashes album, the Blakes EP, and other stuff I’m clearly forgetting. Thank God I didn’t hear that Miley Cyrus song until now. (*: Deemed too close to the pill circle to be included in my published "best of")

Snow Day

In a bedroom chock-full of misery, depression and holiday anxiety, watching Lola marvel at the snow this morning was maybe the best thing I've witnessed all season.

Happy birthday, pops

So my dad turned 60 today, which is kinda strange because he looks like he's in his mid-40s. This also confirms that, yes, I will be turning 30 next year.

Well, my popa-dukes is mad old, but I don't feel bad for him. Right now he's probably wearing shorts, a white polo and a straw hat down in sunny Florida, while I get to spend a half hour digging my car, nay, tauntaun, out of these Hoth-like New England conditions.

Happy birthday Dad, may you playfully choke on your pool-side cocktail, and may your ice cream cake melt prematurely under the non-seasonal Florida sun.

***
And on a side note, I'll be in Florida in just more than 48 hours. I can't say I've ever looked forward to a trip to the Sunshine State quite like this, though I'm dreading being away from my cat for five days. But yay, me and Bill Parcells, headed South for the holidaze.

My taste in music takes another hit

Fucking hell.

So I’m driving home from some shitty attempt at Christmas shopping last night, zipping recklessly up Memorial Drive and staring at the Boston skyline – which remains on the ever-dwindling list of things I love about this fetid corpse of a city I soon must leave – and I hear some saccharine-soaked, addictive-like-whoa pop song come on the radio.

Now, understand, I’m listening to Kiss FM. Well, not listening listening, but flipping through the stations, hoping to hear something decent, maybe even that Cascada song I’m obsessed with. (Yes, you all know how much of a bitch I am for euro-girlpop.)

So this "I can’t wait to see you again" jam comes on. And the volume gets louder, and louder, and louder, until it reaches the point where if 5.0 doesn't stop a 9-year-old in the car, I'm going to jail. By the time I hit the BU Bridge I’m in full-blown, full-motherfucking-frontal Rock Out mode. Holy shit this song rules. I’m hooked.

I get home, and plug the lyrics that I can vaguely remember into Google. Then it appears, smacking me in the dome like a bleary-eyed haddock fresh out of the water. The fucking song is released by Disney, and it’s by Miley Cyrus, who is not only Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter, but also the "Part II" or whatever to the Hannah Montana phenomenon/empire/black tar heroin fix for pre-teen girls.

Great, now I’m CREEPY too. But I dare you to listen to this song and tell me it doesn’t rules eight ways north, south, east and west to Sunday. Enjoy at your own risk

Rolling Stone sued for $195.3 billion

Oh boy. A couple of bands are apeshit -- and rightfully so -- after Rolling Stone published a Camel cigarette ad linking those bands to the tobacco products. Extra extra! Read all about it!.

A picture is worth a thousand saves

Credit due to Richer's Ghost over at the Hockey's Future Devils board. I don't post there as much as I used to, but I still lurk for gems like this (click to enlarge):

New Batman trailer

Oh this makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Heath Ledger looks pretty badass as the Joker, and Christain Bale still rules in everything he does.

Papelbon's dog eats game-winning World Series ball

Great find by Phil, as apparently Jonathan Papelbon's dog chewed up the game-winning World Series baseball. Of course, there was a mini-controversy in 2004, when Doug "Eye Chart" Mientkiewicz said he pocketed the ball used for the final out in St. Louis, and was gonna pawn it off to put his kids through college.

Well, leave it to Pap to settle the ball dispute like this. From the article:

Well, the 2007 mystery is now solved. The World Series baseball is in Hattiesburg.

At least what is left of it is.

"My dog ate it," said Papelbon, who has a home in the Canebrake subdivision.

"He plays with baseballs like they are his toys. His name is Boss. He jumped up one day on the counter and snatched it. He likes rawhide. He tore that thing to pieces. Nobody knows that. I'll keep what's left of it."

