Nothing I can say can top the video. Imagine being the photog who had to make this call. Maybe 'slinger can come up with something poetic about this situation, but every time I watch it, it just gives me the willies.
Wonder if he's still got a job or just getting the suits for that furlough plan they concocted to save a little dough?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
DISTURBING
The last time I went to a rock concert, Ozzy was recovering from rabies. That doesn't mean this old turd can't rattle his brain with the best of them. So I piled Krusty and a couple teens into the Turd-Brown Taurus and headed south to what was billed as a celebration of heavy metal lifestyle.
I always thought of head-banging as more of a quick way to get a headache than a lifestyle, but hey, I'm game. So we crowded the lot of the arena with several thousand like-minded live music fans to get down with the sickness. After all, this is the Music As a Weapon tour featuring Disturbed.
I'm not sure what happened to music on my way to middle age, but it's changed . . . and not for the better.
Back in the seventies, The Who set the record for the loudest concert in history -- 131 decibels if my aging memory serves me correctly -- and you could still understand the lyrics. And the only four-letter words you ever heard were "rock" and "roll." Today, rock shows are about distorted noise and demonic hollering. And lead "singers," if you can call them that, fling f-bombs around like beads off a Mardi Gras float.
Rock and roll used to be about music, lyrics, showmanship, and women. . . Okay, it was about women.
Today it's about beating the crap out of total strangers.
Women included.
At least Krusty had the good sense to stay out of the pit, though he did body surf to the stage and slap hands with some dude with dreadlocks and a microphone.
Rock and Roll used to be about rebellion. Individuality. And the contact high you could get walking past the door to the arena.
Yesterday, I saw more thinning mullets and bad ink than on my last trip to Louisiana State Penitentiary. So much for being unique. And I actually heard one old coot complain when the guy next to him lit a cigarette.
Yep, the audience at your standard rock show has changed. Pre-pubescent punks from the burbs decked-out in pasty make-up and black because they think it looks hip. They drag aging yuppies from the Beemer to backstage where the old fart hopes to prove to junior that he's still got the chops he had when he was in college. Here's a clue. Kid, that make-up makes you look gay. And Dad, old dudes in pony tails are creepy.
We saw 10 bands in just over 10 hours. All-in-all each one sucked a little less than the one before it. Only four put on any kind of show. While their "music" ain't my thing, Killswitch Engaged kicked major ass. And Lacuna Coil, has a sound just unique enough to make them stand out in a crowd of screamers.
But for my money, the best music of the day had to go to four teenagers from Coweta, Oklahoma. Crooked X. Leif Garrett good looks and pipes to boot, combined with some face-melting guitar licks and just a really cool attitude won them a spot in my iPod.
And of course thanks to Disturbed for helping me prove to Krusty that the old man can still bang his head with the best of them.
Now, please pass the Tylenol.
I always thought of head-banging as more of a quick way to get a headache than a lifestyle, but hey, I'm game. So we crowded the lot of the arena with several thousand like-minded live music fans to get down with the sickness. After all, this is the Music As a Weapon tour featuring Disturbed.I'm not sure what happened to music on my way to middle age, but it's changed . . . and not for the better.Back in the seventies, The Who set the record for the loudest concert in history -- 131 decibels if my aging memory serves me correctly -- and you could still understand the lyrics. And the only four-letter words you ever heard were "rock" and "roll." Today, rock shows are about distorted noise and demonic hollering. And lead "singers," if you can call them that, fling f-bombs around like beads off a Mardi Gras float.
Rock and roll used to be about music, lyrics, showmanship, and women. . . Okay, it was about women.Today it's about beating the crap out of total strangers.Women included.At least Krusty had the good sense to stay out of the pit, though he did body surf to the stage and slap hands with some dude with dreadlocks and a microphone.Rock and Roll used to be about rebellion. Individuality. And the contact high you could get walking past the door to the arena.
