Scripture informs us that a prophet is never welcome in his own country, and the same holds true for exceptional individuals in one’s own backyard. Even the surly savants of the New Times editorial staff are not immune to this truism. Consider the injustice done to their next-door neighbor, Stacy…
For good or ill, it was Dean Martin who led me to Pronto Ristorante. Not that I mean Ol’ Pink Eyes himself arose from his grave to guide me, drink and cigarette in hand, to this P-town pasta house. But he might as well. See, Santa was good to me…
Everyone remembers their first time . . . eating raw oysters, that is. Why, this garrulous gourmand was but a callow underclassman at UNC-Chapel Hill, when during a fall break I was invited to an oyster shuck thrown by some rowdy fellows with whom I shared courses. With kegs flowing…
As a member in good standing of PETA (that’s People for the Eating of Tasty Animals), I’ve long nursed a flesh-eating fantasy that would put serial bison-killer Ted Nugent to shame: a ranch-restaurant where all manner of critters roam the grounds, everything from javelina and jackrabbit to ostrich and Gambel’s…
Okay, so maybe Afroman isn’t the first guy who comes to mind when you think about September 11, but Ted Koppel could do worse than to have the straight-outta-Palmdale rapper on Nightline to talk about airport security. That’s because Joseph Foreman, Afroman’s laid-back, spliff-smokin’ Clark Kent, used to be airport…
Putting it mildly, Icky Flix, the new DVD from the prepunk San Fran collective the Residents, is just the sort of wack Dadaist madness that could freak out even a post-Rose MacGowan Marilyn Manson on his best day (assuming the lovely Ms. MacGowan had a positive influence on the boy)…