Most offensive-yet-amazing headline ever

Leave it to the New York Post to steal all the glory away from Ike Turner's death with this absolutely unbelievable headline:

Ike Beats Tina to Death. Just, wow.

Immortalized in Uni Watch

Well shit, this just made me day:

From Paul Lukas' Uni Watch Blog: My heartfelt thanks to the two Boston journalists who stopped by, beginning with Michael Marotta, who wrote a preview of the event for the Boston Herald (and who augmented his Nordiques jersey with a Devils tattoo). The other scribe in attendance was Danielle Dreilinger, who was covering the party for the Globe (I think her story will be running either this weekend or the weekend after that). Her gorgeous Milwaukee Braves jersey is a game-used original, and was on loan from her uncle.

So far, 120 comments have been posted, and no one is making fun of my tattoo, which is clear as day in the photo link.

the real Mitchell

So at 2 p.m. Thursday, Sen. George Mitchell will release the eagerly-awaited Mitchell Report, which will likely name major league ballplayers who have used illegal steroids. While this day could be huge for baseball (or reveal very little, continuing this cat and mouse game with the American public), every time I hear the senator's report, I think of one man*.

And that man is Joe Don Baker. To quote the great MST3000, "How do you like your Scotch?" ...By the quart, of course.



(* With all due respect to former NL MVP Kevin Mitchell.)

Nickelback to live in Allston while recording?

First Hollywood, now the dregs of the music industry.

Carl Lavin of Great Scott is spreading all kinds of silly rumors over on the b.lt. I can't see how Nickelback would blend in among the undesirables and Todd/Taras of Allston, but if you want suggestions on where to look, this is a good start.

2007 NHL Draft: Porn Star or Frat Boy

The other night I started to study over NHL drafts dating back to 1988. I skipped around a bit, and focused on the two best drafts, possibly, of all-time: the famed ’90 draft (with Martin Brodeur, Jaromir Jagr highlighting a deep first round and several significant late picks) and the Everyone-in Attendance-Gets-a-Great-Player-But-the-Rangers Draft of 2003 (the depth overrides any one mention, except for Zach Jesus Christ Parise at 16, of course.)

After a while, I eventually stumbled across the most recent draft, and noticed something peculiar about the selections that day in Columbus – their ridiculous names. I don’t know why it never dawned on me. I don’t know why this became evident now, and not when I was wasting hours reading through the Hockey News draft guide, and then watching the fucking draft on television.

But almost half of the 30 picks on that surely-sunny June day in Ohio’s fine capital can fit into one of two distinct categories: porn star or frat boy. From their names alone, we determine that if they weren’t hockey players, would they be laying pipe with Mindy Main out in Van Nuys, or are they doing a keg stand at the cornbread frat house down University Way? Finally, we settle this.

Round 1:
Pick 2, Philadelphia: James Van Reimsdyk – porn star, armed already with an offensive surname.

Pick 3, Phoenix: Kyle Turris – frat boy, though some porn stars might contract a bad case of turris. Sounds itchy.

Pick 4, Los Angeles: Thomas Hickey – porn star, naturally.

Pick 9, San Jose: Logan Couture – porn star, though argyles are involved.

Pick 10, Florida: Keaton Ellerby – frat boy, and lives right here in Massachusetts.

Pick 12, Montreal: Ryan McDonagh – frat boy, chapter president

Pick 14, Colorado: Kevin Shattenkirk – porn star, from Germany, though would benefit from cooler first name, like Henrik or Johan.

Pick 16, Minnesota: Colton Gillies – both

Pick 19, Anaheim: Logan MacMillian – frat boy, and astonishingly not even the first “Logan” taken in this draft. Boston’s airport nomenclature has finally caught on, thanks to the several couples’ first decision in the asinine parenting epidemic of 1989.

Pick 20, Pittsburgh: Angelo Esposito – porn star, with greasy hair and toothpick to match.

Pick 21, Edmonton: Riley Nash – porn star, a redheaded firecracker specializing in reverse cowgirl. C’mon admit it, Riley Nash sounds hot.

