Archive for January, 2010

Roid Rage From The P B & J Guy

January 28, 2010

I need to stop turning these things into online novellas. I shudder at times to think of the time I’m wasting on what is the most humiliating hour of television the week has to offer this side of Jay Leno’s Self-Immolation & Variety Hour. Its just such sick, depraved fun, though. I’ll see if I can’t make this one brief for all our sakes.

After a quick trip down Sizemore Memory Lane where we finally see Tom return to the program in a state of Supernova Fucked Uppedness and begin 48 hours of “sleeping it off” we get treated some brief tantalizing tidbits from the McKenzie Phillips Lifetime Special, “Father Knows Incest Best”. The worst of it isn’t that Phillips isn’t telling all to her program pals when she hints at the dee-fucking-mented relationship she and her dad shared, it’s that Dr. Drew feels the need to highlight it all with cheesy voice overs.

Okay, Pinsky. Alright. We’ve seen Inside Edition. We’ve walked through a supermarket check-out aisle. We know the tale. I know it burns your ass that you couldn’t get into this crap with her during the show and, in turn, set your ratings on fire. I guess making sure we’re reminded of it at every turn is the next best thing.

Anyway, the episode quickly turns into the Joey Kovar Roid Rage Experiment.

Joey Kovar Celebrity Rehab

I'm sorry, are you going to beat me with your peanut butter & jelly?

Y’know, why try to rehab anyone from an MTV reality show? What’s the point? Aren’t they more entertaining on drugs than off? Take this steroid abusing mouthbreather here, for example. In celebrity terms, a complete nobody, dumb as a spare tire and with all the personality of a warthog with a brain injury. We get to hear, for example, a conversation with his beloved pregnant girlfriend who’s politely asking him about money and his repsonse, essentially, is “Get a job, bitch!”

He’s just that sweet.

Now, all pissed of because the future mother of his child had the audacity to talk about monetary needs, he’s losing it in a simmering state of rage, ready to detonate at a moment’s notice. Dennis Rodman consoles him luckily, telling him (pardon the paraphrasing) “You’re not married. She can’t touch any your money. You can take it straight to your agent and she won’t get shit. You the star, baby.”

It gets worse, however, when, while making a particularly sloppy peanut butter & jelly sandwich, Joey flies into a rage because the camera men are sticking cameras in his face. On a TV show. The overcompensating-for-a-small-penis Jersey Shore Wannabe threatens to kick their asses and what not then sits down to stew and eat his P B & J. All very scary, I assure you.

    Dear Joey,

    Get back on drugs, please. There’s no reason not to. No one will ever hire you for anything ever again. Your chick wants all your dough and that snot nosed kid just won’t stop screaming. The second you get released from this chicken shit rehab go out and buy a bag of coke and get back on that horse, buddy. Then find yourself some iron piping and track down a camera man. It’s all good.

    Love,

    Ken

The episode meanders from there. Some aggression therapy during which we see Dr. Drew get disturbingly excited while watching Joey smash up a car with a sledgehammer. Does anyone know if he’s straight or not? That look on his face might at least mark a touch of bi-curiousness. Certainly wearing a black visor and safety goggles in public opens up a world of questions about the man, you must agree.

Dr. Drew Pinsky

I don't know about you but I don't take mental health advice from
guys who think wearing a visor and safety goggles is a good look.

In the end, we see Sizemore awaken from his prolonged slumber looking fresh as a daisy. That was just picked out of an orangutan’s ass, that is. He cuddles sickenly with Heidi, who just naturally looks like an orangutan’s ass. When seen from the inside out.

After that, a bit of a tease, as we get a little preview of the next act in the Circus. Keri-Ann, the outcast renegade douche bag princess kicked out of Pinsky’s Sex Rehab, will be coming to the PRC for drug treatment, likely turning the entire facility upside down with shrill, whining drama and ridiculousness.

Four episodes in and I’m pretty sure I now want drugs more than ever.

Nice work, Doctor.

Iron Council

January 25, 2010

I’ve been talking too much about TV lately. Time to get more literate and show off about how I do actually read books from time to time.

