blogbovine

The Batle of Grizzly Adams: Newcastle United is the Football Club For Me, Damn It

2008-01-09T18:18:00.000-05:00

BLAM!

Big Fat Boring Sam Allardyce has disappeared down the tube like Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Now we fans, the Oompa Loompas, will rage in discord on the blogs over whether it was good or bad and who the next manager should be.

But surely we can agree on a few things. Looking back at the FA Cup match against Stoke City, which could easily have been called "The Battle of Grizzly Adams," had bearded, hulking monstrosity Jon Parkin scored his couple of chances after coming on as a substitute in the 2nd half. Thankfully, his bear costume seemed to throw him off a bit.

But somehow the fates and our defense conspired to keep the ball out and we escaped with a draw. Filling in at right back was David Rozenhal who was an utter shambles. Jose Enrique at left back was not entirely convincing, but Taylor and Faye in the center were superb and Shay Given played well.

Our forwards had no service and were invisible again. Which brings us to the midfield. Let’s be honest about our midfield: Charles N’Zogbia is overrated. He, like Milner, does not pass. He twinkle-toes his way through half the opposition, only to give the ball away cheaply to a defender after beating two men. It didn’t work against Stoke City and it sure as feck won’t work against Man United or Arsenal. Pass the ball, Charles.

Duff is not blameless either. With these two superb wingers (and, yes, Duff is starting to look like himself again) there should more burning crosses than a Klan rally. Where are the quality crosses from our wingers? Eh?

However, it’s clear that our troubles sprung from the black hole of negativity in the central midfield. It is sucking the life out of the team. Yes, Nicky Butt and Alan Smith are hard working servants of the club, charging around and tackling hard. But, as we’ve all said, we need creativity.

And hopefully our new manager will keep this in mind because I think it’s fair to say that many inanimate objects, entities or abstract concepts would provide more creativity than either Nicky Butt or Alan Smith.

Any of these choices would be more creative than our current central midfield:

--A bottle of Jameson: I normally prefer Bushmills, to be honest, but whenever I drink with my friend Nate, he starts with the rounds of Jameson and the next thing I know, I’m swearing up a blue streak. It’s real ceative, I assure you, but the problem is that I can never actually remember anything I’ve said. At any rate, playing a bottle of Jameson (or any whiskey for that matter) in central midfiled is bound to be more creative than Allen Smith.

--Vegetable oil: Hey, you can make anything with it! Just substitute it for butter in any recipe or football team and voila! Low-fat killer passing in the final third of the field!

--Surrealism: I’m not a huge fan, but melting clocks hanging off trees and bullfighters fighting flies over a repeating tecnicolor background of roman statues? Pretty creative.

--A potato: So versatile, so nutritious! You can create bread, pancakes, French fries, tortillas soups. Aloo chana and any number of delicious dishes with this lowly tuber. That’s the kind of versatility and flexibility we need from our central midfield.

--A used tire: I’ve seen them used for tire swings, soles of Splaff sandals and shoes, decorative planters and… one or two other things. Surely more creative than Nicky Butt.

--Radiohead: The boys from Oxford are still cranking out interesting stuff, unlike the rumbling engine room of our side. If only they could Voltron into a soccer player.

--Gerhard Richter: This German doesn’t just do hyper realistic paintings for Sonic Youth album covers—he does expressionist work with a squeegee too! Now that’s innovative! Put him in the midfield.

--Martha Stewart: The mastermind of home decoration can create festive wreaths from empty tuna cans and macaroni or liven up room arrangements with rotting animal corpses from the Humane Society. What could she do with a football at her feet?

--Yessenia the girl at the nail salon on the corner: Damn! That girl does some cre-A-tive shit on fingernails! Portraits of movie stars, arabesques, tesselations, spider webs… Awesome! Put her in the midfield alongside Faye!

Who or what should we truly get for our midfield?

Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 4: There Will Be Blood?

2008-01-07T21:07:00.000-05:00

Hey Folks,

How’s things? I got out again this weekend. This time I hitched a ride on Minnesota to the movies. She went to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to see "There Will Be Blood."

SPOILER ALERT: I gotta be honest: I thought there would be more blood.

I mean, after all, I’m a blood feeder, so I was hoping for more food porno for Bedbugs. Like watching the Food Network, you know? But there just wasn’t that much.

So I thought these alternate titles might work better:

--There Will Be Acting
--There Will Be Bad Midwestern Accents By an Irishman
--There Will Be Moustaches
--There Will Be No Female Characters
--There Will Be Death By Drill Bit, Pistol and Bowling Pin

Or maybe "There Will Be Ample Time For A Bed Bug To Scamper Around And Bite Every Single Moviegoer In The 5th Row." I got a little bored with the flick so I crawled across the whole row, sampling the flavors. It was like a buffet! A 10 course meal, even!

It’s amazing how fast that rich, real butter flavor makes its way from the popcorn into human blood! And mmm, that’s good butter! And Junior Mints really are refreshing, aren’t they? The Japanese girl on the end of the isle was scarfing them down, so her blood tasted choco-minty! Awesome! But I can tell--coffee at B.A.M. isn’t so good. I think Minnesota makes a better pot back at her place. Hey, maybe those free-range, fair trade coffee beans really do taste better.

Anyway, the movie was directed by P.T. Barnum’s great grandson—P.T. Anderson. It stars Daniel Day Lewis and a whole bunch of other no-name-nobodies who aren’t worth mentioning, except maybe the kid who played "the kid".

That Daniel Day Lewis is a real fucking ham. Minnesota was watching "Gangs of New York" a few nights ago on cable in her Bushwick loft, so I creeped out of the baseboard and took a look. I’ll be damned if Daniel Day Lewis doesn’t cop some dumb accent for every role he takes. I mean, come on. Who, anywhere, ever spoke like he does in this movie? A Dubliner trying to cop a dust-bowl accent, that’s who. Method acting? You want a method? How’s this: Let the words speak for themselves and stop glowering at the camera.