Pick 22, Montreal: Max Pacioretti – porn star, because “Max” was his first pet’s name, and Pacioretti Road is the fucking street he grew up on in the suburbs.

So there we have it, porn takes the rare public victory straight to the hole, winning 8-5, a score reminiscent of the NHL’s good old days, before the Devils came along ruined everything.

The power of Flashdance, 25 years later

It was just another miserable Monday this morning, as I spent too much time in bed trying to make sense of my stingray-in-the-nightclub dream all while providing a warm cocoon in which Lola could sleep snugly. I was slow to rise, staggering to shake the malaise of the previous weekend of nothingness, the haze of izm clouding my head and the taste of Jager palatable in the back of my throat.

After fleeing the Joker’s Cave, my next challenge was to chip away the ice on my car. Once inside and revved up (the car, not me) I was aurally met with a sonic barrage of radio feces: the new Spoon jam, that late '90s Alice DeeJay club song "Talk to Me," another shit sandwich of a single by Jet, and something else that might have been Deep Blue Something's follow up to "Breakfast at Tiffany's," but I remained unconvinced until I changed the station and stopped thinking about it.

But as I glide down the slippery Mass Pike to where I-93 appears with reckless abandon, my spirits were suddenly lifted, as if the talons of pop's hawk-like masterpiece grabbed me by the shoulders and carried me through the sky and carefully placed me in the comforting lyrical womb of the legendary Irene Cara.

"First, when there's nothing but a slow glowing dream / That your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind / All alone I have cried silent tears full of pride / In a world made of steel, made of stone..."

Then, moments later... the song explodes, taking me on a journey like few others in my morning commute…

"What a feeling, bein's believin' / I can't have it all, now I'm dancin' for my life / Take your passion, and make it happen / Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life"

And as quickly as it arrived, the joy ended. I pulled into the Herald parking lot, and braced for another day, knowing its apex is already behind me, and it's not even 10am. But emotions come and go, and time rarely stands still. Yet, though it all, like a sterling beacon in the cloudy skies of tepid depression, there is the Flashdance Soundtrack.

Unnecessary upgrading of the NJ Devils logo

Some interesting New Jersey Devils redesigns at the always-entertaining NHL Tournament of Logos blog. (Note: This is a fan site, created for entertainment. These aren't real.)

The proposed primary logo draws inspiration from the team’s nickname origin, which derives from the legend of the Jersey Devil (a mythical, 18th-century South Jersey creature who was, according to legend, the beast-like 13th offspring of a suspected witch – read more about it here).

Since I was about 7 years old I’ve maintained the NJ Devils’ logo is the best in all sports. It’s subtle, yet obvious, and ties in four points of reference – the N, the J, the spiked tail and devil horns, all screaming nothing other than New Jersey Devils – in a very sharp and distinguished crest.

There’s really no need for a cartoon beast of a logo, just as I’ve never cared for the Satan figure-on-skates look that pops up in holiday catalogues. The slightly modified secondary logo doesn’t do it for me, either, as the divot in the horns makes the J look a bit like a Y. No need to remind people of New York. But altogether just looks like a cartoon-sexy, Valentine's Day update of our classic logo.

But I do like the upgraded jersey designs, and wouldn’t be bothered if I saw the real logo thrown on those sweaters. I doubt Lou would go for it, as the Devils are only one of three teams (the Red Wings and Hurricanes are the others) to never have a 3rd or alt jersey.

If there were to be any modification of the logo and crest, the only modernization I’d be down with would be squeezing the outlining circle at the top and bottom to create a more oval-shaped and slightly aerodynamic new logo. Check it to the left.

Otherwise, no need to fix what's broken. Now, about this power play...

Call them the 21st Century Boys, with bacon

Cheers to Nick Balkin of Logan 5 & the Runners for organizing tomorrow's Electric Warriors Glamstravaganza. Read all about it in my T-Rex-reference-heavy piece in today's Herald.

