Stick a Pitchfork in Ted Leo's Pseudo Rockery

By Dale Nixon

Remember in the 80's when you could look at an album cover and somehow know the record inside sucked solely from the packaging and artwork?

That feeling resurfaced upon opening the envelope with the new Ted Leo & the Pharmacists CD Living with the Living. The cover art vaguely resembles something that might have been sketched by a Haitian delirious and dehydrated after crossing the Caribbean on a discarded shipping pallet while escaping from the tonton macoute.

Unfortunately, the shuttering of previous record label Lookout Records could not kill off this pretentious band of chickenhawkish indie rock geeks. Of course, the American Apparel-sponsored sect at Pitchforkmedia.com sees fit to dissect this like a frog in seventh grade biology class (here) and pontificate over alleged brilliance and social relevance, while incorporating thesaurus words and inappropriate phrasing such as “intellectual populists, oeuvre, big-hearted emotional openness, jeremiad, fastidious, unabashed big-ness, molting”

Now, I'm surely not the one to remind Pitchfork minion Jess Leavell that those words and phrases have no place in a music review. We shall leave that to his (or her?) editor. But the Nixon Now sloganeering surely could have been stricken from the record:

“Call me a booster rather than a critic, but I love Ted Leo and the Pharmacists and seriously want this band be, like, fucking huge.”

“I like that he sees writing the most compassionate song possible about eating disorders as a political act, because it is.”

“no rock band currently touring puts on a better live show than the Pharmacists.”

There it is, in three sentences or less. The alleged critic has completely and irrevocably decimated his/her own credibility, while offering precisely nothing in terms of a supporting argument. Jess must have been stricken with mono during the “supporting your thesis” segment of AP English.

As for Ted's pseudo-rockery, frankly, I'd rather have flaming cocktail sandwich toothpicks hammered into my testicles with a miniature croquet mallet than suffer through the whole album.

Although I'm of German descent, that is not intended as a compliment.

The first pressing comes with a five-song bonus EP, if somehow you escaped Abu Ghraib and need to prolong your fix. I just wish that Touch & Go Records mainman Corey Rusk would see fit to anthologize his own band the Necros rather than devoting time and aluminum-coated discs to Ted's rock(less) crusade.

My only hope is that Ted Leo and the Pharmacists can headline the Al Gore Music Fest.

In Antarctica.

Wolf & Cub Channels Syd

by Dale Nixon

From the outset, it is clear that Wolf & Cub are coming from a different plane. Not simply the Aussie outback (the power trio in fact hails from the urban locale of Adelaide) but perhaps more accurately the astral outback.

From the 60's kitch-inspired wrap around digipack to the swirling murk of the band's 4AD debut release Vessels, it can all be a bit disorienting at first, with phase shifts and actual use of (gasp) “stereophonic sound”. Producer Tony Doogan (Mogwai, Super Furry Animals, Belle & Sebastian and Mountain Goats) knows his way around a mixing board, and endeavors to make a dinosaur footprint that pushes the spacial tolerances and rebound capacity of the speakers. And make no mistake, this is an album meant to be processed by the human ear at maximum room volume; headphones would only unduly contain the glacial spacial atmosphere.

The points of departure for Wolf & Cub are the pre-moonwalk earth circa when space was still a mystery and not full of hi-res digital cameras and space shuttle takeout wrappers. There is a lot of early Pink Floyd, Hawkwind as well as more obscure acts like Budgie and Blue Cheer in the groove. But the aural extravagance is not purely retro as the Spacemen 3, Jesus & Mary Chain, Spiritualized and pre-sellout Jane's Addiction also figure prominently in the baby batter. Vox man/guitarist/organist Joel Byrne has the early Perry Farrell lilt down to a science (without the former's coke-addled nasal inflections) combined with a liberal dose of the singer from the criminally and commercially under-appreciated UK act the Music. A tour with fellow rockers Dead Meadow could push the limits of modern heavy indie rock psych, along with the 9-volt battery lifespan of numerous effects pedals.

When the band stretches out to instrumentals, the quality remains high. Conundrum is a five minute tour de force phasing and delay effects that stands as the band's Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun. It's fairly easy to imagine the song being stretched to 15 or 20 minutes in a live setting, provided strobe and high-booted go-go girls are added to the mix. It is Syd's Floyd colliding with Sunn O))) – drone without the dreary.

It is also probably the album that their canis lupus brethren Wolfmother should have made. Thick on atmosphere and thicker in layered heft, bereft of distractions.

