When you’ve got too much time on your hands the littlest things in life tend to amaze you. I’ve been reading the newspaper quite a bit as of late. Just trying to do my part to keep the industry up and running, I suppose…

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Another reminder of how our white ancestors have attempted to rid the Native Americans from our collective consciousness came and went last week with the 100th anniversary of the American penny, at least the version we currently recognize.

On Aug. 2, 1909 the likeness of former U.S. President Abraham Lincoln replaced the Indian Head on our 1-cent piece of currency in recognition of the 16th president’s 100th birthday. It was then-U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt that made the call on that change. To celebrate Lincoln’s 150th birthday the Lincoln Memorial then replaced the wheat shock on the back of the coin in 1959.

Now, 200 years after Lincoln’s birth, there will be four brand new special-edition pennies hitting the streets themed after Lincoln’s life in Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois and Washington D.C.

Not that I mind the penny floating around in our everyday lives, but couldn’t the U.S. Mint find a cheaper way to make a piece of currency that values in at just a cent? It costs approximately 1.4 cents to produce a penny.

Take This Job Or Get The Fuck Out

Remember the good old days when you had choices of where, and where not, to earn a paycheck? Well they’re all but gone for now, my friend. And more American than ever are stuck with applying for jobs that they not long ago found appalling.

I recently read somewhere that many people are now applying for jobs that they otherwise thought unthinkable in the past, at prisons, sewage plants and slaughterhouses, to reference those that were mentioned in the story.

Be warned though, your new low-society co-workers are poised to greet you like inmates in a penitentiary shower. Just kidding. But they’ll get a good laugh at your lack of experience on the factory line.

Maybe that’s the only good think to come out of this current economic condition we’re in. Money snobs get a taste of the shit we’ve been shoveling for far too long.

In all seriousness though, wrap your mind around these numbers that were included in the story: a net total of 6.7 million jobs have been slashed since the recession has begun, making it “the most punishing job destroyer in at least 60 years.”

Watch Out For The Crazy Guy In The Corner

You might figure that such stress-inducing measures as not having a job would drive a man insane. But insane enough to shoot up their local fitness club? Crazy.

That’s what George Sodini recently did outside of Pittsburgh, killing three and wounding nine, before taking his own life. The mystery about it doesn’t even include professional troubles as the guy actually had a damn good job.

Excerpts from Sodini’s blog makes mention of his troubles with trying to find a date. That he hadn’t been out with a woman in 19 years. Which leads me to wonder if his expectations were a bit too high. Maybe he should have been looking in other places, for women a little lower on his grading scale.

What’s worse is that the blog was posted online for the world to see. Only the world apparently didn’t think much of this piece of shit to read it in the first place. The problem now is that somewhere, as you read this, there’s some other angry loner with an agitated mind that’s continuing to deteriorate as he shines his own guns.

You see, that’s why I don’t keep those things in the house.

Billy The Kid Was A Rat

Four months before being gunned down by Sheriff Pat Garrett, in a world that seems oh so far from here, legendary outlaw Billy the Kid penned a letter to Governor Lew Wallace of New Mexico in March 1881.

That letter, along with another from around 1979, is now on display at a history library in Santa Fe. In that first letter he tells the Governor that he witnessed a murder the month before and would testify for the state if protected from enemies and the indictments against him. That trial came and went with no word on his release.

The second letter was written because the pardon never went through on his behalf. So what’s a man to do as he faces sentencing, an eventual hanging, and an angry mob of people he ratted out? Bust out of the joint, that’s what.

His run from the law didn’t last long though.

You know them. They’re everywhere. Maybe they live next door to you, and through your paper thin ghetto-ass walls you can hear them scream at the top of their lungs at their poor girlfriend to get the screaming little shit of a kid because “I’m playing Xbox!” Maybe you actually heard one of them say to a 3-year old during the fireworks extravaganza you attended earlier this month “thanks a lot for ruining my Fourth of July. I guess I got beer at home to take care of that!” Maybe this makes you want to carry around abortion clinic business cards and stab pro-lifers with coat hangers. Either way, a couple of these fuck-hole members of society should be neutered or spayed faster than autistic alley cats with syphilis.