There were some other actors too, but I don’t really remember any of them, except the kid. That kid is the next Haley Joel Osment! Which means he better save his earnings from this turkey. I think Osment is doing dinner theater in Canton. Or maybe he’s the actual Haley Joel Osment! Wait, does Osment have the same disease as Gary Coleman, Emmanuel Lewis and Joe C from Kid Rock’s band? Shit. That’s sad.

Okay, so here’s a question about the movie: Where the hell were the women? Was the main character gay? Was he asexual? Or was Daniel Day Lewis some kind of mine pervert? Maybe he gets off on basalt and gabbro. I don’t know. But there was hardly a woman in sight in this flick. Maybe there was a little homo-Oedipus going on? The whole thing was pretty creepy.

So, crawling around in Minnesota’s papers the next night, I saw that the critics are lining up to fondle Paul Thomas Anderson scrotum, telling you it’s a grand American Film Masterpiece, but don’t be fooled. The score by Johnny Greenwood from Radiohead is pretty cool, the photography's nice and it’s got some funny moments, but otherwise, this one’s a hollow stinker.

So long for now,

Curtis

Newcastle United Football Club Is The One For Me, Damn It!

2008-01-04T16:15:00.001-05:00

I don’t know know much about soccer (or football for that matter) but for reasons too dull to explain at the moment, Newcastle United Football Club is the team I like, the club I support, the one and only team that truly matters to me (until New York gets its own team—not some swampy New Jersey pretenders out in the Meadowlands.)

I admit it: I’m a total Johnny-come-lately. But at least I didn’t choose any of the so-called big four (Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester United or Arsenal). Instead, I chose a troubled, under-performing mid-table team that has suffered for years without winning anything to speak of, aside from the Intertoto Cup, which sounds like a competition of doggies from The Wizard Of Oz and is about as entertaining.

By choosing Newcastle, I expect to suffer a lot, which, in turn, proves my true fan-dom, loser spirit, under-dog loyalty and all that crap.

So there it is. Full disclosure. I’m a newby.

That said, I have a few observations about our most recent game: A two goal defeat at home to Manchester City. With a new manager and a host of new players having just shipped in, Newcastle and Man City have some things in common. What they don’t have in common is success. City are in 4th place, while Newcastle are languishing in 11th. Our new manager, Sam Allardyce, is in deep shit. And their new manager, whatever his name is, ain’t.

So what did I see Wednesday night when I watched the game?

1. Seal look-alike Abdoulaye Faye is one big, rough mother-effer and a hell of a player. Lumbering around like an Ent with better ball skills and passing, he worked his ass off in the midfield, held possession and distributed the ball well to our forwards. Now, suppose we get into a relegation battle? Sam could take some advice from Faye’s long lost twin: "We’re never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy…" Translation? Stop being so goddamn defensive and play Faye alongside a attacking midfielder for a change. Hmm, then again, that idea is not that crazy, is it?

Faye brings the ball forward.

2. A moment I wish we’d seen: Faye strides purposefully across the field and yanks that fucking preposterous rug off Stephen Ireland’s head, shouting "You shall not pass!" Yes, I know I’m mixing Lord of the Rings characters and moments, but it would have been pretty amusing.

3. Somehow to me, Damien Duff and Obafemi Martins have similar facial characteristics. Yes, that’s complete lunacy, but at certain moments… is it the cheekbones? The deep carved lines on the sides of their mouths? There was some question over Obafemi’s real age and there is that chant that goes "21 or 28, 21 or 28, 21 or 28, Obafemi Martins!" Now, isn’t the Duffer also 28? THEY MAY BE TWINS! What? One’s Nigerian and the other’s Irish? Right. Never mind.

4. More important than the Irishman’s Nigerian twin, Duff played well against City. He and Milner switched off on right and left wing sometimes, which is something they did against Cheslea, and which, interestingly, is something I first noticed Duff doing with Arjen Robben back in his Chelsea days, but to better effect. WARNING: MORE STUPIDITY ALERT: Is Allardyce trying to crib an effective attacking technique from Mourinho’s style?! If Duff, N’Zogbia and Milner got that swirling switching play thing happening for Newcastle, that would be funky. But before that happens…

5. James "Travolta" Milner out on the right wing needs to learn how to pass the fucking ball. The kid dribbles but good. Unfortunately, he’s in love with his own feet. Fork it over, James. Trying your samba moves every time you get the ball might work in the under 21s but City’s defense had your number yesterday, and they’re not the only ones lately either. Cut the shit with the fancy-dancery on every possession There’ll be time for strutting your stuff on the dance floor in the 2018 edition of Dancing With The Stars.

6. Even from left back, Charles N’Zogbia is a force. He was our most threatening and maybe best player last night. Plus his name is fun to say. "n’ZOG-bia!" Sounds like a Superman villain—General Zod’s sidekick. Or a magic spell. Too bad uttering it doesn’t magically create goals. Now what could he do from the midfield proper?

7. Habib Beye is a great new addition to the team. Too bad he’s off to the African Cup of Noodles (no disrespect intended), leaving us with has-been Irish cue ball, Stephen Carr at right back (disrespect intended). Seriously, I’m a new fan and everything, so was there ever a time when Carr was good?

8. Cacapa & Taylor at the back: Why do so many folically-challenged men go for the goatee? That aside, I thought Cacapa was pretty good at the back, though he’s another Ent—slow and lumbering. Taylor was good too. But I was of two minds: Were Man City’s goals just well worked pieces of attack? Or was someone in our defense truly to blame, and if so, how can we avenge ourselves upon them without hurting our prospects for the season?