I'd write more, but I'm busy gorging on chocolate-covered bacon, sent to me by Vosges Haut Chocolate. Holy shit. It's not actually a bacon strip covered in chocolate -- it's more like tiny bits of swine among the chocolately goodness. The first bite is kinda weird, I ain't gonna lie, but it gets better and the bacon taste outlasts the chocolate. Not a bad way to start Friday.

And go check out Jupiter One at the pill tonight. Dope band from NYC, and their singe "Countdown" will be all over my Best of '07 lists.

John Maine doppleganger wants your girlfriends clothes

Kinda weird story from the NY Daily News about NY Mets SP John Maine:

The Mets say pitcher John Maine is the victim of an impostor who has been asking women for their outfits. Thursday, a woman named Abby Cohen called the club Touch to get "John Maine" a table at their opening night. When the man arrived, he identified himself as the Mets pitcher and asked several young ladies if he could try on their dresses (even offering a reporter $200 for hers). Despite being "recognized" as Maine by doormen and publicists for Touch, the Mets insist that he has not been in New York since October and was in Virginia on the night of incident.

Amy Winehouse is a tra(i)n(y)wreck

I realize I'm breaking no new ground here, but when did Amy Winhouse morph into a brunette Dee Snider? I've always been minimally amused by the Rehab Queen's livestyle and desperate grasps at publicity, but what in the name of Dr. McTeague causes someone to start pulling out her own teeth. Oh, drugs. Well that explains the wandering the streets in the buff. But not the other things.

From the Daily Mail article, which has gotten quite the linky-link beej from Vanyaland this week: "Amy is very upset about her teeth because they have literally been falling out," a source said. "She has one missing from the front of her mouth, and another one at the back which is less visible. Her mouth is full of holes and she is desperately worried she is going to lose more. She has actually pulled a tooth out herself, which is absolutely disgusting."

But not the most disgusting thing.

If it's in the papers, it must be true

So the Uni Watch conference is slated for tomorrow night at 8:30pm at BBW, allowing myself to saddle up with D&D kids and VNV Nation fans in the annals or excessive dorkdom. I tried to get a hold of Paul Lukas, at right, for a Uni Chat, but he wasn't available, so I wrote something anyway, talking to a few people who, like me, are kinda obsessed with sports uniforms. Hopefully I'll get to catch up with Lukas tomorrow night. I've read his Uni Watch column since it was in the Village Voice, so it's a real treat.

Not to be outdone, also check out the Milky Way going all Radiohead in Hotline, and my Stylish Man Gift Guide, with a huge, Adam Oates-like assist from Gary Ritacco at Uniform in the South End.

It's been a hectic week, though I finally got around to checking out Church on Monday. It's the new joint in the Linwood space, and I'm really impressed with the vibe. I gotta get some electro night in there before the goth kids find it.

Project Runway Party tonight, which I will honor by trying to decide what to fucking wear to the Uni Watch thing tomorrow.

Mozzer in a National Front Fiasco

Oh Morrissey, back in the news with more throat related tomfoolery. The former Smiths frontman has caused an international ruckus with comments that he doesn’t live in England because it’s rife with immigrants, and that England "threw away" the country and lost its identity to foreigners. Tough to really argue with the man, here.

England for the English, oh, England for the English...There's a country, you don't live there, But one day you would like to...

But wait! According to Mozzer aficionado Roommate Terence, our favorite coiffed mopester has filed a lawsuit against the NME, the high-class, Pulitzer-winning publication where the comments originally ran. He claims he was grossly misquoted, and will release the interview transcripts to reveal his innocence. Apparently the reporter in question has distanced himself from the story, and originally asked NME editors to remove his name from the byline. Stay tuned, fragmented nation, stay tuned.

Suede's Dog Man Star

The temperature has plummeted, the first real snow has fallen on Boston, and winter has arrived. And with that, there is only one suitable soundtrack. Save your "Disintegration," your "Long Cold Winter" and your mispronunciations of "Agaetis Byrjun." There is nothing like Suede’s "Dog Man Star" on the first real frigid day of the season. A truly magical band at its absolute apex.