If the original Dr.Who had beamed down a hologram of pre-acid damaged Syd Barrett into the recording studio, it could not possibly sound more authentic and enthralling.

Because wherever he floats in the aether these days, Syd would be proud of Wolf & Cub.

The Stooges – The Weirdness

by Dale Nixon

Talk about an antagonym.

Actually, that word itself should probably be defined first. An internet creation for a word that has two contradictory meanings, i.e. Awful: Extremely unpleasant, ugly vs. Awe-inspiring [typically, a feeling of admiration].

Fancy wordplay aside, the Stooges “comeback” album reeks of frustration. This time, 34 years after the seminal explosion of Raw Power, it is not the frustration borne of the hopelessness triumvirate of sex, drugs and rock n' roll. It's more boredom, middle age and income potential.

That in and of itself is the crux of the problem. First off, the “weirdness” implied and promised by the album title is wholly lacking from beginning to end. It is an Iggy-as-maestro effort right down to the too clear vocal mix rising decibels above what should have been a seething swampy morass of Ron Asheton's guitar noise and the chainsaw backbeat ably provided by one Scott “Rock Action” Asheton.

At this point, I have to admit I've never been a big fan of the murky production/”recorded by” style of one Mr. Steve Albini. How about some bass in the mix, Steve? But it's hard to lay the blame at Albini's feet, as I get the feeling that Albini himself stood in awe during the recording process, and as such did frightfully little reining of Mr. Pop's lyrical excesses which blossom from annoying to full-blown retarded by mid-album; “She took all my money and didn't say thank you.”

Okay, Iggy, that is just what we needed. Another middle-aged rocker sloganeering about the inequality of alimony.

Lyrical depth is another area in which Pop's implied weirdness falls short of the mark. If you are going to be truly bizarre in this day and age, you have to put something forward a bit deeper or more shocking than “my idea of fun is killing everyone”. There are already people that have been there, done that, and rode the chair to prove it. Leave it nebulous. Be “dirt-y” and revel in it. I mean, for crissakes, Gary Glitter flies to Cambodia to buy 11-year old girls. Being “deep fried” really doesn't cut it.

And nothing dates a record as made for 2007 like a gratuitous reference to Dr. Phil.

It makes you wish for a snatch of the multi-dimensional brilliance that shod “I Wanna Be Your Dog”. Pop's trademark double entendres are singled out here. They fall flat, literally and figuratively, with a vocal style that relies on tunefulness and singing (never an Iggy strong suit), and distinctly lacks in spit and snarl. If you thought Pop's vocal inflections on Little China Girl were bad, get a load of the title track, which sounds like Pop doing a karaoke version of David Johansen's Buster Poindexter character.

A ripoff of a lounge singer version of an Igg-postor.

Of course, one would presume that Pop is simply content to enjoy steak, expensive red wine and cruising his Cadillac into the AARP commercial golden years. If his payback is to take the grey-crowned Mike Watt and the Asheton brothers into the cruise ship realm for guaranteed retirement income, that's fine.

But somehow I can't trust Iggy's motivations. It's almost as if he made a mediocre album on purpose, to put the notion of The Stooges as a superior unit to Iggy Pop, solo performer, to bed once and for all.

And I'm still on the fence about whether it should have even been called a Stooges album, because it sure isn't a comeback.

Whatever The Weirdness is, weird it is not.

Miss Kitty Did It!

by Dale Nixon

Check out this nugget gleaned from the March 15 edition of The Austin Chronicle.

SXSW 2007 wasted no time in reigniting issues between nightclubs and various regulatory bodies that never truly go away. The Scoot Inn's beer/wine license got yanked literally midsong at the Turbojugend Texas party. It still belonged to the previous owner, who called the TABC Wednesday and canceled. About 4pm, agents showed up and told the bar to shut down, and manager Joe Sebastian and staff were still trying to figure out a solution at press time

We presume that Miss Kitty K. Killy was somehow involved in drinking the bar dry, but that local officials saw fit to intervene before the hefty tab hit the counter. This was probably a good thing for the poisonedpens.com corporate Visa card. Either way, getting a bar closed in mid-party at 4:00 p.m. is a special accomplishment, and some might consider it a resume-worthy accomplishment.

Expect to see a full 2007 South by Southwest report from Miss Kitty after she returns from post-festival rehab.

Hopefully she will not have a shaved head.

Gimme Gimme Gimme: Audi R8

by Dale Nixon

My previous life as a corporate spokesman with voicemail, cubicle, tilting chair, hot assistant and corporate Amex allowed me the freedom to drive cars of a staggering variety and quality. Cars well beyond my financial resources and, in some cases, driving abilities.