The first group is the parents with 11 damn kids at the Dollar Store. Every damn one of them running through the store with Big Gulp Code Red Mountain Dews, the world’s stickiest lollipops, and one of those fucking slimy/sticky-hand things from the bubblegum machines out front (which somehow already looks like it’s touched more carpet than Dick Cheney’s daughter.)

Now I have lot’s of friends with children, and all of them, until they get old enough to discover video games and text messaging, are always coated with some sort of brightly-colored flavored corn syrup/mud mixture. And I know when I hug them that I will be forced to go home and change my clothes. But these are my friend’s children. I love them. I don’t give a fuck about your slow-class kids who will no doubt grow up to invent the next generation’s crystal meth or potato gun. So please, next time leave them in the car, preferably with the windows rolled up under the hot sun, instead of keeping them close enough to play Spiderman with the back of my shirt in the checkout line as your personality-challenged ass ignores them all and reads fucking Us Magazine. Those are the typical bad parents. They almost get a pass. They probably had typically bad parents themselves and they just don’t know any better. Bless them.

The next group though is even worse. They are the parents of tomorrow’s suicides. They are a rarer breed, but one that you can spot nearly everywhere if you keep your eyes peeled. They are the over-the-top socially anxious parent. These parents are so goddamned afraid of human interaction that if their child so much as sneezes in public he’s out of dessert until Jesus comes home.

Now, I was recently down in Morehead City, North Carolina taking in some sun and human fuckery with old friends (shout out TimS with a big MC EIHT JEAH!) when I spotted this breed. As I ate a great dinner on an open patio with my back to the beautiful Crystal Coast I was nearly floored by the disgusting act of parenting that I witnessed. Our table was having a good damn time, snapping pictures, making jokes, and enjoying what my crew back home calls “good laughs” when the little man sitting next to me must have felt like it was his turn to join in the festivities, by turning and burping at me. That’s it. Just some silly little mouth gas and a smile.

Now this isn’t exactly good manners, or how he should probably behave, but judging by his mother’s reaction you’d have thought he committed a moral sin against God. This simple bitch proceeded to snatch little dude by the arm, drag him three feet down the bench, and snarl “say excuse me” in a voice that reminded me of Christian Bale as Batman. A little over the top I guess, but still, at this point I’m not ready to choke-slam the hooker. Nor am I about to put any of my limbs within striking distance of her mouth either. Not until she digs her nails into his thigh, and with tears in little dude’s eyes, says with that same snarl, (only whispering now) “You feel that? those are my nails!… you keep it up and…” Now I didn’t exactly get the rest of the threat, maybe the blood flowing into my head from the anger impaired my hearing, but all I know is it took everything I had not to Russian-sickle that dumb hoe into the ocean.

This sorry excuse for life really just dug her nails into her poor son’s leg while threatening him in public with more violence and somehow thinks in her simple fucking brain this is less of a scene then the little burp and a smile? Young man, if by some fucked-up event of fate you ever come across this rant floating around on the internet when you’re older (and searching for some identity), you run far, far away from that bitch. Immediately stop trying to gain her approval and run, dude. It’ll never happen, I barely met her over a half-hour dinner and I can tell you that will be one miserable cunt until the day she dies. Run!

Please, stop me from rambling on and on if you’re already familiar with this particular automobile device. It blinks, to the left and to the right, with the idea of alerting other drivers on the roadways of your intentions to either turn or switch lanes.

Ironically enough, it’s called a turn signal. It’s conveniently located in front of you as you drive, and happens to be more vital to your safety then even the seat belt. But evidently most people have no fucking idea where to find it, much less know how the fuck to use it. Thankfully, it’s quit simple to find though. Even easier to use. Join me as I walk you through a short tutorial.

First, sit your retarded ass in the driver’s seat of any car you shall choose and stare at the steering wheel in front of you. (The fact that you immediately buckled-up really pisses me off, by the way.) We’re not going anywhere. Just stare at the fucking steering wheel. (I’m now realizing that seatbelts were originally created because of people like you.) Assholes such as yourself have been causing accidents for far too long. So pay close attention. What you are about to learn is vital to the well being of the rest of us driving around.

