tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33714012009-12-20T08:00:00.705-05:00sakebombnoreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152729766671993382006-07-12T14:42:00.000-04:002006-07-12T14:45:19.473-04:00

We Are Reaching a New LowOK, so we had ourselves one extremely mortifyingly/awkward moment yesterday at our company barbecue, an annual event marked by the consumption of way too much of a wide variety of liquids that have the capacity to make unborn children come out looking like this and sometimes impede our lame attempts at operating industrial equipment. And our gross motor functions, which

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com112tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152546702448777812006-07-10T11:51:00.000-04:002006-07-10T11:53:13.883-04:00

Forza AzzurriAh, sweet victory. While we’re not sure which, if any, memories of the 2006 World Cup will survive the atrocities we regularly serve up to our axodendritic synapses, right now we’re hoping that we never drink away the things that nice girl from Mott St did to our salsiccia del destino last night after a whirlwind courtship that involved us paying $9 for each Moretti she drank until

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1152113420233331492006-07-05T11:29:00.000-04:002006-07-05T11:31:17.786-04:00

Wait Until DorkCouple things.First, our scary Drug Lord neighbor across the street––we call him American History X because he looks like Ed Norton’s buffy tuffy White Supremecist, down to the Hitleriffic neck tat––launched a fireworks attack at our building last night which left us feeling a little like Francis Scott Key, only instead of being inspired to compose “The Star-Spangled Whatever,” we

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1151092043308118042006-06-23T15:41:00.000-04:002006-06-23T15:52:45.750-04:00

Ob-La-Dee, Ob-La-DouchebagWe’re back, at least for the nonce, which is Parisan hip-hop slang for “the elapsed time between when someone tries to hype us on that Gnarls Barkley shit––White People sure do love them some Danger Mouse––and when we punch them in the face with an anvil." Which is to say, maybe not so long as all that, but we’ll see. At any rate, we thought we’d dip a toe back into the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1148064262939732392006-05-19T14:44:00.000-04:002006-05-19T14:44:22.953-04:00

Rendezvous With AnusYeah, yeah: We suck. We update the blog with the same frequency with which we bleach our pubes. Boo hoo. Listen, people––or person; we’re guessing the readership is probably down quite a bit, given the whole deadbeat dad routine we’ve been playing on all you fine folks, who, no shit, we totally think of as our children––we’re busy. It’s not you, it’s us. Your ass does not look

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143932700878008442006-04-01T17:04:00.000-05:002006-04-01T18:05:00.956-05:00

Baby There’s No Guidance When Random RulesMemes are the lazy, overworked blogger’s best friend. Here’s our annotated iPod shuffle questionnaire, which if nothing else suggests that we are living in the past, but not in a stinky-Boomer-hey-man-we-ended-the-war-in-‘Nam kind of way but in a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143766817995025992006-03-30T19:57:00.000-05:002006-03-30T20:00:18.010-05:00

The World Loves Us And Is Our BitchSee those ugly fuckers in that photo right up there? That’s Chris, Tommy and Paul, looking exactly how you think they might look after all these years/beers. No idea who the blonde dude is, but he clearly wants you to smell his finger.Anyhoo, as has been confirmed by Billboard, The ‘Mats are reuniting to record two new songs for a greatest hits collection that

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1143075512723818812006-03-22T19:57:00.000-05:002006-03-22T19:58:32.736-05:00

Occam’s Razor BurnWhen the most entertaining thing on the InfoBahn™ all day is an article culled from The Economist, life truly has become a narcotized gambol through the rank and humid glades of Nothing’s Funny Anymore. Anyhoo, the pocket protector crowd over at the magazine’s graphics department threw together the chart below in a doomed and tragic attempt to predict the future proliferation

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1142871904846344092006-03-20T11:23:00.000-05:002006-03-20T11:25:06.243-05:00

In 27 Years, I’ve Drunk 50,000 BeersOne of the problems you run into when you really like something is that sooner or later, that thing that you’ve afforded a clean, well-lit space in your brain or your heart of hearts or wherever it is that your obsessions can be said to reside will disappoint you. Pony up $20 for a rock show, and you expect some kind of paradigm shift in your consciousness,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1141260507552941392006-03-01T19:48:00.000-05:002006-03-01T19:48:27.563-05:00

He Celebrates Black History Month in NovemberThis is fucking hilarious, provided a) you live in New York and b) you’ve been to Other Music. If not, then we’ve got nothing for you. Busy, etc.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1140481285933393232006-02-20T19:21:00.000-05:002006-02-20T19:37:19.403-05:00

The Grand Parade Of Lifeless PackagingWe are wounded, banged up, after having spent the better part of the weekend engaged in an activity that we aren’t any good at and then trying to make up for our maladroit flailings by way of speed and bourbon. And no, in this case “speed” does not refer to the less than judicious consumption of Amphetamines, but instead is meant to impart a sense of velocity

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1140020984267469922006-02-15T11:29:00.000-05:002006-02-15T11:29:44.286-05:00

She Don’t Want No Chicken, She Don’t Want No RoastShe just wants her double dose of my Beef, Beef, Beef Beef Baloney. Interesting business afoot last night, as we were asked to leave the backstage area at Madison Square Garden after spilling our pricey cocktail on the handler/owner/helpmeet of some kind of irritable schnauzer. How we even gained access to the area, which basically served as a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139936931985672072006-02-14T12:08:00.000-05:002006-02-14T12:08:51.996-05:00