I was one of the first in North America to drive a Ferrari F360 Modena, and got one of the first Porsche Boxsters in the country airborne on a narrow country lane with horrified factory team driver David Murry in the passenger seat (it flew straight and true, no surprise there). I've also piloted a NASCAR Busch North Series car on a road course and spent as much time behind the wheel of a Dodge Viper as David Hasselhoff did stroking KITT's shift knob.

It was not all fun and games, as driving over the pass from Laguna Seca to Carmel Valley in a Neon with Flintstone-activated brakes (well, maybe the e-brake worked a little) was one of the more CHIPs-like experiences of my life, sans exploding tanker truck.

So for me to see a car that induces full-on gear lust is, well, as rare as a writer seeing a five-figure incoming check.

That was until I saw the Audi R8.

From the moment I first laid eyes on her, I knew that I had to have her. And yes, it's undoubtedly a SHE. Gender identification issues aside, this is one of the most gorgeous machines to hit a showroom floor (which it will do later this summer) in years.

Her stats are all there: 420 horsepower, 4.3-second 0-60 mph time, all wheel drive and mid-mounted V8 engine for balance with an 8250 rev limit. And most important of all, since this country has precious few roads to test the 178 mph top speed, a .97g skidpad rating to hug the curves. This is the ultimate sign of performance - the ability to have the road meet the tire like a dinosaur wading into a bubbling tar pit. It helps keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down in the most extreme conditions, as anyone who has ever been sideways staring at an incoming guardrail will affirm.

The smooth arching curve of the roofline is the best top end since Jayne Mansfield, and is said to provide ample headroom for someone my size (6'3 did not shoehorn into a Honda S2000). It does not have the bridge strut abruptness of elder sibling the TT. Power, curves, speed and styling. All important attributes in all aspects of life.

But there is a problem beyond the estimated $124,000 price tag and the lack of politically-correct "green" amenities that seem to be popping up in every consumable item for the last six months or so.

The problem is the fact that the car is an Audi, and as such, my trust level or perhaps more accurately, luck is relatively low. My family's love affair goes back to the mid-70's when my mom bought a green Audi Fox, which was one of the first of the marque to be imported into the United States. I remember that car being loaded onto a flatbed hauler for some problem then having the winch snap and the car slide back into the ground with a sickening thud and a great big expletive from the towtruck driver.

It continued with the purchase of my new off the showroom floor A4 in 2000, which proceeded to send parts to the recycling bin at an alarming rate just before, during, and after the 50,000 mile warranty expired. That silver A4, though a beautiful car, committed ritual suicide with regularity, commencing with a seized brake caliper at 49,994 miles and ending around 62,000 miles with my refusal to take the car back after a wheel bearing self-destructed and took the hub and brake caliper with it.

The replacement, a silver 2001 S4, has faired far better despite a rocky start after being spun off the road and launched over a snow bank on the second day of ownership because it came with summer-only tires on an all-wheel drive car bought in winter. It's still an expensive proposition, as the cramped layout of the engine and turbo intake plumbing dictates that much of the work must be done by the professionals at $98 an hour.

And those wanting to purchase an R8 will probably have an additional unexpected hurdle before taking possession. Dealing with moronic salesmen. My friend Al recently gave into his own lust for the limited RS4, which features the same engine as the R8. He visited a dealer, already convinced to buy the $72,000 beast, but was not offered a test drive (!), embarrassingly low-balled in the discussion stage on his pristine 2005 S4 (!!) and then fed a variety of stupid malarkey (!!!). The sales rep proceeded to tell him the RS4 was a turbo (it is a normally aspirated V8) and the ducts at the front were turbo inlets rather than brake cooling.

Duh. What kind of moron would be allowed to sell a $75K performance car without knowledge of the basics?

Still, the gleaming R8 would be impossible to resist.

It is all about her curves.

And lust is seldom practical.

Guilty Pleasure: Cathouse the Series

by Dale Nixon

HBO knows how to push the remote buttons. Or perhaps it is just out of habit that channel surfing always leads to the nine options that the network offers at any given time. If anything, there is usually a Curb Your Enthusiasm rerun to be viewed, and as Julia Louis-Dreyfus accurately pointed out in one episode, it is the network where you get to say “fuck”.

HBO also does a masterful rotation of the hit shows, so while one series is on hiatus or filming another is screening new episodes. But somehow the return of the network's guiltiest pleasure Cathouse: the Series, snuck out a new season in the shadow of Tony Soprano's looming return.