You see that object sticking out to the left of the shaft behind the steering wheel? It might also have the controls to your headlights, which I hope you already know how to operate. Well, simply put, before you ever decide to turn the car left (or even think about swerving to the left, in your case) push that thing down towards the floor. Likewise if ever you need to make a right turn (or even think about swerving to the right.) Just flip that thing towards the sky. An arrow should begin blinking before you, indicating which command you happened to choose. On the outside of your car other drivers, such as myself, can see the blinking too, in effect giving us a fair chance to avoid your should-not-be-permitted-to-drive-ass from causing an accident.

See how easy that is? Maybe next time I won’t have to pull up beside you and inadvertently teach your kids some new cuss words and watch your wife’s jaw sag down below her breasts in disbelief, after nearly rear-ending your dumb ass in a 45-mph zone.

Now, I’ve got a pretty good idea what you might like to scream back at me at this very moment, if only you had the balls to. “You were driving over the speed limit and riding my bumper!” Well of course I was, you piece of shit. I’ve got places to be. And as usual, I’m running late. So get the fuck out the way. Or at least give me the heads-up first (with a turn signal) before you actually do plan to let me get by.

Oh, and for the record, I didn’t realize you had kids in the car with your unsafe ass. Otherwise I may have settled with simply spitting a loogie through my passenger window, into your face.

Besides, by following these simple rules (which you should have learned way back before you were even issued the permission to drive) you might just save your own life. Or at least avoid the road rage from civilized assholes such as myself.

I wrote this whole thing on my Blackberry. I’ve been so fucking lame about writing and JC is such a slave driver that I was able to fuck off for weeks. My fans nearly rioted.

I’m at my friends Mike and Megan’s house, fat from some wicked seitan and rice. My vegan soul satisfied, I’m buzzing to The New Lows‘ practice session. CD release show means extra practice. For me, it means a free meal and loss of hearing. Good times.

I’ve been struggling to be inspired to write. Nothing new really. It’s cyclical. My cycles are stretching for longer and longer periods. (Is writing better as a flowing but thought-through stream of conscious or should clever metaphors and witty reasoning, however contrived, define better writing? Guess which wave I’m riding. Seriously, that was not a clever metaphor.)

So here I am, Red Stripe and tree-powered, Jamaica fully represented in my white veins, trying to break out of a writing slump by trying something new. The keys are small, but I can still type fast. I’m dazed enough to not know yet if this sucks. I’m sure it can’t be worse than someone lifecasting.

Weird reference.

No doubt something is wrong. So little cursing. I think I’m too at ease. Even the Supreme Court ain’t lookin’ too bad these days. Sure, plenty’s fucked (yes!), but it’s not like the military kidnapped our president, tossed him in a helicopter and dropped him in Costa Rica. Honduras, represent!

So, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve lost my edge. I doubt it. It’s temporary. It better be. It will be. The band’s done practicing. My thumbs are tired of this. I’m glad to be back.

A couple muggy nights ago, as I made my way home from a long road trip, I decided to make a quick pit stop at the most widely known of all fast food joints, McDonald’s.

I try not to frequent such places anymore but every now and then I choose convenience over cautiousness, forgoing healthier alternatives for an oversaturation in culinary heroin.

Guess I’ve been away for a while. Mickey D’s has a newer, bigger burger for drive-thru nation to overstuff their cheeks with. And they seem pretty proud of these burgers made of Angus beef, for whatever that’s worth to the unsuspecting consumer. These new creations come in a noticeably larger box and are an overserving of a one-third pound of livestock. More meat, more bun, and of course those two pieces of cheese that fast food crack heads can’t get enough of.

Of the three Angus choices available I decided to try the mushroom-swiss burger. This, after staying committed to chicken and fish from my “normal” dinner menus as of late. But then out came the cup from behind the counter with my receipt, and the reality that I not only was getting the burger, but a soda and fries to top it all off. Guess everybody needs a Value Menu in these tough economic times.

I remind the lady behind the counter “I only wanted the burger,” though to no avail. Keep the line moving, I figured. Apparently nobody orders just a sandwich these days. On to filling up my cup with soda. “Sorry for the wait,” she says as the food finally lands on the counter. Her last words being “it’s new, we had to make it fresh” (with a smile.) I knew I should have waited until I got home to eat.