Right now I’m gleefully ensconced in this.

Iron Council by China Mieville

Why did I avoid this novel for so long? Aside from my obsession with reading mass market paperbacks, that is, a format in which China Mieville’s Iron Council was never actually released in this country. It wasn’t until I bought an import version, the Pan UK 2005 one (thank you Book Depository), that I actually had it on my shelves.

Still, it remained unread for an extended period of time, constantly overlooked in favor of Richard Morgan, Alastair Reynolds and Neal Asher. I think I know the real reason why, though.

Essentially, I was afraid to be disappointed. Perdido Street Station was a work of such shining, astonishing, dark beauty that reading it was like falling into some sort of fantastical trance to me. It was that good. Words like jewels on every page, ideas and atmosphere that you could taste. Characters and story that made you jealous that you’d never come up with such brilliance yourself and still you wanted to mimic it. Pure genius as far as I’m concerned, an utter, absolute classic.

Then came The Scar which, after reading Perdido, I tracked down and devoured with relative quickness. Not as good, however, or, should I say, not as transcendent. Because it was actually an excellent follow-up and quite amazing in it’s own right. But not quite as giddy a read. Then, when Iron Council was released in hardcover and I began to seek it out, there came a smattering of somewhat indifferent reviews that I had the misfortune to happen across.

And the fear took me. China Mieville was going to be one of those authors who shot his wad early and would never reach the heights he’d done with his first works. Iron Council would mark a definite downward slide that would tarnish my memories of Perdido.

Christ, what an idiot I was. Y’know, sometimes, folks. Just sometimes. The reviews on Amazon are not the best place to seek out reliable information. Just saying.

Iron Council is magnificent. More absorbing, more dramatic, more fascinating than The Scar. Filled with original, intriguing characters and ideas that once again show us the monumental imagination we have before us that is China Mieville. The writing style that features such a unique brand of descriptiveness, such an original way of presenting a narrative, is all there in spades. This, plain and simple, is a master of wordcraft at work. Period.

Goes to show, my friends. Trust the talent. If there’s something you love don’t let anyone sway you otherwise.

China Mieville’s Iron Council, and all his works for that matter, are highly recommended.

I’m In The Sweatbox

January 23, 2010
Mindy McCready Seizure

Down Goes McCready! McKenzie Phillips cackles with delight.

It’s The Feel Good Episode of the Summer.

For all the grim uncertainty surrounding the cliffhanger ending to last week’s Celebrity Rehab, this week took a quick turn to the postitve as we were finally allowed to see the sweet, caring side of our celebrities which, it turns out, is more sickening to watch than vomit splaying detox scenes.

It starts out with the much anticipated Mindy McCready seizure which is covered with relentless completeness. In fact, after seeing her go spare and slide off the bed twitching at least 8-15 times in the show’s first 5 minutes I felt my own brain start to lock up and my vision turn all white at edges. Enough already. Of course, while McKenzie Phillips, after a few minutes giggling at McCready realizes what’s going on, starts screaming and running for help, the camera man closes in for some really juicy close ups of the convultions, the spitting and drooling and animalistic grunting. It’s awe inspiring, for sure.

In the end, the trusty man boob sporting resident tech Will comes in to cushion her head and calms things down for everyone. Eventually McCready is taken out on a gurney to the hospital, sobbing, and someone wakes up Dennis Rodman (who has slept through the entire episode) who heroically rushes out to the ambulance to comfort her and tell her “We’ll pray for you.” Touching, I know.

But that’s just the beginning of the love we get to see in this one, folks. Mindy returns to the Rehab Center in the wee hours of the same night, seizure fre ebut with a dislocated shoulder, to be embraced by Phillips who welcomes her back to the room they share. It’s tender and loving but you can see the terrified look on McKenzie’s face is like, “Christ, are we going to have a spastic episode every other night in this peace hole now?” McCready tells us how moved she is by Rodman’s show of tenderness.