The premise is simple, a “reality” series based in the real-life Mound House, Nevada brothel (might it have been built on the site of the sold-to-developers Ponderosa?), the Moonlite Bunny Ranch. It's based around the non-adventures of the Ranch's various attractions, be they hookers (Air Force Amy, whose Phyllis Diller in sunlight visage and occasional crackhead twitch belie her apparent attractiveness to sauced clientele and earning power) or the proprietor, Dennis Hof, who claims to be living every man's dream by operating a business of vaguely-attractive women having sex to make him money. Lots of money. Which, of course, he philanthropically splits with them 50/50 as his partner. Less expenses, no doubt.

Hof himself became a focal point in the first season, he's an opportunist who likes to play up his business savvy and Robb Report lifestyle (chomping on expensive cigars, breaking out the fine champagne, driving his convertible Mercedes, buying “top performers” laptops, taking home a pair of dingbat twins for a test drive) along with the frequently repeated mantra that his role is solely business partner for the girls. He is often prone to making hyperbolic claims about their earning power. The press bio plays up the Fortune 500 wanna-be appeal of Hof.

“Since buying the Ranch in 1992, Dennis Hof has upgraded the facilities, creating an upscale and customer-friendly brothel that attracts friends and high rollers alike. Hof's "highly motivated sales team" follow precise rules of conduct and safety, and split the fruits of their labor 50-50 with management. It's not uncommon for an attractive girl at the Bunny Ranch to make $200,000 or more a year."

Umm yeah. Can we see some tax returns?

Two specials introduced the Ranch to the HBO viewing public in 2002, with 11 episodes forming the recurring reality series in 2005. For the new second season, HBO has tweaked the format by making the series monthly. At first it seems like an adjustment in programming schedule and a way to maximize on-demand reruns. But after the first episode, it's apparent that producer Patty Kaplan is desperately trying to buy time for a series that has lost most of the star power. Gone are the regulars familiar to viewers (AF Amy, the philosophical whore next door Isabella Soprano, man-faced porn star Sunset Thomas, cyber-starlet Max) and teetering down the hallways of the Ranch on six-inch jelly heels are a bunch of noobs.

Episode 12: Hot to Trot kicks off the new season by introducing the fresh meat (or maguro, as they call it in Japan) with a limo picking up new recruits at the airport. Perky (read bimbo) Brooke Taylor, with her trailer park platinum dye job is soon joined by Melody Lane, a vet of the adult “entertainment” business. Both are positively bubbly to be showing up at the Ranch and in front of the “reality” cameras (sidenote: Dennis, isn't it time to spend some money on landscaping the tumbleweeds around your supposedly multi-million dollar place of business?) and both quickly “call their moms” who are apparently supportive and enthusiastic about their daughter-hoes embarrassing them on international television.

Yeah right. And I have a brothel in a caisson of the Brooklyn Bridge to sell you. This is the crux of the problem with all of the so-called “reality” series running rampant on television. The scripting of the “reality” is often blatant and obvious.

Of course, by the end of the installment, a “spoiler” is brought in...you know, the sacrificial character who will be introduced and summarily killed off/voted off/exiled/sent to a purgatory of guest spots on The View/fired in the name of plot development and chronological continuity. In this case, it's “Tiffany Taylor” a stunning-in-a-California-Playboy bunny kinda way (orange tan, the best teeth and breasts money can buy, expensive blond hair without roots showing) who has come to the Ranch with her mountain of Gucci luggage “on a dare” because she wants to make lots of money to keep her appetite for the finer things quenched. One problem. She doesn't give beejs. Oops. Another one: she only wants to have sex, I mean “party”, with hot guys. She probably neglected to mention that in her screening interview.

Talk about a cliff hanger. How's a hoe to reap the greenbacks without giving head or partying with the ugly fat but rich guys? Umm, stay tuned. Because as vapid and transparent as Cathouse is, it's still a guilty pleasure.

I mean, what are you going to do at 11:30 at night, watch Letterman?

Late To Her Own Funeral: Good Night, Dead Anna

By Kitty Killy

Thankfully, the media storm is, for the moment, at rest. Though she died February 6th, the
funeral of Anna Nicole Smith, 39, happened three weeks later, on March 3nd. Cause of death was undetermined. Her stomach was found free of pills, but her fridge was a cornucopia of pills, Slim-Fast, and methadone.
E! called it "one of the most publicized funerals the world has ever seen," and that was the case. But none of us saw the party. Though cameras caught the motorcade of black limos and hearse carrying the former model's body to the Miami airport, then to the cemetery in the Bahamas, the funeral itself was hidden from the prying eyes of the media, the grave and mourners shrouded in black tents. But first was the service, a real media circus.