Yet what did I do? I stuffed my face like any good American would. Although, I only made my way through half of that Angus meat before pitching the rest of the dead cow in the trash. Bigger isn’t always better, so the saying goes. I can’t imagine these things becoming a permanent fixture on the menu. But then what the hell do I know? At least the fries were nice and hot.

Of all the roles David Carradine ever played, on both the big screens and small, the 72-year old actor will forever be remembered by a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately society as the title character in Quentin Tarantino‘s Kill Bill saga.

Yet he was known for much more than that. There was the 1970′s television series he starred in, Kung Fu, and an IMDB page full of appearances in a variety of different shows (Gunsmoke, Airwolf, The Fall Guy, Matlock) and movies (Mean Streets, Cannonball, Bound for Glory, Behind Enemy Lines).

But the last image in many of our minds now is that of Carradine dangling from a cord inside a closet in his Bangkok, Thailand hotel room while a film crew awaited his arrival. (The details painted an even weirder picture than that, if ever you could imagine the possibility.)

If after the initial reports of suicide surfaced you were startled to hear of someone Carradine’s age deciding to make such an exit, which was later discovered not to have been the case, then just take a look at the numbers offered up by the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. During a one-year period in 2006 it’s noted that 2,384 people between the ages of 65-74 decided to make a planned-jump from this life, as well as 2,075 individuals between the ages of 75-84. The AFSP also explains that there have already been more than 5-million deaths by suicide throughout the world over the first part of the decade.

Why does this happen at such an alarming rate? There are several factors involved according to various studies. And more often than not it happens to be males making that leap of no return as opposed to women, though females make the attempt three times more often than men.

Guess a lifestyle of fame and fortune, however little or excessive it is, is not enough happiness for some people to accept. Maybe one day depression will be viewed as a serious ailment by our society instead of being looked at as some sort of crutch that those who suffer from it lean on. And from reading a number of news reports, it’s likely Carradine was already a prime candidate for anti-depressants, or an intervention, after battling these demons in year’s past. Yet instead it was a sexual taboo that did Carradine in. Maybe that was his anti-depressant after all.

Had the reports of suicide held up, Carradine would have not only become a suicide statistic but also have joined a growing number of celebrities that have taken their own lives throughout our history. They include the likes of Ray Combs, Kurt Cobain, Herve Villechaize, George Reeves, Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and Elliott Smith, among others.

= June 6, 2009

== John Q. Public ==

What do you get when a Bostonain writes about sports from New York? A sports blogger with a pretty high opinion of himself. And a hula hoop, of course. whether shittin’ on the Braves, big-uppin’ Trevor Hoffman or selecting which song lyrics might fit nicely as an opener, John Q provides an amusing read.

== Potholes In My Blog ==

Two individuals that originally connected through OkayPlayer.com launched this site a year ago. Among the recent album reviews were write-ups on Cage (3.5 out of 5), The Regiment (4 out of 5), Busta Rhymes (2 out of 5) and J Dilla (3 out of 5). Don’t miss out on the “Capuletgo, Please!” track by Objektiv One while you’re there.

== The Urban Daily ==

A chance to listen to Jay-Z’s “Death of Autotune” track is reason enough to pay a visit. Other than that you’ve got loads of hip-hop gossip and roundups to read through. But it you haven’t seen it yet, look out for the link from Rolling Stone that provides a breakdown of The Making Of De La Soul’s 3 Ft High And Rising.

= June 3, 2009

== Culture Bully ==

This Minneapolis-based music blog has provided daily news updates, band features, album reviews and interviews since April 2005. Recent additions are a new Soul Assassins video, Blueprint album review and footage of several live performances such as Pearl Jam‘s recent appearance on Late Night with Conan O’Brian.

== Fanhouse ==

If wasting hours upon hours each week watching and reading about sports is considered a good time in your world, then this Website may be of interest to you. Recent posts include one aimed at David Stern, a not-so-tough decision for Stan Van Gundy, funny NBA press conferences and the crazy Kimbo Slice. Bonus points are given, from my point of view, for being able to continue reading Tim Povtak after his untimley departure from the Orlando Sentinel.