Yesterday, I saw more thinning mullets and bad ink than on my last trip to Louisiana State Penitentiary. So much for being unique. And I actually heard one old coot complain when the guy next to him lit a cigarette.Yep, the audience at your standard rock show has changed. Pre-pubescent punks from the burbs decked-out in pasty make-up and black because they think it looks hip. They drag aging yuppies from the Beemer to backstage where the old fart hopes to prove to junior that he's still got the chops he had when he was in college. Here's a clue. Kid, that make-up makes you look gay. And Dad, old dudes in pony tails are creepy.We saw 10 bands in just over 10 hours. All-in-all each one sucked a little less than the one before it. Only four put on any kind of show. While their "music" ain't my thing, Killswitch Engaged kicked major ass. And Lacuna Coil, has a sound just unique enough to make them stand out in a crowd of screamers.
But for my money, the best music of the day had to go to four teenagers from Coweta, Oklahoma. Crooked X. Leif Garrett good looks and pipes to boot, combined with some face-melting guitar licks and just a really cool attitude won them a spot in my iPod.And of course thanks to Disturbed for helping me prove to Krusty that the old man can still bang his head with the best of them.Now, please pass the Tylenol.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
SNOT
Edi-turd's note: This is not a new list of band names. As the title suggests, it is a tasteless trip in to the rather flavorful mucus clogging my head. You'll need a strong stomach to proceed.
It's been a while. . . sue me. Truth is, I ain't felt much like nothin'. A glob of green slime has taken-up residence in my frontal lobe, and try as I might, I ain't been able to evict it. It feels like someone took an ice pick and jammed it up my left nostril. A searing pain sort of radiates from there and encompasses what's left of my face.
The past week and a half I've washed down three Benedryl with a shot of Nyquill and drifted into a medically induced coma by 8:30, only to wake up around 1am and do it all again.
If we weren't so damn short at work, I would have called in sick days ago. But the holiday season brings on all manner of off-time, and those who are left have to pick up the slack. . .
Sorry, had to spit. Not even Crayola has a name for what just came out of me. Remember the old spin painters when we were kids? Imagine a dollop of blue, yellow, green and just a dab of red sitting on the center when you turned it on -- delicious.
Where was I? Picking up the slack . . .yes. I cough and wheeze my way through each day, wiping the fungus flowing from my nose on the sleeve of my station fleece . . . hell, I'd wipe it on a flaming yule log that would make it go away.
Outside ain't so bad. Something about the cool temps and the humid air seem to mollify the drip. But as soon as I hit the door my nasal passages leak all the way to my belt. I may just start wearing a bib like I put on my kids while they were teething. By the end of the day, my goatee is glazed.
At night, it's another Bene-quill cocktail or two.
It's a good thing I don't whine when I get sick, or the STW would have thrown my ass out a week and a half ago.
It's been a while. . . sue me. Truth is, I ain't felt much like nothin'. A glob of green slime has taken-up residence in my frontal lobe, and try as I might, I ain't been able to evict it. It feels like someone took an ice pick and jammed it up my left nostril. A searing pain sort of radiates from there and encompasses what's left of my face.The past week and a half I've washed down three Benedryl with a shot of Nyquill and drifted into a medically induced coma by 8:30, only to wake up around 1am and do it all again.
If we weren't so damn short at work, I would have called in sick days ago. But the holiday season brings on all manner of off-time, and those who are left have to pick up the slack. . .
Sorry, had to spit. Not even Crayola has a name for what just came out of me. Remember the old spin painters when we were kids? Imagine a dollop of blue, yellow, green and just a dab of red sitting on the center when you turned it on -- delicious.
Where was I? Picking up the slack . . .yes. I cough and wheeze my way through each day, wiping the fungus flowing from my nose on the sleeve of my station fleece . . . hell, I'd wipe it on a flaming yule log that would make it go away.
Outside ain't so bad. Something about the cool temps and the humid air seem to mollify the drip. But as soon as I hit the door my nasal passages leak all the way to my belt. I may just start wearing a bib like I put on my kids while they were teething. By the end of the day, my goatee is glazed.
At night, it's another Bene-quill cocktail or two.