We did get a red carpet event, of sorts. Slash from G-n-R was there. His hair, flat. His hat, somber. A red carpet was rolled up to the white hearse, and the mahogany casket, adorned with a pink velvet blanket tricked out with ribbons and feathers, was carried inside to the Baptist church. The casket was never opened, so her final gown, designed by Pol Atteu, went unseen. Anna's daughter Dani Lynn was not there. Anna's mother, Howard Stern, and Larry Birkhead all gave eulogies.

E! scored an interview with someone who was at the service - Kathryn Beranich, the supervising producer of E!'s Anna Nicole Show, which was a trainwreck (read the recaps on TelevisionWithoutPity.com). She said the minister admonished the warring factions for not allowing Anna's body to be laid to rest in a timely fashion. Nice detail, Kathryn.

So, the custody battle for Anna's daughter still rages on. Anna's cause of death is still unknown; the results are reported to be released next week. But what does this all mean? And what will Anna be known for? Her Guess campaign? Being the first trophy wife (I'm being kind, I know) to take her case to get her late husband's inheritance all the way to the Supreme Court? Or will it be for this? This flurry of enthusiasm for the gruesome details on how she died,
and what she wore, and how her son Daniel died, and who her baby's daddy is? And that the baby is potentially worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

The U.S. courts have turned the paternity decision over to Bahamian courts. It will be up to them to decide, with DNA evidence or not, with whom Dani Lynn will grow up. Howard Stern retains custody, but this matter will come to court in a few weeks. And Anna's Bahamian home has become a tourist attraction. Tourism dollars flood into the island. But who really wins? And who gets the last word?

The last word on this may take years to come out, and we may never hear it. But Larry Birkhead, paparazzi photographer and Anna's boyfriend of almost two years, got his own saccharine-sweet special on Bravo, "Larry Birkhead: Good Night, My Sweet Anna Baby." This is what he said to her before she went to sleep each night.

With a swollen, tear-stained face, Larry dished and gave little commercial bumps to the retail outlets and pop culture bits that had fueled their relationship. And the tensions therein. Like, that they met at a Kentucky Derby party. And the movie that she made him watch over and over, that reminded her of their relationship was "War of the Roses." And that when he "noticed" she seemed pregnant, she told him to get on Tiffany & Company's website to get her a ring. She wanted to rank the rings available from price highest to lowest; he wanted to rank them lowest to highest. "Our fingers went back and forth," he said.

After Anna married Howard Stern, he was pushed out of the picture, and had to see Dani's pictures in the tabloids, "kinda like the average consumer, there was nothing special for me."

When Anna died, Birkhead told Bravo he wanted to go save her. But he couldn't. He launched into his paternity battle. He has met Dani Lynn; the baby smiled, burped, and spit up on Birkhead.

In our oversaturated media age, we are exposed to a lot of detail with not enough context or reason. Like, Britney Spears freaking out. None of us know why. None of us will. Her own family may not even know what's happening inside her head. Which leads me to wonder: why are so many celebrities celebrated for being batshit crazy, instead of for producing a product, like a movie or a record, that people enjoy? I will attempt to answer.

1. We like to watch people go nuts. And people love to talk shit about other people, be they our friends, or people we don't know.

So, why do they so often unravel before our eyes? Is it because fame, when mismanaged, on its own, corrupts irreversibly? Or does all that shit-talk get in the air and somehow make a person nuttier than they are?

1. If they're not focused on their craft or work, probably.

Mass media is a commercial entity. Magazines know that stars need them for coverage for their product. In our post-modern age, some are lucky enough (or the opposite) to have made careers of being tabloid fodder. Like Paris Hilton.

But enough about her. Britney is a more perfect example. After her last tour tanked, she produced Chaotic, a TV show about her whirlwind romance with Kevin Federline, and has remained in the spotlight without doing anything that put her there. Now, she's completely melted down, and we see it all; her shaved head, her shaved puss, her popping in and out of clubs, and rehab. And we don't know why she does it. It just distracts us, from our own lives, and from the world and all that's in it.

It isn't just my theory that the mass media runs with stories that have a lot of juicy footage - like the Jon Benet Ramsey murder, which had too many images of a child blonde, both beauty pageant contestant, daughter, and pedophile's dream. Never mind that too many less photogenic children are killed, their murders also unsolved, every day. That story had tons of tape to roll on TV.