9. Viduka: He’s big and slow, but he’s got good feet, hasn’t he? Not in a fetish way, mind you. I thought he was close to crafting THE opening a few times, but…

10. Obafemi Martins was as profligate as a Hummer at a stop light. What’s going on? Is your luck just off, or did somebody cast a hex on your cleats? Maybe you need to go home and tear shit up for a few weeks with Nigeria in the African Nations Cup before you can start scoring again. Or maybe you’re just in shock that balls are coming in to your feet lately, after all the crappy hoofing the ball forward in the air that we’ve been doing. Either way, please come back from Ghana with your batteries recharged and your goal gyroscope re-tuned.

11. Nicky Butt! Hey, he’s a good tough, hard working veteran player, right? But why, in the name of god, did we need him on the field alongside Abdoulaye Faye? Where the eff was Emre? That crafty Turkish cat has got some tricks up his sleeve that could release Viduka, Martins et al, no?

12. Yes, we lost three in a row, but the last two games have been major improvements since the Wigan disaster. Is there reason for hope? Or will fecking Stoke City punch our ticket on Sunday?

13. Anybody else noticing the number of mohawks cropping up lately? Gallas, Micah Richards, our very own Alan Smith? It’s the foppish football hairdo of the moment. Thank goodness for silly haircuts.

Comments?

New Year’s Resolutions You Should Consider

2008-01-01T14:57:00.000-05:00

--Make sure they’re dead, THEN bury them

--Use condoms, even when not having sex

--Resort to violence only when you don’t get your way immediately

--Monetize!

--Eat less human flesh

--Stop depending on Depends

--Pacify Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Congo, Central African Republic, Darfur & Sudan

--Take off your socks during love making, blood donation and dental work

--Swallow!

--Become the Ron Jeremy of children's television

--Drink better beer—ie; upgrade from Natural Light to Natural Ice

--Transform Newcastle United Football Club’s Sam Allardyce from the negative, defensive, percentage-play manager he is into a swashbuckling Kevin Keegan style attacking mastermind while simultaneously maintaining the stingiest defensive capabilities of the scrappiest catennaccio purveyors

--Miscegenate!

--Become the Louis Armstrong of beat-boxing

--Return Gandalf's Phone Calls

--Stop being so negative all the damn time. God, I always do that and ruin everything. Why does that always happen to me? Man, I just can't win. Damn it all to hell! I give up. I'm a fucking loser. Fuck!

Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 3

2007-12-31T11:52:00.000-05:00

What’s up, folks? I had a pretty wild adventure a week or so back. I went for another ride on that Minnesota girl. She went to a gig at some bar in Brooklyn called Barbes. I don’t know what she’s doing, because this seemed more like a hippy joint than a hipster thing. But, hey, it’s nice to get out anyhow! Or so I thought. As it turned out, I was lucky to make it out of there alive!

When she walked in the gig hadn’t started, but it was crowded with funky hippies and global village yuppies. The hippies were milling around and telling stories about the gigs they’d been to and pictures they saw on passedoutwookies.com when one of them tripped over a bag of hoola-hoops and spilled her free range, vegan coffee all over Minnesota’s shoulder and damn near boiled me alive! It was so fucking hot, I thought I was going to melt, but somehow, I survived. I guess I’m tougher than I thought. Or maybe the free range, cruelty free coffee had mercy on me. Minnesota wasn’t hurt, but she sure got passive-aggressive on the spiller, saying "don’t worry, I’m okay," and then grumbling evil things about her make-up all night.

I thought the night had started badly, but seconds later, one of those global village yuppies spilled her chocolate martini all over Minnesota’s shoulder! It was cooler than the coffee, which came as a relief, but I got a big mouthful of that chocolate-tasting vermouth, or whatever they make martinis with, and man, was I hammered. I don’t know if six legged creatures can stagger, but if we can, I definitely was.

So there’s me, staggering around on Minnesota’s shoulder when the music starts and she starts "dancing". I think this girl’s having an identity crisis. Is she Bushwick or Vermont?

The band was some kind of east African music with Arabic and Indian influences and I have to admit, I was kind of digging it. Maybe it was the chocolate martini. Anyway, there’s me on Minnesota’s shoulder and I’m kind of dancing and staggering and really feeling that martini and the next thing I know I fell off Minnesota onto some chick’s dashiki!

Friends, being stuck in Park Slope is a fucking death sentence for a bedbug. These people can afford exterminators, for one thing. It’s like Darfur over there with yuppie janjaweed wiping out whole bedbug civilizations. Not to mention the soundtrack. Emmylou fucking Harris and NPR all fucking Sunday while they carp about their mortgages and how the bagels at the coop are just not that good anymore. It’s enough to drive a bedbug mad. You’re almost happy when the exterminator comes. But I digress. I had to get back to Minnesota or face destruction in Park Slope amongst the yuppies.

So the dashiki woman, it turns out, is part of the band. She kinda dances over next to the drummer on the other side of the kit, separating me from Minnesota. Dashiki woman is jiving around and shaking her gourd-o-beans or whatever when she brushes up against the drummer. Minnesota’s on the other side of him now, so I seized my chance and leapt onto his arm and crawled across his back. Well, on the way, I’m feeling a little hungry, so I have a little bite to hold me over till later. Mmm… blood.

All of a sudden, my head is spinning even more. This fucking guy is so high that I can barely crawl! It’s almost like his blood is all THC! So I get all disoriented and start crawling out of his sleeve and along his arm, out toward his drumsticks. I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, mind you, but I’m going. I can see Minnesota in the distance like Mount Rushmore during an earthquake, bouncing up and down on the drummer’s hand as he rides the high-hat.

Suddenly, he hits the snare for a rim shot and I go fucking flying like I was launched out of a catapult. I’m tumbling ass over elbow through the air, the hippies spinning below me like a kaleidoscope of unwashed hair, their patchouli funk and pot-smoke stank rising like swamp gas and I’m thinking "This is it, Curtis, you’re done for."