== Golden State of Mind ==

This Golden State Warriors fan site continues to keep up with the NBA postseason despite the home team watching from the sofa. The site features poll questions (such as “Would Stephen Curry be a good pick for the Warriors at the #7 spot?”) and a number of opinions. My favorite post came on Monday, entitled “Which Team and Former Golden State Warriors are you rooting for in the 2009 NBA Finals? + The Disney Finals.” Pretty interesting to get an outsiders take on some of this stuff.

== MFJoe ==

Two-thirds of the pro sports teams in Pittsburgh have had plenty to brag about over the last several years. Though the only thing I think is cool about sports in that place is the way they all share the same color scheme, which to honest is pretty damn cool. Joe reminded me of this with a recent post about a sneaker collection sporting the yellow and black of the Steel City. Of other interest though is a book suggestion and a link to get a caricature created of yourself.

== North American Allied Fight Series ==

Remember back in March when we featured Mixed Martial Artist Ryan “The Lion” Madigan? Well, he’s competing this Saturday at Fight Nite in the Flats V in Cleveland at the Nautica Pavillion. Madigan is gunning for the first championship of his career against Brendan “The Devastation” Seguin, as the winner earns the Pro Series Welterweight Title.

“They’re his dog’s, he can do what he wants with them,” replied fellow National Football League player Clinton Portis when asked two years ago how he felt about the dog fighting allegations against Michael Vick.

While his statement isn’t going to rally an army of dog-fighting Vick supporters to march on Washington and demand the former Atlanta Falcons quarterback be reinstated as the starting quarterback for the Falcons, it does make one wonder if the culture gap between inner city African-Americans and their suburban counterparts is too wide to allow one to judge the other.

Too often in America we blindly weigh in on situations without taking the time to consider the cause, and effect, of the perceived actions.

After the April 25, 2007 raid on Michael Vick’s property found, amongst other things, 66 dogs (most of which were pit bulls), a dog-fighting pit, bloodstained carpets and equipment commonly associated with dog fighting, the rich, and mostly white men associated with Vick seemed to back away slowly as if he was showing symptoms of a contagious flesh-eating disease that could attack their pockets at any moment (I wonder how many of them bet on dogs at Mike‘s house).

After years of building Michael Vick into a walking, talking – better yet – scrambling, tossing, financial empire, they cut their losses and turned their backs on him faster than George Dubya turned on Rummy.

As soon as the PETA Moms and Paris Hilton wannabees became an Army of Darkness marching toward Falcon headquarters like Saruman himself was leading them into Middle Earth, Nike pulled his best-selling signature shoe from stores, the NFL yanked his best-selling No. 7 jersey, and the Falcons front office began litigation to recoup his signing bonus. 

Professional athletes make their bosses exponential amounts of money. Wouldn’t it have been refreshing if just one of the multi-billion dollar corporations previously invested in Vick owned a pair big enough to say “We will not live long enough to spend the amount of money we have made off of Michael Vick’s abilities to play football and no matter what he did we’re going to support him!”

Let’s picture a young project boy named Michael, growing up under the poverty level like so many of our inner city youth today. His prize possession, a dog given to him to raise. He feeds and cares for it with what little money he can scrape together and grows a bond with it like nothing he has experienced in his young life.

It’s a Pit Bull, a dog known to him and everyone around him in his city as a fighting dog. Mike spends all the time he can with the dog until it’s big and strong enough to take it to the local fights. Some older attendees see Mike’s dog and decide to bet large amounts of money on Mike’s dog to win. It does, and the older group who bet on Michael’s dog pay him tips from their winnings, perhaps the largest amount of money the child has seen thus far in his life. With the winnings he buys another dog to raise and the cycle starts again.

Now picture this same child as a grown man given millions of dollars for his ability to run with and throw a football, betrayed by the same company of people he kept at those dog fights while growing up.

They “snitched” on him to save themselves from prosecution, and Mike found himself being tried by a jury of his “peers.”

But they weren’t his peers and therein lied the problem. Was Michael judged by the neighbor who would let his mother bum ten bucks when she needed it? No. Was Michael prosecuted by the Boy’s and Girl’s Club staff where he spent so much time growing up? No. Was he judged by single mothers from the neighborhood he grew up in? No.