As does this one. Anna's death and her son Daniel's death are tragic and mysterious. Baby Dani Lynn still doesn't have a final family, and when she comes into her potential millions of dollars, imagine the media circus that will start up around her. It's even worse than Frances Bean Cobain, the half-orphaned child heir to not only fortune, but a deep sadness and too much meaningless publicity. Good night, Anna Nicole.

Chip and Salsa Time for NASCAR

by Dale Nixon

Take on the throne
And make it your own
I said, take on the throne
And make it your own

You know- That the war is on
You know- That it can't be won
You know- That the fix is in
And you know that I always win

You know- The good guys lost
You know- War is high on cost
You know- You cannot win
And you know the fix is in

- from Entombed “The Fix is In”

Conspiracy theorists have historically and hysterically had a field day with NASCAR racing. One of the oldest sports urban myths is that of “the call” - the idea that NASCAR officials can and would allow certain teams or drivers to cheat in specific races so that an advantageous event could take place, thus raising the profile of the whole sport. After all, NASCAR's France family are cum laude graduates of the Academy of Vince McMahon WWF/E stage management.

Need Dale Earnhardt to win the Daytona 500, the one accomplishment remaining on his racing resume? Blam - so let it be done. Need Dale Earnhardt Jr. to win at Daytona after his father's tragic death to turn it back into a feel-good story? Blam...it's easy enough to do when NASCAR itself provides the officials that inspect each of the cars, often for details in which a quarter-inch of ground clearance can provide a significant competitive advantage on the track.

So it was really no big surprise that the stock car world's star import Juan Pablo Montoya of Columbia won the NASCAR Busch Series Telcel-Motorola 200 on the 2.518-mile Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez circuit in Mexico City Sunday afternoon. First Hispanic driver to win a NASCAR event? Check. First Spanish-speaking driver to win in Mexico? Check. Huge television coverage and ratings in all of Central and South America? Check. Exponential expansion of NASCAR and potential sponsors to a lucrative and growing Spanish-speaking market? Check. Ammunition to dethrone the reputation of NASCAR as a hillbilly-redneck-white-as-Ricky Bobby's-Wonder-Bread sport? Checkmate.

The fact that Montoya punted NASCAR part-timer and Chip Ganassi racing teammate Scott Pruett on lap 72, probably the only other driver on the track with as extensive a road-course resume as JPM, was almost inconsequential. The finish seemed to be a foregone conclusion before the haulers headed south of the border to NAFTA's cheap labor colony. Cue the mariachi band and mix the margueritas, it's a Cinco de Marcho, presented by the socially aware and progressively nouveau liberal NASCAR.

"I'm very sorry about what happened with Scott,'' Montoya said. "I thought he saw me and when he came across I had no room to go.''

Yeah sure you are, Juan. Terrible. Awful. Probably won't be able to sleep tonight or all week. Oh yeah, that's because you will be doing interviews 23 hours a day from Bangor to Buenos Aires about your first win and what it means to the future of the sport.

"Of all the people to take you out -- your teammate,'' Pruett said. "That was just lowdown, nasty, dirty driving.''

Pruett of course, went on a little bit longer, also promising to tell his dad when he came home from work and have his mom write a letter to the principal about Juan stealing his lunch money.

But come on, Scott, do you think NASCAR, who botched the checkered flag of the Daytona Frickin' 500 two weeks ago in favor of the ultimate highlight-reel cars on fire and upside down at the finish line spectacle ending is going to listen to your part-time driving white-bread complaint? It's the new age of stock car imperialism.

Do you think anyone is going to listen?

Not a chance, bubba.

The mariachi band is too damn loud. And it's salsa time.

Spending the Cabbage with the Sultan of Brunei

by Dale Nixon

The Sultan of Brunei has the international "Q" factor rivaling Michael Jordan. Or Yao Ming. After all, there are a billion Chinese who know Yao.

But seemingly everybody, everywhere has heard about the Man.

He is an international playboy, bon vivant, head of state and general man of mystery to the western world. But in his own way, it is a totally anonymous existence. A name without a face. A house without a home.

A king whose kingdom is somewhere on the spinning orb. Middle East? No. Africa? Try again. India? Not quite. Timbuktu? Nope. Ask a hundred people and nobody knows exactly where Brunei is situated. But they all have heard of the Man.

That's what happens when either the Sultan, or Bill Gates depending on the source, is crowned as wealthiest human on the planet.