Well, I don’t know how the hell it happened, but somehow I landed on Minnesota’s hand bag. I crawled back up her sleeve and parked myself right there in her armpit and held on for dear life.
I tell you, I felt like fucking Indiana Jones after that night. The funny thing is, rather than be scared, I actually felt kind of high. Not because of the stoner drummer and the chocolate martini, but because of the action. I think I liked it! I used to be a stay at home kind of bedbug. But now? I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting a taste for adventure. I’ll keep you posted.

Cheers and Happy New Year,

Curtis

Haikus about Incest #4: Winter Solstice Edition

2007-12-21T06:11:00.001-05:00

#1:

It is so damn dark

And it is cold too, but mom

Still wants to boink me

#2:

Solstice, earth mother!

Druid sister, let’s knock boots

To bring back the sun!

Medications For The Holiday Blues

2007-12-19T21:35:00.000-05:00

It’s a dirty little secret of the Festive season: The holidays can be terribly depressing. Luckily, those beneficent drug manufacturers have been churning out new medications by the dozens of late, complete with marvelous, soothing ad campaigns. Don’t worry about those pesky side effects. If you’ve got the holiday blues, look no further. Blogbovine has all the latest, greatest mood alteration meds at your fingertips.

Guilt-o-cil: Assuages that terrible feeling that someone has bought a better present for you than you got for them. Possible Side effects: Frugality Freak Out Syndrome—You never spend another dime and become a shut-in with piles of garbage around your apartment, which one day collapse and kill you.

Consum-a-tussin: Spent too much, but still want to spend more? Consum-a-tussin helps you stop that spending by causing you to cut up your credit cards in a somnambulistic fit! Counter indications: If Consum-a-tussin causes you to cut up your family, please discontinue use and consult your physician and lawyer.

Vince Vaughn-adril: This pharmaceutical concoction deadens the agony of observing the sardonic, smug prick that is Vince Vaughn, removing any effects of his frat-boy douchebaggery and cynicism from the festive season.

Regretobrex: Haunted by that one girl/guy who could have been the one? You know, the one you saw during the Christmas break in your junior year of college, went out with on that one magical date, but didn’t ravish him/her because you were seeing someone back at school and your mistaken notions of monogamy held your loins in check? Regretobrex will crush those feelings of regret and lust of bygone days, speeding you on to complacence in your current, drab marriage.

Grinch-edrin and Grinch-actin: These competing meds from Merck and Pfizer will suck the Grinch right out of those hard boiled cynics quicker than a herd of Cindy Lou Whos. Side effects: Who-philia, pederasty.

Un-lust-o-gen: Used to treat the side effects of Grinch-edrin, Grinch-actin and Reindeerphilia, this drug will kill your hardons till you reach your mid 70s.

Cockboostin: Used to treat Un-Lust-o-gen, above.

Suici-denol: Irrepressible urges to off yourself on Christmas Eve? Join the club! But you don’t have to pull that trigger, step off that window ledge or slice your wrists open and bleed yourself out like a pig! Instead, just take one whack of Suici-denol and spare your loved ones/custodial staff/fire department the trouble of cleaning up after your corpse. Active Ingredients: Cyanide

Yule-quil PM: Having trouble getting your litter of grasping, greedy little shits to bed for St. Nick’s visit? Dose those clutching, toy-whores with Yule-qui PM! Active Ingredient: Cumberland Farms brand generic gin.

Seinfeld-o-fen: A single dose stops your friends from quoting the Festivus episode and sending e-cards featuring "feats of strength" and "airing of grievances." It truly is a Festivus miracle!

Kwanzaatap: makes Kwanzaa feel only as made-up and fictional as Christmas, Hannukah and Festivus. Side effects: Users of this medication may turn in to Don Imus.

Eggnogra: Restores your penis to its full pre-eggnog bender hardness!

Solsti-cil: For the aloof, superior atheist who just cant get into the giving, joyous Holiday spirit and continually moans about "how commercial it all is," and how all the traditional symbols were "co-opted by the church," and the "real Christmas was probably in March," and all that other shit he keeps harping on.

Where The Fecking Hell Are Shane Macgowan’s Teeth? Part 3

2007-12-08T16:04:00.001-05:00

"Stately, plump Shane MacGowan came from the stairhead, bearing a shot of Listerine on which an interdental gum stimulator and a pack of dental floss lay crossed."

Had Shane MacGowan been born 75 years earlier (and actually taken care of his teeth) he could have been the model for Buck Mulligan instead of Oliver St. John Gogarty in Joyce’s "Ulysses." But since he wasn’t and didn’t, you’ll just have to go with the Shane you know—once brilliant, but now toothless and ragged. Would that he could awake from his slumber. But that day will not come till his teeth are reassembled and reinserted in his jaw. And until that day, we clutch at the absurd straws of MacGowaninan dental theory.

Theory #6: Seeking the Bigfoot, the Sasquatch and the Yeti
Discounted by scientists though they may be, romantics like Shane MacGowan and his teeth have not given up on the possibility of giant ape-like cousins of humanity living in the mountains. Gigantopithecus may seem like a long shot to you and I, but one of Shane’s teeth could be, at this moment, teaching a Yeti the secrets of fermenting its own saliva to make Himalayan chicha and getting the party started right up on Everest’s foothills.

Theory #7: Looking for Amelia Earhart’s Crash Site
"Bury me at sea, where no murdered ghost can haunt me…"

Deep in the North Pacific, near the Howland Islands, one of Shane’s teeth can be found, communing with the fish and sea creatures, trying to determine the final resting place of Amelia Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan. Utilizing that preternatural sensitivity which allowed Shane to feel his world so acutely and reflect it so poetically, this tooth is engaged in an obscure search through the genetic memories of eels, sharks and coral to reveal the legendary aviator’s final resting place.