He was in the hands of the same hypocrites who made millions off him and then turned their backs, pockets still fat, and rode off into the sunset searching for the next Michael Vick.

Spring is here!!!!

And for those of us living in the southern regions that means warm sunny weather, blooming flowers, and pollen covering outside surfaces like frat boys on a passed out freshmen.

Living in an area highly populated by college students I get to witness both one of the most wondrous, and one of the worst visuals, of the emerging spring season – I get to see the young ladies that break out those short skirts and sun dresses.

Now for most men that would be enough, but see I’m not like most men.

Sure, I love the sight of odd fitting dresses, long legs and slightly exposed breasts. But more than that, I love watching these young ladies travel along the cracked concrete and uneven bricks that build any campus walkway while strutting in the high heel sandals which so many feel the need to wear. The ones that wear them, my god do they wear them well. But the ones that don’t, make my day, everyday.

I love the girls that stumble and pretend they didn’t. I love the girls that walk steady, but as if they just drank a bottle of apple pucker while participating in a new episode of College Fuck Fest. But most importantly, I love the fact that my wife enjoys these episodes of female futility as much as I do.

Now let’s move on to that springtime staple that happens to bleed all the way into summer and doesn’t finish up until the leaves begin to change colors, therefore causing me extreme cases of “what the fuck?” for about five months.

To paraphrase Joint Contrast contributer Craig Maizer – “Mother Fucking Plaid Shorts!” If you own them, fuck you! If you wear them on a regular basis, fuck you in multiple colors in a weaved pattern that forms visual vomit! And if you have them, wear them, and are out in public with at least one other male (and you are not on the golf course smoking cigars, drinking beer, and hitting at least a 20-over par) then I’m going to need you to hold your breath until you pass out. But make sure your face is positioned to land safely in a small tub of water.

Seriously, solid colors only unless previous golf scenario is in effect, or if you’re a member of Outkast or Goodie Mob.

Fuck You Plaid Shorts!!!!!!!! Now go to YouTube and type in “short skirt walking.”

Who? If you already know, fuck you. You’re lucky to have already known about this badass. But until I saw a PBS documentary in early February, I’d never even heard of the cat.

And by cat, I mean Lion. This man could roar. I say “could” ’cause he’s dead. From cancer in 1984. Maybe it’s just me, maybe it’s just the sexy way PBS put their piece together about him, but damn I feel like I should have heard about this guy.

Okay, enough about what I’ve missed out on.

Petey Greene was an ex-con-cum-talk show legend in Washington DC and in the political circles that make the Capital different than any other city in the country. From a “radio” show over the PA at prison while serving 10 years for armed robbery, to the airwaves after his release to local DC TV and BET, Petey made a name for himself for his irreverence, arrogance, abrasiveness and genius; his TV show, Petey Greene’s Washington, earned him two Emmys and a slew of impressive guests including a little-known Donna Brazile during her early community-organizing days. (Take that, Sarah Palin!)

Still, I’d be scared of Petey if I ever ran into him. Not because he’d be a zombie (‘cause he’s dead), but in a more figurative sense. The dude was scary and confrontational. He also took the risk of saying whatever popped into his head.

But he turned that risk into positive preaching about racism and prison reform, including forming Efforts From Ex-Convicts (an organization devoted to helping former prisoners succeed in legitimate ways). He also spoke on poverty and often reminded his viewers/listeners how important money is to get and save, for one’s own sense of self-accomplishment and security. It’s a sentiment that resonates loudly in these economically-challenged times.

In 1978, this ex-con was invited by Jimmy Carter to the White House. The mother fucking White House! Here’s a former thug with a penchant for alcohol and loose lips going to the fucking White House. So what did he do? Petey stole a spoon and spoke proudly of it.

A few years later, a little known Howard Stern appeared on Petey’s show in black face. The two connected on the controversial subjects of sex and race and the interview was one of Stern’s first TV appearances.

“I have learned more from your show… I listen to your show and [when] I go on I use your material,” Stern told Petey during the appearance.

“They might not like us, but they don’t change the dial,” Petey told him.

Stern went on to later say that Petey was a “broadcasting genius.”

I mother fucking agree! And you will too. Learn more here.