I'm in a shitty mood and I'm taking it out on my blog

Since I'm in a bad mood, I'm going to make you all suffer with me—so I'm doing ANOTHER Britney post. Two in a row! Ahahahahaha!

Anyhoo, I read today that Britney had to send out her security team to stop Federline from getting little Sean Preston's ears pierced. What a harpy! She's always butting in on crucial father/son bonding time. Like the time she freaked out when K-Fed blew pot smoke in SP's face—he was just trying to teach his son the importance of sharing! And then there was that time she got upset when Kev took the kid to the dog races. What's the big deal? Sean loves doggies! The worst was when she put the breaks on K-Fed's plan to get SP his very own "Pimp" tattoo. Those African tribes always tattoo and brand babies and shit. Plus, Sean Preston needs to learn how to be a man. Lighten the fuck up, bitch.

Remixed, reinspired, retroactive abortion

Guess what! Britney Spears is ready for her comeback! Trent over at Pink points out that Brit-Brit's fan club site has been updated with a new design and the headline "Remixed, Reinspired, Refocused—A New Chapter." I guess that means she's going to leave little Sean Preston in nothing but a pair of Huggies to climb about on the Trans-Cameros on blocks in front of the mansion and get back into the studio to produce more magic for us navvies. Don't worry, y'all—there will be a nanny watching to make sure little SP doesn't get into the discarded Lucky Strikes and Blatz cans strewn about the lawn.

I can't wait to see what lil' Brit has in store for us! I expect "remixed" alludes to—what else?—a wicked awesome remix album! Let's hope she's working on some new material, too—I'm particularly anxious to hear a cathartic ballad about how great it is to be married to a parasitic backup dancer. Riveting!

Along with this exciting comeback comes a new fragrance, called In Control. This is a really great name, because Brit hasn't reminded us in a while that she's a big girl who can make her own decisions and I totally forgot about that. Anyway, the scent is said to be a heady mix of vanilla, creme brulee and sandalwood. I think it's really wonderful that some enterprising perfume company has finally found a way to translate "tacky" into smell form. Be sure to act fast for this one—it's limited edition!

This thrilling news also raises an important issue: will Britney and K-Fed collaborate? Will they tour together? And, if so, will they leave little Sean at home with the hired help or set his car carrier by the side of stage while Brit lip-synchs and Federline busts out some mad tight moves? Will the competition rip them apart? I guess only kabbalah knows.

SIDE NOTE: Speaking of talentless prostitutes, I did not just hear Jessica Simpleton singing that blasphemous rendition of "Boots" in a frigging commercial, did I? For Pizza Hut? For some kind of "poppable" crust at Pizza Hut? No, I couldn't have. That would have meant the world had ended.

* Lola, thanks for the title terminology—Viva la Ville!


Ashley Parker Angel: Oh my frigging god

I am going to say with no shame whatsoever that MTV may have created the most deliciously vicious reality show ever: "There and Back: Ashley Parker Angel." If you haven't been privvy to this masterpiece, it follows former boy-bander APA as he tries to embark on a solo career/comeback. Sounds basic enough, until you add into the mix that he's completely broke, he's living with his pregnant girlfriend and her mother and appears to sleep in an attic. Don't tell me MTV isn't paying him until the end of this mess. If so...hilarious!

There is so much to love about this show. Ash keeps talking about being "creative" and "making music" and complains of his vocals being too "pitch" (which I think is the boy-band equivalent to "stock", for you "Some Kind of Monster" fans out there). He doesn't know how to grocery shop (and somehow manages to get his cart stuck in the automatic doors at the store), thinks it's his management team's fault that he can't get a hit, complains about how hard his life is to a PREGNANT CHICK and constantly hits up his girl's mom for money. To add to the merriment, Ashley "pops" out of scenes to commentate on what's going on. It's one of the strangest production devices ever and ratchets the cheese factor up at least another 15%.

The "There and Back" costars are just as fun. The preggers girlfriend hates boy bands, claims to be a model, which I need some evidence of, and actually seems to kind of hate Ashley. Ash's former boy-bandmate, a guy with the nattiest dreads ever, now owns a monkey, works construction and drives a crappy, rusted van. The guys that Ashley pretends to write songs with are constantly blowing smoke up his ass, with such empty bon mots as "That sounds so cool!", "Awesome!" and "I love that, dude!"