Theory #8: Working to nail the CIA for the Crack Epidemic Since Gary Webb of the San Jose Mercury News revealed the CIA and Contra connection to crack in America, one of the teeth is purported to have gone undercover to nail the spy agency once and for all. Shane MacGowan himself may have an insatiable appetite for drugs of all kinds, but not this tooth! While Shane slowly comes apart, this tooth is fighting to stick it to the man.

Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 2

2007-12-02T19:48:00.000-05:00

Hey, how’s it going? I woke up and was feeling kind of hungry, so I went for a bite and I guess I got lost because I wound up in that Minnesota girl’s jacket! Man, it was chilly when she went out, but I got inside the lining and made out okay on the subway.

We get off the train way uptown and she met her boyfriend on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum! Cool! I never been before! But I almost got crushed when she hugged her sweaty, bearded boy with his tight pants and Dr. Who-looking scarf.

When we walked in, they were laughing about the "conservative stuff" in the collection. They stiffed the suggested donation all together and went in to the Modern Art section. I guess I figured there was going to be a lot of portraits and shit, but boy was I in for a surprise. I mean, I'm no art critic--I'm just a bedbug--but there's some real shit passing for art out there!

First up we saw some hamburger paintings by a guy named Rothko. I call ‘em hamburger paintings cuz they have three layers (bun, meat, bun) and take about as much talent to assemble. These fucking things made me want to spit blood on them! If only this chubby, organic Minnesotan chick would get me closer. Then again, spitting blood from her lapel might blow my cover…

Next was a piece of sculpture. I couldn’t make out the title, so I’ll just call it "Huge Hunk of Junk". It was next to a work I’ll call "Towering Pile of Crap #63" and its companion piece "Garbage." I didn’t care very much for these pieces. Because they sucked. And because I could have made them, if I’d been born a human instead of a bed bug Then we came to an interesting piece I’ll call "The Emporer’s New Clothes (milk cartons and eggshells on canvas)."

I’d like to tell you more about why I hated the next piece, but there was some visual interference, so I think of that work as "Total Sham Obscured by Art Student’s Jewfro" which may have been an installation, come to think of it.

After sneering at the Met’s collection, the hipsters went to some galleries downtown. But they were pretty cramped, so I couldn’t see the titles. I guess "Fat Waddling Prick with i-phone," was a standout. Maybe he was part of a series with Jewfro, disrupting art experiences all over town.

Also notable was a series that may have been called "Preposterous Hoax in Tin Cans and Newspaper #1 (Downpayment)." This work was a preposterous hoax, done in tin cans and newspaper. Following hot its heels were "Preposterous Hoax in Tin Cans and Newspaper #2 (First Third of Principal)" and "Preposterous Hoax in Tin Cans and Newspaper #3 (Mortgage Paid)." There was also the perhaps more directly titled "Ripping Off My Dealer (1997)" and "Milking My Dealer for another $80,000."

All the while, the cutie from Minnesota and her boyfriend were sort of smooching and snarking at how passe the work was and talking about going to see the Kaiju Big Battel later. I have no idea what that was, but while they talked about it, I took a look at a piece called "The Flatulence of Time," or something.

Anyway I got sleepy and before I knew it we were back in the loft in Williamsburg! So, I settled in to the bed with not one, but two servings of Bushwick hipsters to choose from! I must confess, I opted for the buffet.

I can’t say I really enjoyed most of the art, but I will say wandering around those galleries and museums sure worked up an appetite. It also gave me a bit of a headache. But I’d do it again! I love seeing the world. I’m so glad these hipsters are coming to Bushwick. Maybe I’ll hitch a ride to the Kaiju Big Battel some time and find out what that is.

Well, until next time…

Curtis

Silver Screen Skeeter Reviews "Enchanted"

2007-11-26T20:54:00.000-05:00

Come November I like to go and get me some turkey, taters and cranberry sauce at the homeless shelter. Folks all around does their best to toss some coin at us and then forget about us so they can keep on buying caramel pizzas and electronic gadgets and still feel good about themselves. So we eats for free!

Well, a feller in the shelter was a Canarsie Indian! We hit it off real good just like in the Pilgrim and Indian days, because we didn’t put no stock in private property. Who’s to say this subway grate belongs to any man? I got as much right to sleep on it as you do! And you’re welcome to join me whenever you’re hankering to. And old Lenny, he agreed. So we hit it off nice.

Anyhow, after we ate out free Thanksgiving, we had a little scratch saved up since we didn’t have to pay for nothing, so me and Lenny, we went to see us a movie.

It was called Enraptured. There was a cartoon princess what turned into a real life girl right here in New York! It sure was fun to see that princess wander around some of the places I like to pee at night when nobody’s around.

She got chased by a mean witch. But the witch had nice bosoms. And the holiday Daddies who were sitting behind us kept whispering "She’s a real milk." I didn’t understand what they meant, till Lenny told me they was saying "milf." But I still didn’t understand.

Well, me and Lenny, we was drinking cranberry sauce mixed with paint thinner and right about the middle of the movie, Lenny started feeling bad about how all these white people took all the Indian land here in New York. Suddenly, he stood up and shouted I was cheating him out of his fair share of "fire water."

I said "Lenny, this ain’t fire water, it’s cranberry sauce and paint thinner!"

Then Lenny called me a liar and hit me over the head with his popcorn bucket. Them little kids started cheering and hollering but their moms wasn’t too happy. I thought I saw some dads laughing though.

Pretty soon, the ushers came and chucked us out on the street, so I didn’t see the ending. But that queen had nice bosoms, so I gives this one four out of five wine bottles.