Then, it’s Friends and Family night as each resident gets a visit from someone close to them, except for Heidi Fleiss who, we learn, is only really close to birds, not people. She lives in the desert with over 20 parrots and toucans and what not, remember? Apparently they couldn’t catch a flight for this one. The highlight, then, is Mike Starr, no longer a greasy bag of hatred and angst, who shows us all how he has the mind of an 11 year old boy as his “friend” (who looks like he might be the moderator of an online Mike Starr fan forum) brings Mike a bag of his old picks from his Alice in Chains days and Starr goes around to the other folks in childlike glee handing them out, like anyone cares. “Have a Mike Starr pick. Mike Starr, AIC.” People humor him the way they would a 4 year old distributing bits of construction paper the kid had cut up.

This all ends fairly well, though. And from then on it’s the Tom Sizemore Sweat Show.

Tome Sizemore Celebrity Rehab

So what's you're opinion on life without meth, Tom? Oh.

The man can sweat, folks. We see only a teasing preview of things to come in this episode as, whenever the questions become a little difficult, Tom turns on the Head Faucets. This is not a well person, people. Days, weeks, years, of constant meth abuse have turned him into a rambling, shambling mess. He wanders into the program, disjointed, confused, shaky and manic. He looks like pure living hell and yet he carries a recent newspaper and likes to discuss how the press is “crucifying” him again. Hrm. Gee, Tom, whatever sort of negative stuff would they have to report on?

The interesting part of his arrival is how, even there amongst the sticky residue at the bottom of the Hollywood barrel, there remains a heirarchy. Sizemore comes in and spots Dennis Rodman, runs over to him like an autograph hound, pressing the flesh, chatting excitedly, looking up like a true fan. Rodman feeds off the vibe, looking distracted and annoyed, treating him like another shmuck he met outside Chicago Stadium back in the day.

Then, up runs little boy Mike Starr for his own fan moment, hopping about as if to say, “Tom Sizemore’s here! Tom Sizemore’s here!” Now Tom has his chance to turn the tables as he inquires who Starr is and gives him the looking-down-from-above vibe that he’d just received from Rodman. It’s good to see that the system remains in place even at this disfunctional level so a person always knows their place.

In this case the order being: 1. Has-Been Former NBA Star 2. Drugged Out Failed Film Actor 3. Washed Up Ex-Rock Bassist.

Know. Your. Role.

The episode wraps up with Heidi Fleiss, the woman Sizemore was sentenced to a 16 month prison term for abusing, rushing to embrace her former smack-down paramour upon his arrival, calling him, “Doggy, Doggy.” Watching them embrace is stomach churning to say the least. The queasiness is short lived as Tom decides he’s not hanging out and rides off into the sunset for parts unknown. The fact that he showed up with a carry-on bag full of drugs maybe should have been the first clue that he wasn’t at the program for the long haul. Off into the night he rolls. Cue some pensive, philosophical Dr. Drew morality narration.

Next week: Some no-name ex-MTV reality show minor character goes apeshit. Can’t wait.

Mantracker

January 21, 2010

Mantracker

At some point I need to do a lengthy expose on the Ken Socrates household phenomena that is Mantracker. I guess a new season debuted last night and I missed it, which annoys me.

Maybe you know the show, maybe not. It’s shown from time to time here in the U.S. on the Science Channel (I guess it’s the science being mantracking…?) and it features this gruff, horse riding throwback character who looks and acts exactly like he just walked off the set of Lonesome Dove. The thing is, he’s for real. Obviously. This guy is fucking serious, he lives that life, he’s about as genuine as it gets. This is not a dude you’d fuck with.

So each week they get a team of two people from various different walks of life and set them loose for two days in a different remote location in the Canadian wilderness (the show is filmed and broadcast originally north of the border) and the game is that these folks have to get to a certain location some miles distant within 36 hours while trying to avoid Mantracker, who’s a trained specialist in hunting down fugitives. They are on foot and have a head start and have a map to their destination. He is on horseback and has a local guide to assist him.