Anyway, I'd like to thank MTV for offering this outstanding addition to their lineup—it salves the pain of having "The Gauntlet" on first in the Monday night 10-Spot®. Yeah, I got sucked into the marathon...so sue me. By the way, has anyone ever really bought that "Baby Got Back-pick-up-the-phone" ringtone or that annoying dancing chicken avatar?


The boys of my youth

I think I'm back in 1987. Suddenly, I'm sitting in my sunny yellow bedroom (plastered floor to ceiling with metal posters), listening to "Appetite" when suddenly my mom bursts through the door, looks around in disgust and announces, "Who do they think they are? Long hair and earrings!" before storming back out. She just didn't understand, man.

I thought I'd dedicate this post to those glory days back in 1987 when Steven Adler was still in GN'R, Metallica still had long hair and Headbangers Ball was still good. Here, I present my seventh-grade rock crushes, complete with super-sexxy pix torn straight from the pages of Bop and Metal Edge. Omigod, aren't they soooo cute?

10. John Taylor, Duran Duran
He's glammer than Simon, more brooding than Nick, slightly less drugged out than Roger, and a hell of a lot prettier than me. But seriously, what girl didn't want to do the entire band, even though they all wore more eyeliner than my entire seventh-grade class?

9. Brian Baker, Junkyard
I'm a little embarrassed to admit this one because, in retrospect, I have no idea why I found this guy hot. Maybe because he had blonde hair he reminded me a little bit of my No. 1 crush, perhaps? There's really no explaination. You should see him now—if you saw Jani Lane on Celebrity Fit Club then you get the idea.

8. King Ad-Rock, Beastie Boys
The Beastie Boys were originally a punk band, so he counts. He was such a little prep-school shit, with that whiney voice and his wild antics, when they first came out. Then he married ultra-cool Ione Skye, apologized for dogging chicks and grew out of the frat schtick. I had a fish named Ad-Rock when I was in sixth grade, but he didn't even live a week. However, my crush lives on—Ad-Rock is still totally rad.

7. Axl Rose, Guns N' Roses
I don't believe that cornrowed, facelifted, Botoxed creature that has been going around claiming to be Axl Rose is THE high-cheekboned, leather-clad, crab-walking sex god I remember from the "Sweet Child O' Mine" vid. When he started acting like a diva—not to mention and abusive dickhead—my crush died. But in my youthful innocence, I thought he was truly beautiful.

6. Reed Mullin, Corrosion Of Conformity
Reed has the distinct honor of being the only drummer on my list. Does anybody out there know whatever happened to him? I tried to 'net-stalk him and couldn't find any current info.

5. Brent Muscat, Faster Pussycat
Taime was the popular choice for lusters, but I preferred dark angel Brent, with his sultry eyes and dreamy smile. Plus, how can you not love a man who accidentally ripped a fan's prosthetic limb off thinking it was a mannequin's arm and proceed to play guitar, scratch his butt and high-five people with it?

4. Jason Newsted, Metallica
Remember when Jason had his hair shaved all around the sides and he would whip the remaining long hair on top around in a rock-out frenzy on stage? That was so awesome. (Thanks, Karen!) Despite all of James' and Lars' hazing and pranks, he came out of the Metallica experience with the most dignity—and he still looks pretty fucking good.

3. Nikki Sixx, Motley Crue
How could someone so vile, revolting and all-around bad be so loveable and adorable at the same time? Not to mention, he is virtually indestructible (see "My favorite rock scandals", No. 2).

2. Michael Hutchence, INXS
Once when I was in fifth grade, and I was at an age where I still thought guys were pretty grody, I saw a picture in US magazine of Michael Hutchence wearing nothing but a white towel and I remember thinking, "Wow, I really, really, really like boys." Back then, INXS was my favorite band and I even had an INXS t-shirt that had all the words to "Mediate" on it. How cool was I?

1. Duff McKagan, Guns N' Roses
Oh, Duff, beautiful Duff. How I loved you! When I was in seventh grade, I seriously thought I was going to marry him someday. Once he realized how supportive I would be and what a loyal fan I was, he would never want to look at another stripper again! Plus, I knew everything there was to know about him, including his drink of choice (screwdriver), his favorite movie ("A Clockwork Orange") and his birthday (February 5, 1964—I had to look that up to see if I remembered correctly; frighteningly, I did). I had about 50 posters of him, but my favorite was a fold-out with him standing and holding his white bass, wearing leather pants, a jean jacket and a ripped up CBGB shirt (before they were being sold at Urban Outfitters) and he looked SO! HOT! Once, my friend Shane kept telling me he would sell me his "Duff collage" for $5 and when I finally saw it, it was just a piece of notebook paper with a few pics of Duff slapped on it. I know he threw it together right before he left for school that morning! What a rip-off. Anyway, looking at Duff now, he's in good physical shape, but you can tell that whole exploding kidney thing really did a number on him. It's OK—I still have the memories of my number one rock star of 1987!