Enchanted (2007)

Starring:
Starring: Amy Adams, James Marsden, Idina Menzel, Susan Sarandon, Patrick Dempsey
Directed by: Kevin Lima

Signs The End Is Nigh: New York Has Given Up

2007-11-23T08:47:00.000-05:00

Time was when New York could be relied upon to roll out the murder stats to show off its street cred. But not any more. Because the cowards and lily-livered pansies that make up the nation's largest metropolis have gone soft. The murder rate in New York has dropped to an ignominious low not seen since good numbers became available in 1963. The Big Apple is on pace to have fewer than 500 homicides this year. Perhaps we should change the city's nickname to "The Big Pussy," "Magical Unicorn Village of Love," or "Candyland."

What in god's name is happening to New York? When did The City That Never Sleeps become such surrender monkeys? Was it the day a bank branch opened on every single corner that wasn't already occupied by a Starbucks/Subway/McDonald's? Was it when the Yankees stopped winning everything? Was it when the hipsters started moving to Brooklyn and brought their yuppie girlfriends, boyfriends and LP collections to Bushwick?

But more importantly, how can New York reclaim that foundational murderous rage that has kept the city throbbing, sweating and working since Peter Stuyvesant tore off his own leg to club the Native Americans off of HIS chunk of Manhattan?

Here are some recommendations to get New York back in it to win it with this murder rate thing. Come on, New York. You can do it.

1. Install fire axes and sawed off shot guns in every subway car: Imagine the subways as a mass-transit Mad Max with insane homeless men battling junior high schoolers whose Ritalin has worn off, disgruntled postal employees, out of work writers and the odd coked up wall street douchebag and you've got a good start on reclaiming past glories.

2. Board up every Starbucks in the city: The resulting caffeine withdrawal and screeching of angry coffee junkies scrabbling for a fix should be enough to set off the bodega owners, who've been making better coffee than Starbucks for 1/3 the price. Result? Class war.

3. Ban baby strollers from Park Slope: The uber-cultured, monied mommies will soon lose their veneer of civilization when they actually have to carry their whelps AND their breast pumps. Then when they realize the Starbucks is closed (#2, above), they're doubly likely to freak out and try to club the nanny with the Baby Mozart DVD, improving our "blunt impact" numbers.

4. Block all Spanish language television broadcasts: Combine this with #3 and watch the effect on the underpaid, maltreated illegal immigrant nannies from Guatemala who can't see their telenovelas anymore. The crankiness levels in half of Brooklyn's homes will skyrocket. "Look out, Mom, Guadalupe's got a knife! And she's not using it to cut my afternoon snack!" This is not even to speak of what withdrawal from the shouts of "GOOOOOOOOOOOOL!" will do to the underpaid illegal immigrant men who keep the city functioning.

5. Outlaw Pest Control: Between roaches, bed bugs and rats, New Yorkers without the services of exterminators will simply freak-the-fuck-out, day and night. After 48 hours, the paranoid entomophobic hallucinations kick in and suddenly it's "I thought he was a giant roach, officer!"

What should the new Stem Cell Method be put to work on?

2007-11-20T21:26:00.000-05:00

Medicine routinely grows in leaps and bounds, but surely the new stem cell method is the most promising of advances in many a long year. How should we put this great leap forward to use?

--Use the new advances to cure loud cell-phone talkers

--Somehow revoke Rachel Ray

--Stop middle-class kids from calling each other "son"

--Recreate Al Pacino’s ability to act instead of just going "hoo-ah" and shouting in every role

--Silence the incessant beating of the bongos and tambourines in my mind

--Produce a race of super-obese behemoths to rule North America

--Stop Hollywood from making movies like Beowulf, Fred Claus and numbered installments of Saw

--Cure blogging

Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 1

2007-11-18T20:52:00.000-05:00

Well hello there, you sweet, tasty thing. Where’d you come from? I bet with that snow white skin, the Belle and Sebastian record playing on repeat on your ipod as you slept and the pimples on your chubby liltte dumper, you’re from Minnesota. I don’t know why. Let me just throw Minnesota out there. What the hell?

You’re cute. And you taste good too—like you just went organic two, three months ago when you got to New York for college and your roommate turned you on to the chemical free life. But there's still that residual growth-hormone-laden cheese flavor. Maybe that's how I came up with Minnesota. Ah, what do I know? I wonder how long you been in the neighborhood.

Me? I been here for a while. That is, my people been here a while. Though they ain’t exactly people. You just set me up pretty good for a week, maybe ten days. Actually, if need be, I can survive on that little meal for 10, 12, maybe even 18 months, since you’re organic and all. And I can see I didn’t hardly leave no mark either, so you may not even notice I bit you at all. Sweet!

What’s that? You object to me calling this neighborhood Bushwick? East Williamsburg, you say? Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it. You go ahead and call it that if you want. I don’t mind. Sounds kind of exotic to me. I mean, Bushwick is what I always called it, but don’t let me stop you.

Thing is, the neighborhood’s been getting so interesting lately. Lots of variety. I bit a Japanese kid last week when he was sitting in that little café with the cushy chairs and reading that art magazine. He tasted like ginger. And a week before that, I bit some guy with a beard who was riding a fixed gear bike when he left his apartment. The walls of that place were all lined with funky looking canvases with string and shit hanging off ‘em. He tasted sort of like an olive mixed with a smoky humus, if that makes sense. Very rich.

I don’t know. Some of the locals are complaining, but I like what’s happening to the neighborhood. All this delicious new blood—so tasty, so adventurous. It’s nice. A bedbug could get used to this kind of variety. I think I like gentrification.

Anyway, I gotta crawl back into the baseboard since the sun’s getting ready to come up again.

See you soon, sweety.

Curtis

Haiku About Incest #3 Featuring Murderous Blackwater Mercenaries

2007-11-06T20:21:00.000-05:00

Blackwater killers
Made me hump my own mother.
It was really hot.