It's a good thing I don't whine when I get sick, or the STW would have thrown my ass out a week and a half ago.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
WRESTLEMANIA
No folding chairs, no smack talk, no busty blonde managerettes, just two guys in tights trying to keep it in a 25-foot circle.
November marks the beginning of wrestling season on the Polisher Ranch, and after a killer rookie season, the St. Michael Warrior Wrestling team is expecting a lot from Krusty the Kid. Last year, Krusty was happy enough just to wrestle. This year, things are different.
He ain't happy unless he's sticking some spandex to the floor.
So from now until mid-February, you can find me in a high school gym screaming my lungs out at a room full of sweaty high school boys.
Did that sound creepy to you?
November marks the beginning of wrestling season on the Polisher Ranch, and after a killer rookie season, the St. Michael Warrior Wrestling team is expecting a lot from Krusty the Kid. Last year, Krusty was happy enough just to wrestle. This year, things are different.He ain't happy unless he's sticking some spandex to the floor.So from now until mid-February, you can find me in a high school gym screaming my lungs out at a room full of sweaty high school boys.Did that sound creepy to you?
Monday, October 27, 2008
2 LEGIT 2 QUIT
It's not much of a secret. Lately, I've had thoughts of flushing this shitty screed. The new restrictions I've placed on myself since my diarrhea of the mouth landed me in time out have taken some of the fun out of waxing craptastic. But Friday gave me hope and has liberated the turd-nation.
No longer must turdiacs cower in the corner or hide in the dark as they peruse their guilty. Friday, TV Jobs, the industry's employment clearinghouse, added a slice of respectability to this fecal-colored page with a link to a recent post.
Right on the front page, next to names like Broadcasting and Cable, USA Talent, The Bakersfield Californian, CBS News, the Fil-Turd waved proud.
Now that I'm a legitimate news source and all, I gotta clean up my act, start using $10 words, get respectable. . . Wait we already got one of those in the photog nation. Guess I'll just go back to calling it like I see it, through shit-colored glasses.
No longer must turdiacs cower in the corner or hide in the dark as they peruse their guilty. Friday, TV Jobs, the industry's employment clearinghouse, added a slice of respectability to this fecal-colored page with a link to a recent post.
Right on the front page, next to names like Broadcasting and Cable, USA Talent, The Bakersfield Californian, CBS News, the Fil-Turd waved proud.
Now that I'm a legitimate news source and all, I gotta clean up my act, start using $10 words, get respectable. . . Wait we already got one of those in the photog nation. Guess I'll just go back to calling it like I see it, through shit-colored glasses.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
MCGUFF AND STUFF
I don't know who Mike Mcguff is, or how he stumbled onto this shitty site, but one mention on his media blog sent my lowly shitcounter spinning way into triple digits.
Thanks Mike. I owe you a solid.
And while I'm at it, I got give a solid to the folks at a like-minded site I fell across by accident.
With my propensity for shit-talking and my turdpolishing career, I don't know how I missed this one, but the folks at Dr. Guff's Turdpolish seem like a natural fit. The promotional info says the poo paste lovingly laid by Dr. Guff himself will put the shine on any crappy product. And in his bio, Doc claims to be an engineer who was constantly being directed to rush product design and development to meet an unrealistic deadline. Sounds like a broadcast professional if I ever heard one.
And since I'm all out of Turd-L-Wax, I ordered my first can of Dr. Guff's Turdpolish last night. I'll let you know if it gives the news that same high sheen I'm used to.
And while I was at it, even though Swamp Ass season is almost over, I ordered a heaping jug of Anti-Swamp Ass Powder. But mostly as a novelty. You're gonna have to fight me for my Boudreaux's Butt Paste.
Thanks Mike. I owe you a solid.
And while I'm at it, I got give a solid to the folks at a like-minded site I fell across by accident.