I thought this post would be more exciting than it is

Trent over at Pink is the New Blog has the scoop of the week and if you haven't seen it already, well then click over there right this minute, missy. It's a photo timeline of Katie Holmes' "pregnant" belly—hilarious photographic evidence proving that even though a baby might appear in a few months, it sure didn't emerge from her womb. Who does she think she's fooling? There is totally some poor woman being held against her will in a $cientology compound somewhere until she gives birth. The baby will immediately be whisked away, her mind will be erased Men in Black-style and she'll come to somewhere in the desert 124 miles outside of Reno. I envision all kinds of pomp and ceremony in the presentation of the baby to Tom and Katie by the sea org members in their fake navy uniforms, with a wall-sized portrait of L. Ron looming over them all.

This seems like a great time to mention that $cientology is something else that sickly fascinates me. It's not so much all the cultish tendencies, the auditing, the weird ship-shaped building they have secret meetings in, the mind-melding, the crackpot "Xenu" theory, the e-meters, the "sea org", the psych- and med-bashing, the personality tests, the dianetics books and the general asshattery. It's that it's really just too easy to make fun of—it's almost as if it was made specifically for people to point and laugh at. Don't forget: the first letter in "$cientology" is not an S...it's a dollar sign! Get it? 'Cause they pay celebrities to align themselves with the madness, while the plebians shell out their lunch money to sweat and starve in some unmarked, windowless building in the middle of nowhere. All in the name of clearing away those pesky thetans.

I thought this was going to be more fun to write about, but I'm starting to get bored. I can tell when a post is crashing and burning. I'll leave you with this ponderance: why does the Geiko lizard have a British accent? Or is Australianan? Either way, it doesn't make any sense.


The only thing we have to fear is...Federline

It's time to repent, people, because the antichrist is here. And he has appeared in the form of a slimy drifter named Kevin Federline. This one-man baby factory is on a mission to repopulate the earth with the unholy seed of his loins and create a heathenistic Federtopia, a cultish reincarnation of Jonestown, white-trash style. Remember that time at the Video Music Awards when Eminem walked in with a whole bunch of guys that looked like him? I expect this is the effect K-Fed is going for.

Talk about a person who is famous for doing absolutely nothing (well, except for Britney) and then proceeding to continue poisoning well past his 15-minute expiration date. I just read that little Brit-Brit thinks having another baby might help save her relationship with the spermintor. Good thinkin', Brandine. Cletus is well-known for taking care of the kids he's got already.

The other "news," and the reason I'm writing about these two dueling banjos, is that Federfucker has released a rap tune called "PopoZao," which I just had the distinct pleasure of hearing. Believe it or not, it's not as bad as you might think. It's worse—WAY worse. It's so laughably bad that I really can't even comment on it. After all, its' mere existence is ludicrous enough. And no, I don't have any fucking idea what "PopoZao" means, either.

Rather than giving myself a lobotomy with a rusty spoon to forget I ever heard this, and because I'm currently stoned on cold medicine (and, oh yeah, because I have no life), I decided to torture myself more with a visit to Brit-Brit's official site. Why? I don't know. Why not? That's the NyQuil talking. I guess that I'm in a particularly venomous Brit-bashing mood.

I'd like to comment first on the design. Now, when I think of Britney Spears the first thing that comes to mind is not bubbles, gazing balls and ethereal mermaids. But then again if the design theme focused on Kool butts, Slim Jims and empty cans of Schlitz it might not have much of a pleasing aesthetic.

On to the content. While it's almost too easy to ridicule Britney's "letters", I find it far more ridiculous that we are expected to shell out $24.95 A YEAR to be a member of Princess's "fan club." While we are promised a "members-only website," "a welcome package, full of Britney goodies," and "regular updates and important notices from the fan community," I expect that means up-to-the-minute info on Brandine's Cheeto runs and Starbucks excursions. If we're lucky, the members-only website will feature more crappy pictures of her looking like a gutter-dwelling whore on a meth binge. I can't even begin to imagine what is in the "welcome package," so I'm just going to move on from that.