Sure, he shows up on A-list galore. In photo ops pressing flesh (not that kind) with other guys named Bush and Blair. But nobody is even knows quite sure what he looks like. Or for that matter where he comes from, even geography majors (is a Geography major even offered anymore at accredited schools, or is that only a degree from the University of Phoenix?).

Wikipedia majors, maybe, could find the fiefdom, but the average guy on the street is more likely to be able to say that he showed up on the client roster for the Hollywood madam du jour, owns 347 Ferraris or even the fact that he could wipe his royal posterior with the gross income line on Donald Trump's tax return and flush it down one of his thousands of gold-plated toilets.

For the record, Brunei Darussalam is on the northwest side of the island of Borneo, bordered by the South China Sea and Malaysia with a population of 357,800. Not all that impressive. Borneo's known for having some of the most poisonous creatures in the world, and a growing eco-tourism industry.

But impressive is the fact that the sultanate of Brunei rocks the casbah to the tune of 163,000 barrels of oil per day along with the requisite liquid natural gas. And this black gold isn't situated in the volatile middle east, but rather within easy tanker distance to the U.S. and Japan.

There could be 50 Sultans running around with platinum Amex cards paid by the Brunei tourism board, and no one would be any wiser.

But the Man himself (Haji Hassanal Bolkiah Mu'izzaddin Waddaulah) is accustomed to wearing many hats. According to the CIA (and who checks their sources?) he is not only the Sultan, but also the Prime Minister, Minister of Defense, Minister of Finance and the official head of the religion (Yang Di-Pertuan) of Brunei Darussalam. In the UK, where he owns the famed Dorchester Hotel amongst other holdings, not only was he knighted by Queen Elizabeth II (Brunei was a protectorate until 1984), but also made Honorary Admiral of the Royal Navy.

Those are quite a few titles to hang on the shingle. But there is beaucoup room for that shingle when the primary residence is a 1,788 room palace with gold fixtures that would make Liberace squeal in glee. There are casinos in Vegas with less rooms. And less in the vault.

But it all has a price. According to various published reports, he's burned through 30 of the $40 billion dollars that he inherited from his father in 1967 but somehow still has 20.7 billion pounds sterling ($40.8 billion George Washingtons) in the bank. That's a spending spree that would make Mike Tyson and MC Hammer call their bankruptcy attorneys and say, that's what the fuck we were talking about... It isn't all without consequence. People know that the Man has more money than he can spend (apparently). They knock on one of the palace doors, hat in hand. People like, say, Oliver North, who needs $10M to broker a little “off the record” arms deal.

Or Hollywood madam Jody “Baby Doll” Gibson, where the Sultan's name shows up alongside the illustrious Die Hard cum pub rocker Bruce “Bruno” Willis on the client list. But the Sultan is big enough to get his own chapter in Gibson's shockography. That's fucking hardcore. And therein lies the rub. The Sultan gets included on a lot of lists, but none of them seem to create much consequence.

According to Gibson, the Sultan, who recently celebrated his 60th birthday, collects women. Lots of them. Famous ones. Playboy bunnys, actresses, models ... whoever is hawt and will come to the parties he throws at his lavish and opulent palace. He pays them $25,000 per week. Cash money. They are screened by an assistant (the aptly named Mr. Ball) and then forwarded on to the Sultan for his perusal.

But. And this is a big BUT, apparently he doesn't have sex with them. Ever. Or at least Gibson claims this is the case. In Super Madam Secrets, she spells it out.

“This outing would on rare occasions include sex with Prince Jefri, but never ever included sex with The Sultan. Either way the girls were paid the same $25,000 per week.”

Although his brother, Prince Jefri, has been known to indulge and pin the tail on the bunny, The Man himself is apparently content with living la vida loca. Talk about things that make you go hmmm.

Fortunately, he doesn't just collect women, he also collects cars. Four Ferrari F-40's, Three F-50's, several of the nine Ferrari 456 Venices produced. 3000+ cars in all including eight McLaren F1's that retailed for a million apiece and six of the 29 Ferrari FX's produced. The whole collection was estimated to have cost some $28 billion by one print source and $4 billion by another. Way to check those facts, guys. Either way the Man is not worried when the price of gas goes up a buck. In fact he probably smiles and orders a couple more Bentleys, just in case.

But it's not just the Man spending the money. He also has a bunch of kids running roughshod over the world's gossip pages with similar tales of reckless and outrageous indulgence.

Prince Azim reportedly gave Mariah Carey a $5.7 million dollar flawless diamond necklace and ring before a concert. That's a big chunk of carbon.

