tapped

Luke and I bought a box of Kemps brand Northwoods Smorewich bars. Having each sampled, Luke voiced full-mouthed three-word displeasure: "not very good". This prompted me to jump into a mocking rant:

"How could I have believed that such a pairing in construct of this iced milk novelty could have been favorable? Poppycock! That such a concoction of ice cream, marshmallow, chocolate, and graham cracker would be palatable is sheer lunacy! Man need not dabble in the mixing of sufficiently tasty treats; one ought to stick to good ol' fashioned vanilla ice cream perfectly sandwiched 'twixt chocolate cookie bars."

I guess you had to be there. Kind of like this last Friday when we got up the ambition to pick up an eight gallon keg, which on account of visitor shut-out (excepting Rex on Friday, who doesn't drink) Luke and I drank half of by ourselves just to dump it back to the liquor store half full this evening. What a shameful, shameful march.

Some time the weekend before last, Daddy Warbucks chided his brother for choosing to play Mike Tyson's Punch Out on our emulating superunit, repeatedly claiming "that game's an old hat". Go leave undesired comments on his neglected blog in retaliation.

-Brenn

Here ye, jock-O!

This is a late mention, but there have been some haunts that have resurfaced a repressed memory recently. For those in the no-know, Michael McDonald of Doobie Brothers fame recorded and issued an album of classic Motown covers in 2003. Though I may have consciously ignored this release in passing, something kept jabbing into my ear while a handful of us were celebrating Luke's birthday at Mancini's last month; (my father a big Motown fan) songs that I grew up with and love have been disemboweled, excreted in, and are wafting from the PA. I paused my retching to inquire what it was: Clint clarified the 'musician' and the album. The album in its entirety.

I'd do anything for Mr. McDonald to take it back. I'd become a Statist. I'd copy Luke and get a tattoo of Rex's browneye. I'd smile while I do the laundry, or shave. I'd relinquish my quest for the eradication of Natalie Merchant's musical catalogue. ANYTHING!

Thank you, Mr. McDonald, for your asinine and destructive interpretation of these wonderful songs. Sixpence None the Richer, Disturbed, and Kidz Bop would be proud.

-Brenn

Circle jerks. When was I talking about this?

Reed Hundt's Spectrum Play — The Federal Communications Commission is considering service rules for the upcoming 700 MHz-auction sponsored by Frontline, a firm headed by former FCC chairman Reed Hundt, which would impose a net neutrality requirement on the winning bidder — a poison pill intended to scare away bidders and lower the price of the spectrum. If Hundt's proposal prevails and Frontline is the top bidder, don't be surprised if it moves to free itself of the license restrictions and then sell the spectrum to a major carrier for a huge profit — shades of the NextWave debacle that took place on Hundt's watch. Tilting the playing field is a mistake. The FCC's obligation isn't to carve out spectrum for special interests, but to serve the larger public by selling spectrum to the highest bidder. The Wall Street Journal (Editorial), A14.

Wretch. Well, Luke's going to take a break from Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi's Dead" so we can try out the Xbox I just acquired; 160 gig of emulators and ROMs. Prepare yourselves for nostalgia plagues.

Listen to Spoon. There's a Spoon show coming up in October. Spoon.

-Brenn

Today we celebrate the adoption and announcement of our separation from the Euro-Motherland in favor of another form of totalitarian government.

And now we've got Ron Paul ALDs! Go buy bullion and clean your guns today! Just remember: don't celebrate our national dependence on government with recreational explosives without approval from your local authority.

Grab a sharp or pointy object and etch the Pizza Luce Block Party into a visible place on the wall. It's be featurin' the Jacobins.

-Brenn