You Worthless Bitch, You Fickle Shit Happy Valentine’s Day.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139331858534132672006-02-07T12:04:00.000-05:002006-02-21T16:00:16.580-05:00

The Skin of My Yellow Country TeethSweet Shrieking Jesus, this is the single most unhinged print ad we’ve ever seen. Unless Beverly Hills Formula toothpaste is trafficking in some kind of objective correlative that only T.S. Eliot would recognize, we can’t quite see the connection between the towhead staring down his naked mother and dental hygiene. Plus, the idea that the kid has come bursting

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139325562730404552006-02-07T10:19:00.000-05:002006-02-07T10:20:12.183-05:00

Fear of FlyingThree thoughts that drilled their way through our dura matter upon being exposed to that Technicolor abortion that is the video for Morningwood’s “Nth Degree”:1) Artie Bucco’s wife has a band?2) This shit is going to age worse than Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.3) I’m sort of ashamed to be alive right now.Also, Chan Marshall has called off her U.S. tour for unspecified health reasons. It’s a

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139259007319023572006-02-06T15:49:00.000-05:002006-02-06T15:53:45.376-05:00

Strap On A Pair, IrvingWe’re woefully ignorant when it comes to the cultural mores of far-away lands, mostly because we’re American and don’t give a shit about anything that happens outside the contiguous 48 (USA! USA!), but also because we don’t keep up anymore. What’s the use? It’s all Death To America this and Anal Jihad that, and frankly, we’re tired of the whole thing. But this whole uproar

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1139241415567375752006-02-06T10:56:00.000-05:002006-02-06T10:56:55.583-05:00

Art Rooney is Playing Parcheesi™ Up in Heaven with Rasputin and the Baby Jesus Right NowHoly fuck. Bill Cowher is God. His great steam-shovel jaws are an admonishment to limp-wristed pantywaists and people who listen to fucking Interpol everywhere. If you cheered on the Seahawks last night, then you a) hate America, b) are busy scrubbing Carlos D’s herpes out of your rep tie and c) can bite us,

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138808423689076502006-02-01T10:40:00.000-05:002006-02-01T10:51:52.330-05:00

32nd or 33rd Pizz and Joop Critics’ PollWell blows me down, Olive. Will wonders never cease? Christgau’s annual screed leading off the Village Voice’s Pazz/Jop thing is not only disconcertingly coherent, but he actually is right about most of the opinions he puts forth about the State of Music Today. He’s no radical demiurge, to be sure, but damn it if he isn’t spot on about how the MP3 blogs

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138730605566228692006-01-31T13:03:00.000-05:002006-01-31T13:05:26.846-05:00

Burn These Sheets We Just Fucked InSteal Listen to “Stink,” a track from Arab Strap’s new album, The Last Romance here. As it’s hosted by Salon, you’ll have to watch a commercial about some car you’ll never buy, but no one’s saying you can’t just get up and go stare blankly at your pallid reflection in the bathroom mirror while you’re waiting. You are looking a bit shit, love. Vitamins.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138141803943078212006-01-24T17:29:00.000-05:002006-01-24T19:16:56.010-05:00

Stories in an Almost Unreadable ModeBookforum prints a 5,300-word exegesis on why no one reads Harold Brodkey anymore. Our guess is that no one sees the value in his narcissistic and masturbatory self-regard, which informs every syllable of his prose and makes even a cursory reading of his fiction like taking a muddy trudge through the shallow wrack of Lake Bitchcakes. Indeed, it can be said with

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138041992914898812006-01-23T13:46:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:46:50.050-05:00

I Can’t Be Arsed To Carry On In This DebateArctic Monkeys. So very good. And if you’re quick, you can boost their debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not here. Large ups to TMFTML for posting “When the Sun Goes Down” a few months ago, a post that has lead to an absurd obsession with a bunch of spotty 19-year-olds from Sheffield. Fookin’ ‘ell.

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138041958801871302006-01-23T13:45:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:45:58.816-05:00

Ray Ate The Reason That Pat Is A VeganOh, I see. Is this about that time the magician’s duck bit you at Raymond’s fifth birthday party?

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1138040935284877552006-01-23T13:28:00.000-05:002006-01-23T13:32:04.476-05:00

Our Brand Could Be Your LifeHaving done some sort of skeletal/muscular damage to our lower back after executing a sloppy, drunken pas de deux in the wake of the AFC Championship game**, this morning we repaired to the corner Duane Reade to set ourselves up with some Icy Hot or whatever the fuck. Interestingly, the sullen, slackjawed Cappadonnabes stock the balms/ointments cheek-by-jowl with the

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1137617389301586682006-01-18T15:45:00.000-05:002006-01-18T15:56:09.950-05:00

It’s My Party and I’ll Die If I Want ToWell, we do find ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Having won three of our four NFL playoff bets this weekend, on Monday we found ourselves in the unique position where a) our pockets were (metaphorically) stuffed with little green pieces of paper with Ben Franklin’s yearbook picture on them and b) we had the kind of Nic-Cage-at-the-end-of-Leaving Las Vegas

sakebombnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3371401.post-1135971560143818552005-12-30T14:39:00.000-05:002005-12-30T14:41:27.123-05:00

Somewhere Under the RainbowWe almost missed this, but an eagle-eyed co-worker who’s aware that we like to keep current with this sort of thing brought the article in yesterday’s Post to our attention. Nothing pisses us off more than a mendacious midget. If nothing else, it’s worth the click for the photograph, which captures Concelean “Corie” Pegues in mid hand-holding stroll with her S.O./

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