By Benjamin Leatherman
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Troy Farah
By Roger Calamaio
By Mark Deming
By Glenn BurnSilver
By Brian Palmer
At three in the morning, I saw her drunk, writhing around on this fat guy. I looked through the window and there they were, starting to go at it on the chair in her living room. My head suddenly became small and roared as its capillaries swelled like red balloons. A cranial gang-rape. Holding on to the window frame for support, I then reacquainted myself with the agony by which all other agony is measured.
This was my girlfriend, too, home from a night out with friends. She had on that dress, the one I had earlier convinced her to wear after she thought it too tight. She wore the bracelet I'd spent my last 10 bucks on. They were listening to a record I'd bought for her.
Her lips, hips and tender fingertips all about that horrible fatso; the one so brilliant at lost puppy dogisms and little-boy-lost countenance that he scores regularly with chicks at his former job. I remember thinking, "What a bunch of useless, airheaded girls, buying into this prick -- hook, line and snatch."
In the past, I would never have made reference to this guy's blubber, I considered him a pal. But this was my girlfriend on top of him and he knew it, and still, he was digging it, digging into her. That makes him a pig. Immediately, I began to wonder how many times this might have happened in the past. Then I didn't want to think anymore. When the lifeless and frigid December air turns to a raging hot oven, you know your panic is peaking.
I went for the beer. Now I know I live to close this woman, too close to any woman.
Not unlike the Internet, porn has a way of turning you into a hermit. Profuse porn video viewing will guarantee an existence with no friends, no social life and no outside interests. It will ensure that the blue glow of your TV screen will be the last flicker of life in the wee hours of the morning. Your whole connection to an outside community will be reduced to grunted exchanges with some flaccid-faced schlub manning the all-nite counter at your local filth emporium.
And in the event you do brave the outdoors of, say, a 7-Eleven for beer, you'll wonder why the check-out girl isn't suddenly clad in a pair of Daisy Dukes and gorging on Wild Turkey Surprise. In fact, you'll expect all women to be the man-adoring trollops so vividly portrayed in your beloved skin flicks. And men, too, whose drive to seize every opportunity for superiority and rule is magnified ridiculously.
The new Korn record sounds like a campfire sing-along for a group of 12-step porn addicts. The band members even resemble the typical pornophile; shockingly luckless in the genetic lottery, with zero sense of aesthetics and the ever-apparent signs that they are desperately short on personal hygiene skills. Mickey Rourke taught us that you can get away with a lot in the human grunge department, provided you are even minutely blessed with a sense of style. An argument since shot to hell with the rise of Korn.
Issues cruelly prolongs the life span of the one shit idea. Loads of verbal wanks canvassing millionaire angst and fag denial are set to that same linear, meth-flavored dirge played out tenfold on the last Korn picnic. Of course, the first week out, this thing moved close to half a million units in the U.S. Those types of figures should keep the boys knee-deep in silicone and collagen for days to come.
All the Way . . . A Decade of Song
Shiny, shimmery, perfect, fun. It's no wonder her photos are so airbrushed out of life. They'd have to be, to swing with a decade's worth of movie themes and hack writer get-rich schemes. Even Ol' Blue Eyes steps up, making an out-of-casket cameo on the Cahn/Van Heusen classic "All The Way." That one almost got me.
The Science of Things
The Bush terrain here is a predictable one: Bush attacks mediocrity, and mediocrity wins.
But, hey, there is a sunny side up: This record is surprisingly absent of label marketing tie-ins that are commonly found on many current rap/metal chart toppers.
But why is Bush really bad? Here are 10 reasons that floated to my murky surface following a spin of Bush's spankin' new sequel to 1996's six-million-selling turd Switchblade Suitcase.
1. The Importance of Being Earnest: Bush still engages in reprehensible antics like fusing inferior rock with somber grimaces.
2. Limp Biscuit:Bush singer Gavin Rossdale relies on breathy delivery to simulate passion, and the band follows suit with heaps of distortion to simulate feel, and, ultimately, climax. The aural equivalent of a by-the-numbers porno.
3. Mall Cash:The band is a quartet of privileged gobs plagued by a fascination for Yankee teen dollar. Singer Rossdale has amassed a fortune conservatively tallied to be worth 12 million dollars.
4. Bad Millionaire Rock Stars Get the Chicks:No Doubt bombshell/squealer Gwen Stefani has allowed Rossdale considerable access to her porcelain clam, thus producing abundant amounts of penis envy in boys on all sides of the Atlantic. Hey, Gwen, how could ye?