Prepare yourself for what's coming next: Brit's "Dog Crib" segment, which features pictures of Bit-Bit's room. That's right, folks. The little rat she totes around with her has its' own room. Oh, and there are pictures. It appears that this room contains the fallout from an explosion in the Emerald City, as well as a tiny little bed that the dog probably shits on and what looks like a China cabinet for some reason. Oh, and there's also a giant Potty Pad spread classily at the foot of the bed, indicating what I already assumed: that this dog is left to run free throughout the mansion to piss and shit where ever it feels like with no consequence. Also, it looks like Bit-Bit's room is conveniently equipped with a night table and what looks like a couple of jewelry boxes. Jesus Christ. Spare yourself the agony of this visual—"Dawn of Black Hearts" is only slightly more disturbing.

Brit's insipid "letters" and "stream of consciousness" messages are worthy of a whole other post. I'm sorry, I just don't have the strength to tackle that right this moment. The 'Quil is starting to kick in and my brain has been reduced to mush from all the dreck I have exposed myself to. I could say it was all for the good of the blog, but since there are roughly two people that actually read this, I'm blaming the meds for making me delusional.

UPDATE: Holy shit, according to the questionably reliable Urban Dictionary, "popozao" means either a "large, voluptuous ass" or "a dirty, talentless leech that sponges off his baby's mama," both of which describe Cletus to a T. Criminy.


BREAKING NEWS: Mayhem banned in Indonesia

In a completely unexpected turn of events, it appears my favorite batshit crazy Norwegian death metallers have been turned away at yet another border. According to their official site: "First Malaysia, and now Indonesia. For, more or less, the same reasons Mayhem were banned in Malaysia, they have now been banned in Indonesia as well."

I'm not sure exactly what this means, but rest assured that I'm on the case. Details to come...


More Mayhem: It just keeps getting weirder

If this blog has taught me anything, it's that the depths of my obsessiveness knows no bounds. Exhibit A: my endless morbid fascination with Mayhem. Here are some more super-fun facts I dug up:

• A couple of years ago, a fan suffered a skull fracture after being hit by a flying disembodied sheep's head that the band launched off the stage. After the accident, the fan was quoted as saying, "My relationship with sheep is a bit ambivalent now. I like them, but not when they come flying through the air. I have a headache now."

• Necrobutcher's real name is "Jorn Stubberud" and his previous bands were called Vomit and Fleshwound.

• At his murder trial, the always-appropriate Count Grishnackh wore his hair in pigtails and giggled during the proceedings.

• Count Crapula wasn't sure how he was going to kill Euronymous, so he brought along three knives, an ax, a ball bat and a BAYONET with him. Where in the world do you even get a freaking bayonet? Anyway, the next day the douchebag dressed up in full Viking regalia and showed off the murder weapon to whoever was in his path. Finally, a band of satan's cheerleaders that he bragged to ratted him out. Tattletales.

• Dead's suicide note read, "Excuse all the blood."

• Mayhem took their name from the song "Mayhem With Mercy" by the band Venom.

• Euronymous fancied himself an evil scientist of sorts and even kept a bunch of illegal chemicals in his basement that he would mix together while laughing manically. He walked around in a lab coat trying to come up with mixtures that would cause explosions.

• Euryonmous's record label was called Deathlike Silence Records.

• When he owned the record store, Euronymous threw some legendary parties, during which all the little goths would sit around in capes and Viking outfits, cutting themselves, while Euronymous flogged himself with a bullwhip. Then he would bring out popcorn and sodas for everyone and they would all lay on overstuffed pillows and watch "Halloween II" and talk about which black metal guys they think are cutest.

You know, I used to have a dream tour bus crash that would wipe out Sugar Ray, Smashmouth and Coldplay in one fell swoop, but now I think I would rather see a deathmatch between these guys and Mayhem. That would be so awesome. They could come out and knock Mark McGrath, Chris Martin and that singer from Smashmouth's heads together and then take pictures of the carnage for their next album cover. All these bands that think they are hardcore have nothing on Mayhem.


I have the Golden ticket

Observations on last night's Golden Globes ceremony:

• I love Reese Witherspoon. She is so completely adorable and talented and I'm glad she won. Consequently...