It gets wild and wooly, I tell you, and it’s nearly impossible to stop watching once you’ve tuned in to an episode. You want to see what happens. He uses his a near forensic approach to tracking, noticing the most minute broken branch, overturned rock or half-footprint, to determine where they’re going and try to intercept them while they skulk through thickets of underbrush to try and avoid him. It all usually ends in a furious chase and, depending on the personality of the “prey”, you often find yourself rooting for Mantracker to run them bitches to ground.

The contestants and he, I swear to you, take it seriously. I’ve seen people break down crying and screaming at being caught and they’re always scared out of their minds when he and that big horse come galloping around a turn hot on their trail. I’ve seen hims pissed off as hell, too, at some stunt someone tried to get under his skin. They both want to win badly.

It’s thrilling shit, I tell you, and, as someone who’s spent time in both postitions of Hunter and Prey, I find it fascinating. Of course, I want to be on the show desperately. Pit the Ken Socrates Mountain Guerilla Training against him, maybe some Deep Woods Mindfuck tactics, and see who wins. A match for the ages, I’m sure you’d agree.

If you think it’s your thing, give it a look. If you’re already watching, then you know what I mean.

Beacuse you’re caught, bitch!

Election Day

January 19, 2010

It’s Election Day in Massachusetts as voters line up to pick the person fill the crucial Senate seat vacated by the passing of the Right Honorable Sen. Ted Kennedy. It’s been a heated contest, a close race and the results could have a critical impact on our country’s future should the seat change hands and provide Republicans with that key 41st vote in the Senate. Scott Brown is their hopeful, running a tight race against Democratic candidate Martha Coakley.

I just hate politics. Those of you who know me, know that. The whole process as it exists in this country, the personalities it draws to it and the way it makes them behave, just makes me physically ill. Which is why you never hear too much here on the subject.

That said, this is a big one.

My own political leanings are fairly irrelevant, by the way. I hope, in fact, that you’re not even interested in them. Those of you who are should know that I once took a “political quiz” and placed on a graph somewhere west of Gandhi and south of the Unabomber. What that means is anyone’s guess. I’ve thought of myself at times as an anarchist but the truth is I don’t really know where I fit. Ask me about a specific issue and I’ll tell you but chances are it’ll be a mixed bag. I’m a mutt.

That said.

I felt the need to spout off on something political today on this Election Day. Something related to the voting that directly affects to something I do love. Sports. So if you’re interested, check out the following, posted this afternoon at Hockey Gone Wild.

The Last Days of WEEI.

It’s a long one, I’ll warn you. And possibly of little interest to anyone unfamiliar with the subject matter but, for me, it’s one that I feel pretty strongly about. Make of it what you will.

Time to go vote. And I’m not telling you for whom, either.

Clean My Vomit, Bitch

January 15, 2010
Mike Celebrity Rehab

You lookin' at me? Well, I'm the only one here.

God, don’t you just love a cliffhanger? Even one you can see coming about 17 miles away?

So it turns out that the bassist from Alice in Chains has a name after all and that name is Mike. I figured that out about halfway through last night’s riveting episode of Celebrity Rehab because everyone on the show had said it about three dozen times, most frequently to the man as he stalked the faciity in a leather jacket and red bandana, earphones on, ignoring all human communication.

“Mike. Mike. Can we talk? Mike. What’s wrong, Mike.”

Yes, despite the drama surrounding Mindy McCready’s much hyped and heralded seizure (I think I saw less adds for The Book of Eli than I did promo’s showing this woman sliding off her bed spasmodically twitiching like Don Knotts), this episode belongs to Mike. Even the teasing intrigue surrounding the impending arrival of Tom Sizemore who, at the end of the show, has escaped into the dirty suburbs of Hollywood where he’s skulking about somewhere like a tweaked out Gollum, huddled with a meth pipe, smoking himself into a guy with the brain capacity of a jellyfish, couldn’t put a damper on Mike’s moment to shine here.

I told you right from the start that this guy had serious issues. He was detoxing after about 10 minutes at the facility, pacing the premises like a panther in a zoo. Listen, if a half an hour without putting drugs in your body has you already slipping in a vast abyss of physical and mental distress, chances are you’re in for a rough detox, son. This guy has been putting chemicals into his body in the kind of quantities that would frighten Keith Richards to death; for so many years he’s like a walking hazardous waste disposal dump. The man wouldn’t know reality if it shot him with a 50,000 volt taser.