With my propensity for shit-talking and my turdpolishing career, I don't know how I missed this one, but the folks at Dr. Guff's Turdpolish seem like a natural fit. The promotional info says the poo paste lovingly laid by Dr. Guff himself will put the shine on any crappy product. And in his bio, Doc claims to be an engineer who was constantly being directed to rush product design and development to meet an unrealistic deadline. Sounds like a broadcast professional if I ever heard one.And since I'm all out of Turd-L-Wax, I ordered my first can of Dr. Guff's Turdpolish last night. I'll let you know if it gives the news that same high sheen I'm used to.And while I was at it, even though Swamp Ass season is almost over, I ordered a heaping jug of Anti-Swamp Ass Powder. But mostly as a novelty. You're gonna have to fight me for my Boudreaux's Butt Paste.
Monday, September 29, 2008
GO GATORS
It's a feat never accomplished in the history of organized football -- even in the pros. A team goes up 21-0 without running an offensive play. It happened this weekend. Not on the plastic grass of paid professionals, or the groomed grid iron of the college ranks. Not on a high school football field in Cap City. No, it happened in the middle school game between the St. John Eagles and the St. Jean Vianney Gators. And it was something to behold.
Through the entire first half, the Gators ran exactly zero offensive plays and racked up three touchdowns. The defense returned one punt for a score. Intercepted a pass for another touchdown. And blocked a punt which they returned for another six.
It brought me back to my days as bench warmer for the E.D. White Cardinals. I still remember Coach Mike Boyer, chaw firmly embedded in his cheek, egging us on.
"110. 110. 110" Our pre-pubescent voices warbled and creaked in a chorus of middle school machismo. But I didn't sign in to reminesce about the my own grid iron glory (even if I did hold the record for most yards per carry on my 8th grade football team).
The Littlest Loaf Pincher is following in the big Turd's footsteps. An amazing feat when you consider he inherited his athletic ability from a man with the athletic prowess of Spanish moss.
And follow in my foot-steps he did, right onto the kick-off team. That's where generous coaches put the guys too small or too slow for the first team.
That's him, number 34 tackling that Eagle schmuck who thinks he's going to score. Because it was a rout, he and the rest of the second string got to play a lot of defense.
In this day of high-dollar heros and grid-iron gangstas cavorting and showboating on the field, it was good to see kids playing for fun. Sure, they wanted to win, but the Gators and the Eagles came to compete and shake hands at the end of it all. Something that is sometimes lost on coaches and parents in the stands.
And if Sunday's game is any any indication, the LLP may spend a lot less time on the bench than his old man.
Now have I ever told you about how I earned a 6 yards per carry against the Sisters of Pain and Agony 5th graders? Don't laugh, those girls were HUGE. . .
Through the entire first half, the Gators ran exactly zero offensive plays and racked up three touchdowns. The defense returned one punt for a score. Intercepted a pass for another touchdown. And blocked a punt which they returned for another six.It brought me back to my days as bench warmer for the E.D. White Cardinals. I still remember Coach Mike Boyer, chaw firmly embedded in his cheek, egging us on.
"110. 110. 110" Our pre-pubescent voices warbled and creaked in a chorus of middle school machismo. But I didn't sign in to reminesce about the my own grid iron glory (even if I did hold the record for most yards per carry on my 8th grade football team).
The Littlest Loaf Pincher is following in the big Turd's footsteps. An amazing feat when you consider he inherited his athletic ability from a man with the athletic prowess of Spanish moss.And follow in my foot-steps he did, right onto the kick-off team. That's where generous coaches put the guys too small or too slow for the first team.
That's him, number 34 tackling that Eagle schmuck who thinks he's going to score. Because it was a rout, he and the rest of the second string got to play a lot of defense.In this day of high-dollar heros and grid-iron gangstas cavorting and showboating on the field, it was good to see kids playing for fun. Sure, they wanted to win, but the Gators and the Eagles came to compete and shake hands at the end of it all. Something that is sometimes lost on coaches and parents in the stands.
And if Sunday's game is any any indication, the LLP may spend a lot less time on the bench than his old man.Now have I ever told you about how I earned a 6 yards per carry against the Sisters of Pain and Agony 5th graders? Don't laugh, those girls were HUGE. . .
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