• I hate Gwenyth Paltrow with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns. That fake-accented, prep-school-snob, anemic bitch hates the U.S. so much, I'm shocked that she would fly over from perfect London to grace us with her presence, even if it is for the uber-classy Sir "ANT-ony" Hopkins. How can she leave her equally-anemic, annoying, untalented husband and "Apple" behind for so long? Dare I say she came back to suckle at the teat of the industry that made her a millionaire celeb? Oh, no, I shan't say anything like that.

• While looking for bad outfits is always one of my favorite parts of any awards ceremony, I think I might have to update to looking for bad boobs. Someone needs to tell these chicks how to properly lift and support! I'm talking to you, Drew Barrymore and Mariah Carey. Even Gwynnie learned something from that horrifying "chicken cutlets" incident. Drew looked worse than when she was on the speedball diet.

• Speaking of bad boobs: Pamela Anderson. Seriously. Why is is this woman considered hot? She looks like an aging drag queen. Just....ew. Ew, ew, ew.

• On the other hand, anyone who thinks Mary Louise Parker is hot is after my own heart. She is one sexy broad. And she won for playing a homemaking pot dealer. Sweet.

• Best acceptance speech: Steve Carrell (or, rather, his wife). Worst: Sandra Oh. Shut up already.

• Creepiest aging: Harrison Ford. Geesh, what's up with that guy? Maybe humping a skeleton makes you look like a escaped convict.

• If only Heath Ledger had won, he could have joined me, Joaquin Phoenix and Jonathan Rhys Meyers in the winners' orgy backstage. Oh, well, I think we can still give him a pass...

That's all. Back to the winners' orgy. Come on in, Heath...


Eric Avery has no idea he is my boyfriend

I've been thinking about Eric Avery today, which is not terribly unusual, because most days I'm rocking out between the headphones to the purely genius Polar Bear, his post-Jane's Addiction, post-Deconstruction, pre-Alanis-backing-bassist, pre-Garbage-tourboy project. I've never met anyone that knows who I'm talking about when I bring them up, and when I do, I expect that person will be my proverbial soul mate.

While Perry was creating controversial art, fucking people onstage and talking about "looooooove", Eric was quietly creating the hypnotic bass rhythms that, face it, nearly every Jane's Addiction song was based on. I've oft believed that bands don't even need a bass player unless they are USING the bass, not just as a mechanism to strengthen the guitars, but as a foundation to the melody that guides the other instruments and complements what's going on around it. Eric Avery is a master of this—the man had both "Brahms" and "Butthole Surfers" stickers on his bass for god sakes. His post-Jane's projects prove his brilliance. Navarro was out marrying Carmen Electra and doing really fucking lame reality TV, while Eric was remining loyal to the music that he really wanted to do, whether it made any money or not. Biff Sanders, who is the other brainchild behind PB and used to be with the industrial band Ethyl Meatplow, adds samples and drums with the experimental riffs that push the boudaries of "alt." and still manage to completely rock. I just felt like I had to mention Biff because he is awesome, too, but Eric just makes me gush, because I always loved him the most in the Jane's days.

I sound like a psycho when I talk about this guy because this music has so intrigued and impressed me that it makes me want to cry. I have so much respect for someone who remains true to themself, even if it is not the most popular way to go. It doesn't hurt if they also completely rock and are also pretty freaking cute. This is why Eric A. is my boyfriend, even if he doesn't know it. Seriously, I swear it is a healthy admiration. If he read this, I'm sure I'd have a restraining order against me within 24 hours.

UPDATE: I'm starting to sober up now and I'm completely horrified by this post. I sound like a raving lunatic! Jesus, no more saki bombs for me...


'Tis the season for best, worst, whatever

I was all psyched up when I heard Mr. Blackwell released his yearly best and worst dressed list...not so much. He's stupid, but I really WAS psyched that my nemisis Princess Britney was named the number one worst dressed celeb in '05. Not that I'm anti-white trash (being white and a little bit trashy myself), but I don't have money pouring out of my butt with which I could buy pretty much any outfit I see in a store window. And I'm not considered a hot piece of ass by half of America (or maybe I am, who knows).