Where The Fecking Hell are Shane MacGowan's Teeth? Part 2

2007-11-05T20:03:00.000-05:00

Like a phoenix from the flames, the teeth of mighty Shane MacGowan will one day return from where the streams of whiskey are flowing, reassemble in the maw of the master and reveal his great purpose which has, to this time, remained secret. There are those who theorize about the powers of the lost teeth and their current whereabouts. And there are those who couldn't care less. At Blogbovine, we fall in the former camp, but really only just.

Theory #3: Trying to convince the Rebbe Menachem Schneerson to return as the Moshiach. Since his death (or, should we say, the perception of his death?) one prominent MacGowanian dental theory holds that at least one (possibly more) of Shane’s teeth is roaming the American southwest in an undercover Mitzvah Tank conducting an ongoing halakha argument to convince the Rebbe to return as the Moshiach and, oi, the argument it’s been! What’s a tooth gotta do to get a posek to side with him anyway?

Theory #4: Guarding the secret of Jimmy Hoffa’s whereabouts. Shane may not be a man who can respect a good secret, but his teeth sure can. One of the mush-mouthed singer’s canines is engaged in maintaining a magic spell to obscure the location of the erstwhile Teamster tough’s shallow grave, somewhere outside Detroit and surprisingly close to a former MC5 rehearsal space. Now, if any corpse-seeker gets too close, his mind is buffeted by the duel wailing guitars of Wayne Kramer and the late Fred "Sonic" Smith, resulting in nausea, disorientation and temporary amnesia. For a reason known only to the tooth, the would-be ghoul invariably turns up in a nearby diner, having ordered a large chocolate shake and onion rings.

Theory #5: In A Tolkien-ian Alternate Universe...
Three teeth for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of plaque,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord in his dark shack
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Tooth to rule them all,
One Tooth to find them,
One Tooth to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

What Will Blackwater Do If Forced to Leave Iraq?

2007-11-01T21:36:00.001-04:00

Here at Blogbovine, we hate to see people lose their jobs for ANY reason. But we won't be shedding any tears for the controversial, murderous mercenaries at Blackwater Worldwide, because New York City Schools Chancellor Joel Klein has already started a pilot program at P.S. 343 in Flushing, Queens to improve the school's security situation. What have they done so far?

--Guidance counselor shot and killed for "recklessly eyeballing" Blackwater convoy heading to the cafeteria

--Parent coordinator and kindergarten teachers waterboarded to get info on kindergarten student Juan Chrisantos’ booger joke

--Blackwater ops granted immunity in corporal punishment cases involving "enemy combatants" in grades K-5

--Special Education class 4-7 subjected to three periods of stress positions for making fart noises

--Mercenaries provide at-risk chorus members with homework help 3 days a week

--Blackwater Operatives utilize silencers to assassinate Assistant Principal Matthews and Math Coach Elwes

--Off-duty Blackwater Mercenaries string Thanksgiving decorations with excess piano wire garottes in school library

--Photographer and assistant cut down in a blaze of gunfire during picture day mishap involving flash photography and nervous Blackwater Ops

Where The Fecking Hell Are Shane MacGowan’s Teeth? Part 1

2007-10-30T21:10:00.000-04:00

Shane MacGowan is, or was, many things—brilliant songwriter, charismatic front man of the Pogues, house of cards about to collapse under his addictions, tragedy of wasted talent.

But why is he crumbling? We at Blogbovine believe his lost teeth are the true source of his strength. They will, one day, return to the formerly great man, to rejuvenate him and restore him to his full powers, like a drunken, Irish Voltron—all-powerful, unstoppable.

And where are those choppers now? Were they truly the putrid stumps of decay they appeared to be until they dropped out? No! Those hunks of calcium were endowed with supernatural powers. And as their condition appeared to worsen, they were actually preparing to split up and go into deep cover. And there they remain, to this day, faithful to their mission: Aggrandizing the drunken, backward underdogs and devotees of lost causes wherever they may roam, battling the forces of darkness and preparing for their return.

But where the fecking hell are they, exactly? There are many theories—too many for a normal human number of teeth, anyway. Here are a few of ideas:

Theory #1: The Isle of Avalon, preparing for the return of King Arthur
Arthur was, after all, a Celtic legend, so what better than a magically empowered bicuspid of Shane MacGowan to raise the great King from his slumber, restore him to full health to install a new golden age across all of Europe? Could this Arthur-led Super Europe be a counterweight to China’s growing power? You bet it could, especially with the poetic vision of Shane MacGowan side by side with Arthur, the magic of Merlin and all that merry band of chivalrous, fruity tough guys in medieval tights.

Theory #2: Atlantis!
Can anyone seriously doubt that one of Shane MacGowan’s supernaturally powerful teeth is deep under the sea, in the lost civilization of Atlantis, where it is assisting the, um, Atlantians in their mission to teach humanity to live under water once the ice caps melt? In fact, the tooth can be seen in an easter egg cameo in Tomb Raider Gold, but we’re not revealing how!

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Semi-Ambulatory STAPH Infected Brother

2007-10-29T17:50:00.000-04:00

Good Heavens! These new diseases and ailments are popping up everywhere—Kids dropping dead from MRSA and Staph infections, Bird Flu, West Nile Virus, SARS, Monkey Pox, Super AIDS!

Whoa, whoa, negative Nelly! Are you going to let this new race of super germs get you down or are you going to take that funky, unsightly pustule on your lemon and make penicillin-laden lemonade?

That’s what we thought. But maybe you’re having a little trouble getting that relentless optimism kick-started. Remember, only by the god-like act of creating can we stave off destruction and death, if only temporarily. That’s why we’re throwing together a few suggestions to put some Zip-A-Dee-Do-Da back in your ongoing chess match with an agonizing death from the new plague du jour. Feel free to use any of these art-starters to beat back the feeling of the grave’s icy tendrils slowly wrapping around your legs… squeezing… ever colder… inexorably…

Sorry! Try these!