And exactly how much royal cock must one suck for a $5.7 million gift?

The answer might just be none at all.

No, They Don't Fuck: A Review of Black Snake Moan

by Kitty K. Killy

For those that don't buy into the notion that Ricci is hot, know the truth: in Black Snake Moan, the little bitch is in heat. And Jackson is, as always, there to layeth the smack down and fix this broken-down little tramp, not because he can get a piece, but because she is broken. The girl ain't right; she's got a deeply rooted, clinical nymphomania. Is that a flaw? In this instance, it is.

Jackson's character, Lazarus, is wounded too, but he's coming into his pain at a more crucial point of turmoil and heartache than Ricci's Rae is; he's getting dumped by his younger wife, who meets him at a casual cafe and enjoys twisting the knife in his back as she publicly underlines the point that their relationship is over.

Lazarus is alone; so is Rae. She's left by her dull, overly anxious boyfriend Ronnie (charmingly played by Justin Timberlake, and yes, by Justin Timberlake Miss Kitty K. Kelly is charmed), who feels the need to serve his country. A smarter man would have tended to his woman's gaping, seemingly endless needs. His car is just out of sight when Rae feels herself throb, her hands stray between her legs, and she struts off to buy condoms and call her black boyfriend. And there may be more than one. And they may not all be black. Never mind that she and Ronnie just fucked wildly moments before he left. Ricci's performance is way, waaay over the top, but this opening scene really allows you to later believe her crawling, writhing underpants dance as just the way she is: a cat on a hardwood floor, clad only in a confederate flag tee and white cotton panties so wet they're translucent.

Like any horny addict knows, there is only one thing more powerful than our urge to self-destruct, and that is our urge to blot out those feelings with booze and pills. In the wake of Ronnie's leaving, Rae parties hard, then mocks an ex (and friend of Ronnie's), and ends up unconscious, badly beaten on the side of the road. The wounded Lazarus finds her limp, teeny bod (barely dressed), takes her in, and lets her sleep it off. Then, when her senses come pushing back up to the surface, she tries to put Lazarus' hand between her legs. He resists – is it a matter of taste, or the race issue? - and when she feverishly tries to leave, chains her to his clanking, immobile radiator.

This movie has been screening and teasing a wide range of audiences since December of '06, and the release date was pushed back from February to March. Why does this matter? One word: Oscars. The later a movie is released in the year, the more likely it is to not suck, and therefore get an Oscar nod. Jackson's musical performance is fabulous, and since he put calluses on his fingers off-screen (Wikipedeia says he played guitar for six or seven hours a day to get up to speed, and it shows), it's authentic. I hope he scores a nomination.

One of Black Snake Moan's funny moments is when a gangly teenage boy comes to visit Lazarus. With Rae chained up inside, fully in heat, the moment he crosses the threshold he becomes her prey. Every boy's dream? Or a feverish nightmare of skanks gone wild?

Black Snake Moan is, of course, about race; there is an element of the mystical/magical black man – Lazarus literally cures a white female. And once Lazarus is discovered as having a white woman chained to his radiator, the images of strange fruit dances in his friends and allies' heads. But Lazarus never missteps; there is no lynch mob. Rae is more tormented and haunted by white men than Lazarus. The movie's theme of helping to fix a broken human being simply because you can rises above any racial issues. Also, everyone knows white people are crazy. And that black people are the only ones that can fix them. Seeing this with a predominantly black audience felt good; there was genuine appreciation for the blues music and performances therein, and the great S. Epatha Merkinson's lovely, dignified character and vocal performance (she sings “Balm in Gilead”) made the couple in front of me rest their heads together and sigh romantically. I love S. Epatha Merkinson.

Black Snake Moan is the greatest modern re-telling of Pygmalion to date – or is it My Fair Lady? This is a musical, too. Though Christina Ricci comes nowhere near outshining Audrey Hepburn's luminous beauty. She looks haggard, but that's the point. And Sam Jackson blows Rex Harrison away, in both acting chops, and singing. The movie's soundtrack should be at least 85% of Jackson's performances – this is my wish and request.

The final shot, of Justin Timberlake's delicate tear-stained face, like a slimmed-down, wanna-be thuggish Raphaelite cherub, shows us that we all need help at times. And we don't always get it. Rae has her chain to remind her that she can control her self-destructive impulses; or is it that they can be controlled by someone with a much stronger will (Lazarus)? Her Cinderella makeover is too good to be true. But know this; deep down inside, all fucked-up people want to be helped, and fixed. And most of us are at least a little fucked up.

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