Anyway, the point is, if you have that much money and that kind of reputation you can at least give a little teeny, tiny semblance that, yes, you may be failing miserably, but you ARE trying. Even if you don't know Dolce & Gabbana from Deb, you've got money—hire a stylist to help you. At least have a little respect for the pre-teens with no parental guidance and the middle-aged paedos that use you for jack-off fodder. They spend money to see you as a sexpot. Don't just throw your ratty, falling-out extensions up into a sloppy top-of-the-head pony, a tie-front blouse, tie-dye peasant skirt and your favorite Uggs from '03 and just waltz on out to the Starbucks with your equally badly-dressed and sleazy husband slouching behind you calling everyone "dog." Oh, and that time that you went out with some kind of zit cream on your face that looked like you just starred in K-Fed's first bukkake film? Yeah, that was REALLY bad.

Because it's Britney, I actually like it. I hate her. HATE HER. Keep dressing like a blind prostitute, Brit-Brit. Everytime you get kicked down a notch an angel gets its' wings.

Also on the list was J-Simp, who I also hate. "Tee hee, it's funny to be stupid!" Yes, honey, keep "acting." In the meantime, hunky Nick can find himself a nice Ohio girl, like he should have in the first place.

Rounding out the top 10:
• Mary-Kate Olsen. OK, yeah, she always looks like a bag lady, but she's so little and tiny and frail and you can just put her and her little ragged dresses into your pocket and carry her around with you. And then you can pet her and feed her and love your little pet named Mary-Kate, the poor little moppet.

• Anna Nicole Smith. I call shenannigans...did Blackwell even see her this year? 'Cause no one else did.

• Eva Longoria. I don't really get this one, plus I actually like her. I think she is completely adorable, albeit completely overexposed. I think he just chose her because it's easy and he picked Nicolette Sheridan last year.

• Paris. Again, too easy.

• Lohan. I don't even know what kind of clothes she wears, because her hair is always completely perfect, but something else about her came out today that completely bugs me and it doesn't have anything to do with fashion. She's now claiming that Vanity Fair misconstrued comments she made about drug use and eating disorders in the article they did on her this month. Get over yourself, Lohan. Like anyone would believe either one of those things weren't true. And like any self-respecting professional journalist (especially for a reputable mag like VF) would inverview a star without recording it. Even Michael Jackson couldn't sue Vanity Fair about the article they did on him. Quit blaming journalists and live up to your mistakes, bitch.

• Renee Zellweger. I don't really get this, either. I don't really have an opinion on her, and I certainly don't have an opinion on her fashion choices. All I know about her from this year is that she married that country guy for a few weeks. And that she needs to eat a few sandwiches.

• Mariah. Give the girl a break. She's crazy.

• Shakira. I don't know much about her outifts, but I DO know is that I wish I had that bod.

Um, yeah, and Blackwell? WHERE ARE THE MEN?? Any one of these people could have easily been replaced by Federline.


More on Mayhem: I'm scared

OK, since my post yesterday, my morbid curiosity about Mayhem has been reignited (and why I didn't just ignore these feelings, I will never know).

Anyway, a quick little search on the 'net turned up these fun Mayhem facts (WARNING: Disturbing stuff ahead):

• Euronymous owned a record store in Oslo called "Helvete" ("hell" in Norwegian).

• He also founded a merry little band of goth rockers called "The Black Circle" that pranced around on nights of frolic during which they would set churches on fire, vandalize cemeteries and intimidate bands from Sweden.

• Before he went to kill Euronymous, the criminal mastermind Count Grishnackh dropped a friend off at his own house to "make a lot of noise, such as typing and playing loud music" so his neighbors could say they heard him at home during the timeframe of the murder. Imagine that police interview: "There is no way that my neighbor, who goes by the name Count Grishnackh and plays in a death metal band called Mayhem, could have committed this brutal murder at 5 p.m. on Saturday. He was at home at 5 p.m. on Saturday. How do I know? I heard loud music. And typing."

• They have songs called "Chainsaw Gutsfuck", "Necrolust" and "Procreation of the Wicked." Their first demo was titled "Pure Fucking Armageddon."

• Other members of the band include guys named Attila, Blasphemer and Maniac.

• Dead sniffed the bird in the bag to "get the stench of death before every song," according to bandmate Hellhammer.

• One rumor circulated that Count killed Euronymous because he was jealous of his evil reputation, which, you know, you can sort of understand.

• Another rumor suggested that he stabbed Euro 23 times in an effort to outdo a member of rival band Emperor, who stabbed a guy only, like, 21 times.