Paint a series of Naugty Nurse paintings a la Richard Prince, but with scarier warnings.

Write a new cookbook and pitch it with Rachel Ray: 30 Simple Meals with Necrotizing Flesh

How about a dating guide? Lesions In Love: Finding Romance in the Presence of Unsightly Skin Eruptions

A magical realist novel? Love in the time of Drug Resistant, Air-borne Chlamydia.

Write new, maudlin Country songs, modled on old, maudlin country songs like "He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Staph Infected Brother," or "I"m So Lonesome, I Could Contract a Hideous Disease Just To Join a Support Group."

Make some giant Richard Serra-esque sculptures with an explicit agitprop angle.

Write a chirpy broadway hit play in which a plucky hero overcomes the odds of his illnesses through ripped off songs--Ass Cancer, The Musical!

(To the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody")
Mother,

ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh,
There’s cancer in my ass,
I wish my ass was not so full of cancer!

(To "Blowin in the Wind")
A tumor, my friend Is growing in your ass
A tumor is growing in your ass

(To the tune of "Yesterday")
Rectal probe,
That thing’s reaching up

To my ear lobes
And the Doctor is

A bit gung-ho
Oh, I can’t stand

This rectal probe

Silver Screen Skeeter reviews "30 Days of Night"

2007-10-27T14:16:00.000-04:00

Well, it's been awhile since I been to the movies on account of I been lookin' for my cat Frodo. But now I done give up on him. He musta wandered off to some other abandoned subway station.

It left me real low down and broken hearted, loosing that dang cat. I only got him cause one afternoon when I was singing Hank Williams tunes on the grates near the Virgin Megastore, a little old lady come by with a box of kittens and she got hit by a bus. Them kittens done scattered every which way and I wound up with one.

Having a little kitten was a tower of work and care, but I said to myself "Ol Skeeter, you gotta feed two mouths now!" And it weren’t regular cat food like the kind I usually eats neither. Cause there wasn't nothing too good for my Frodo. So I bought the special kind with low ash and all, seein' as it's better for a wee kitten like that. But since Frodo up and gone, I switched back to the ash kind. That ash flavor grows on a feller and I didn't like that low ash kind too good.

Anyhow, I took the money I saved from only having to buy for one and I went and seen me a movie. Lucky for me all that cat urine in my jacket gets me kinda high, so I didn't have to buy no hooch neither.

I seen that "30 Days of Frights." It was in a real dark place with lots of snow. Then a bunch of Arkansas hobos came swoopin' down on the town and tore it all ass from elbow. I ain't never seen a hungrier, ornerier bunch of hobos as Arkansas hobos. So I wasn't too surprised to see them whooping it up and causing a ruckus like that.

But they sure talked funny. Maybe it was them fumes from the cat pee, but it was hard to understand them. I guess that Arkansas accent is getting weirder and weirder with all them illegal immigrants coming in from China and Switzerland and Zaire and whatnot.

Anyhow, them townspeople, they creeped and crawled around as long as they could till them Arkansas hobos left town or got them selves killed, and since they done their best all them 30 days, I gives this movie three wine bottles out of five.

30 Days of Night (2007)
Starring: Josh Hartnett, Melissa George and Danny Huston
Directed by: David Slade

Them Arkansas Hobos sure caused a heap of trouble.

Haiku About Incest #2, Featuring a Gratuitous Motley Crue Reference

2007-10-25T19:47:00.000-04:00

Our step-sister's bras

Make my bird feel very strong

She's got looks that kill

Men Who Wear Dresses and the Multi-Culti Mavens Who Love Them

2007-10-24T20:16:00.000-04:00

Maybe they're not dresses, but each of these legging-less lads has a cadre of global village devotees.

The Dalai Lama:

Enlightenment is a panty-less saffron robe away, child.

The Scots:

Aye, it may look like a skirt, but I'm wearing nowt under it. Now get tae fuck, ya junkie cow, ye!

Roman Togas:

I came, I saw, I cross-dressed.

Grass Skirts:

For jungle crotch-rot, there's nothing like paddling a canoe around the lagoon, legs akimbo, in this airy little number.

Saudi Thobe:

We're, like, totally commando under here dude. And Allah is cool with that.

Kimonos:

I will beat your ass for the glory of the Emporer and the honor of my dress.

Actual Transvestites:

My cock and balls just feel more at home in this Nicole Miller knock off.

All About Oxen: A Short Nature Documentary Script

2007-10-19T19:17:00.000-04:00

Narrator: Oxen are the most powerful and intelligent animals on earth. Their broad, muscular backs, opposable thumbs and rock-like exoskeletons make them the greatest fighting machines the world has ever seen.

In 323 BC a single ox held up the advance of Alexander the Great’s army for nearly three weeks, simply because it wished to continue grazing in this field. The Ox was never defeated. It merely grew tired of the field and wandered off to beat the crap out of 60 Hittites camped nearby. (Pan across this image, a la Ken Burns.)

How awesome is the ox? Behold: (A montage of napalm exploding, ice cream falling from a cone, various atolls being destroyed by atomic bombs, Britney Spears and Madonna kissing, sumo wrestlers colliding, the Tacoma Narrows Bridge collapse, the Indonesian tsunami, Gerald Ford falling down, the cat on the ceiling fan, Zidane’s headbutt, grown men weeping)

All of this and more is within the ox’s powers. Woe betide he who dares challenge the ox!

Working Titles of Led Zeppelin Songs

2007-10-19T18:52:00.001-04:00

-Whole Lot of Coitus

-Stairway to Peggy’s

-Dazed and Befuddled

-The Guest Worker Song

-Living Loving Maid (I Got a Hand Job)

-The Song Will Never Be the Same

Haiku About Incest #1

2007-10-16T21:20:00.000-04:00

Mother, oh mother

I lust for only one thing

more than you: Grandma