While reading all of that was certainly enjoyable, the downside of this little research project happened when I came across a photo of the "Dawn of Black Hearts" album cover. If you remember from yesterday's post, that's the one featuring the lovely Polaroid portrait of the dead body of the drummer fresh off his suicide. Do not, I repeat DO NOT, follow my lead and look for this unless you want THAT image burned into your head for the rest of the night. I think I will look at some pictures of the Care Bears now...

My favorite rock scandals

VH1 ain't the only one with a bunch of lists. I, too, enjoy lists and despite the fact that my opinion means a hill of beans for most, I will pretend it does and compile some here—because it's MY blog and I can do what I want, dammit. For my first list, I will present my fave rock n' roll scandals, because who doesn't love a little debased debauchery?

10. Jerry Lee Lewis Marries His 13-Year Old Cousin
Yeah, it's obvious and all, but even by today's standards, it's still pretty freaking shocking. Not only was Myra a little kid, but SHE WAS HIS FUCKING COUSIN. Pretty amazing that even though it turned the world against him then, his music is still considered classic stuff. 'Cause the Killer's killer. Even if he is a pedo.

9. John Bohnam Drinks Everyone (In The Whole World Ever) Under The Table
Arguably the greatest rock drummer ever goes to that big dive bar in the sky after drinking (OK, get ready) four quadruple vodkas, approximately 40 shots and assorted other poisons. Lightweight.

8. Judas Priest Kills People
Two stoners off themselves after listening to "Better By You Better Than Me" and it's all Rob Halford's fault. It actually goes to trial, but JP gets off and lives to rock another day. And hopefully doesn't to continue encouraging their audiences to kill themselves. Because that makes all kinds of sense.

7. Paul Is Dead (And He May Not Be The Walrus)
This one's fun because of all the absurd "clues" that led people to believe that the Beatles would rather have them guess that Paul is dead than just come out and say it. Seriously. Think about it. "Oh my God, when you play the song backwards it kind of remotely sounds like they may or may not be saying 'turn me on dead man'...that must mean Paul is dead!"

6. Pretty Much Anything Involving Jacko
Yeah, I know he's not rock. But admit it: whether you like the music or not, you'll stare at that gory car accident every single time it crashes into a tree. My personal fave is the unintentinally hilarious Neverland broadcast where he talks about the cops taking pictures of his junk. Priceless.

5. Nuge Adopts Girlfriend
The guy behind "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang" becomes the legal guardian of a 17-year-old girl just so he can fuck her. Now that's rock.

4. Dave Mustaine Is A Whiney Bitch
It's not really a scandal—more of the most fucking embarrassing thing I think I've ever seen a so-called metal dude do. Dave participates in therapy with Metallica (which is pretty embarrassing in itself) and whines to Lars about how Metallica ruined his life when they kicked him out. When a band known as "Alcoholica" kicks you out because they think YOU are drinking too much, I think it's safe to say that there might be a little bit of a problem

3. Led Zepplin Goes Fishin'
In yet another quintessential rock moment, one of the Led Zep crew (possibly a band member, but more likely one of their roadies) inserts a mudshark/red snapper/crappie into a groupie's danger zone. May not have even happened. Paul was not actually dead, but I like to believe that this is one rock rumor that really happened, 'cause it's just too wonderfully sleazy.

2. Nikki Sixx Dies, Comes Back To Life, Shoots Up Again
Nikki is, in my opinion, the purest example of a true rock star for ODing, being pronounced legally dead, revived and then runs away from the hospital to shoot up the largest batch of heroin he's ever done. Now we know how he gets his hair that way.

1. Mayhem
The same country that brought us A-Ha also brings us possibly the biggest batch of nutballs in the whole history of crazy. You just know a band with members named Necrobutcher, Hellhammer, Euronymous, Dead and Count Grishnackh is going to deliver with some scandal. Oh, it's BEYOND scandal. Schizo drummer Dead buried his clothes for months so he could wear rotten rags onstage, kept a dead bird in a bag so he could smell it before shows and ended up killing himself by slitting his wrists AND shooting himself. When Euronymous came across the body, he took pictures of it—photos that later became the cover of Mayhem's "Dawn of Black Hearts" bootleg—then allegedly ate part of Dead's brain and chipped off pieces of his skull to make some lovely jewelry. THEN, for reasons that are not entirely clear, bassist Count Grishnackh stabs Euronymous 23 times and kills him. The Count, an outspoken facist and neo-nazi , is currently doing some hard time for sundry fun offenses, including arson against several churches, carjacking and a prison escape. So what's Grish up to these days? Using his time in jail to write a new album—just him and a synthesizer.
Um, yeah...it's only the best story ever.


Narnia: What SHOULD have happened

Ah, Narnia. That magical land from the timeless tale that so captivated me as a child. This is the tale that inspired me to crawl to the back of every closet I could find, in the hopes I would push back the clothing and my fingers would brush against soft, fragrant pine needles and I would be at the threshold of a new world, covered in snow that sparkled in the light of the famous lamppost. What was it about this story that so piqued my imagination and filled me with the wonder and whimsy of fantasy and fantastic places?

Seriously, what was it? Because I don't remember the last half of the story to be so obvious, flat and actually really, really lame. Or maybe that was just the movie. Maybe I should re-read the book before I go off on the movie version, but what fun would it be to provide an informed rant? I'd rather just bitch about how the film version told it.

First of all, I distinctly remember, even as a kid, feeling kind of sorry for Edmund. I never understood why he was the one that always got shit on. He was sort of like Peter Brady: his voice changed and ruined Greg's song. He had to wear a fake mustache on a date. He accidentally broke Marcia's nose, ruining her career as a teen model before it even started. He had to play Benedict Arnold to Greg's Johnny Bravo. Yeah, he was going to sell out his family and everything, but he was basically just a misunderstood kid living in the shadow of a goody-two-shoes older brother.

Which brings me to point number two: Mr. Man Peter. I hated that fucker from the first time I even heard this story. He got everything for doing absolutely nothing, except be a constant condescending prick. And the pouty, pretty actor that played him in the movie made him even more annoying. "Look, I'm leading the army and riding a unicorn (pout)!" "I need to bail my kid brother out again (pout)!" "If only he would just realize I'M the oldest and I'M the smartest, then he would stop getting himself into these darn pickles and quit dragging the rest of us down with him (pout)!" How in the world did that asswipe get to be the heir to Aslan's empire? He just waltzed in off the street and..."Oh, no! Our capable, experienced ruler has been brutally murdered. Why doesn't the guy that just showed up and who we don't even know become our king! We always wanted a patronizing smartass with no leadership experience to call the shots around here!"

(Hey, wait a second...that sounds strangely familiar. A patronizing smartass with no leadership skills calling the shots...oh, nevermind. Back to the rant)

Third, having the two girls in the story is worse than not having the girls at all. They were completely useless. Their presence in the story seems to be based solely on the fact that the Narnia prophecy called for two "daughters of Eve" to save the world. Sure, Lucy served a small purpose with the whole Tumnus subplot and Susan got to shoot an arrow once, but other than that, all they do is kvetch and mother hen (Susan) and say, "But what about Tumnus/Edmund/the Beavers/Aslan?" (Lucy). The least they could have done in the film is update the roles of the girls. Even The Lord of the Rings had a kick-ass chick.

Finally, the White Witch was so much cooler than everyone else in the story that I wanted her to kill them all* and live frostily ever after in her ice castle with her vile minions and all of her awesome outfits. She could so obviously have crushed any and all of the Pevensie kids and pureed them into Turkish delight with a mere stamp n' grind from the heel of her white Jimmy Choos.

Here is what should have happened: Aslan and the White Witch could agree to disagree and both could vow to lighten up and divide Narnia equally between the two of them. Half of the country could live in winter and the other half in summer and the citizens can be free to roam between the two with no fear and prejudice. At the very least, Edmund should have gotten the chance to lead the good troops against the White Witch to avenge her having taken advantage of him. Better yet, Aslan should have hosted a fight to the death between Edmund and Peter, with the option to tag in Lucy and Susan. Then Edmond could rip his brother to shreds, Lucy could refuse to treat him with her healing potion and Susan could riddle him with arrows (which would be great for some St. Sebastian imagery), with the moral lesson that brown-nosing and patronizing behavior will get you nowhere with your peers. That would be sweet.

Yes, I understand that the story and characters are based on Biblical tales, but the presentation in this movie played up the allusions to the point of blatant obviousness and made the story far too obtuse to work correctly or even make the audience care. Hey, how was that for a 50-cent sentence?

*except Aslan—he was also cool—and Mr. and Mrs. Beaver because they are so darn cute