So at a certain point in the show, after he’s described how he doesn’t want to live without drugs and everything is bullshit, he becomes angrily psychotic with one of the thankless staff members, Shelley, The Albino Waif. She tries to wake him up for some mandatory 12-step meetings and he gets belligerent, asking her to kick him out, calling her a f*****g c**t and then smashing a bedside lamp.

Of course, this is the same woman who has previously had the unenvious task of cleaning up a virtual landslide of the man’s vomit as, sick as hell from detox and a belly loaded with fresh corn on the cob, he wakes up one night and hurls repeatedly onto the floor beside his bed. Gets up the next day and says, “I ain’t cleanin’ it up.”

But his classiness doesn’t end there.

Whilst the stalwart Shelley files an “incident report” about the verbal abuse and destruction of property in an attempt to get him (appropriately so) removed from the program, Mike decides to dress up like an extra from The Warriors and stalk the premises like a Borg Drone, not responding to questions, staring psychotically at camera men and even squatting atop a table at one point to level his half-lidded gaze of dementia at his now rapt audience.

Y'know, when you've freaked out McKenzie Philips, that's something.

Buckets of fun, I tell you.

Now everyone is suggesting that this is an individual so fucked up and set on edge by his enviroment, and detoxing in such a severe way, that he may need an entirely more intensive level of care than they can provide. They consider a psychiatric lockdown and a police escort to get such but, surprisingly, when they finally get him talking and he admits that part of the problem is the stress of being filmed throughout this horrifying process, the decide to keep him on site and hope he can work through things.

Yeah, that’s a good idea. Here’s a man so out of his mind from substance withdrawal he looks like he’s several steps beyond a serial killer mindset, he’s driven to a near psychotic break by being constantly on camera throughout the most difficult moments of his entire life and your decision in terms of the man’s care at this critical life or death juncture?

Keep him on your TV show.

As we know, the episode ends with brief segments entitled Hunting For Sizemore and McCready Goes Spare, leaving us hanging with the a dramatic “To be continued…” as Mindy twitches about on the floor of her bedroom and McKenzie Philips, tower of strength and sanity, starts screaming for a nurse.

After she’s stopped cackling at the woman, that is.

Other notes: Dennis Rodman is still in denial but he gets to clean some dishes. The Real World guy has blown so much coke he can’t even smell the steaming pile of vomit on the floor of his bunk room four feet away from him. Lisa D’Amato is just plain sad, unfortunately. She tells her story and those eyes well up and you can fucking feel your heart start to break.

More hilarious hijinks next week.

Dave’s New Addition

January 14, 2010

2010 Red Jeep Wrangler

Word comes from my bodyguard Dave that he’s gone out and bought a Flame Red 2010 Jeep Wrangler for his wife, mindless, whipped hubby-drone that he is.

I don’t mean to demean the guy, as we all know he’s a family man first and foremost and does a fairly decent job of balancing his duties here and taking care of the Queen and the Princess at home. I fully admit, as well, that I don’t make it easy as I compete for his attention and time with that woman. She’s tough, too. A Dorchester kid (I guess that means something down there in Massachusetts, I don’t fucking know), she’s streetwise and has some finely honed close combat skills. The few times we’ve gotten in each other faces I had the same sort of sensation as when you’re jabbing a pointed stick into a wolverine’s nest. Prepare to protect your vitals.

So, yeah, there are confilcts. I call up the house at last night, “Dave! Someone just sent me two tickets to Saturday’s Nuclear Cowboyz show! Grab a case of duster and meet me outiside the Garden!”

I hear “Uhhmm…” and something in groggily in the backround about Ginsu knives and testicles I know damn well I’ll be partying with Dirty Shelley the Oil Change Girl from Aldo’s Auto Repair again.

But, hey, I understand. I hear the pain in the man’s voice when he says, “Kendude…it’s 3:30 in the morning…” I know he wishes he had the kind of freedom I do sometimes to just do what he wants, to go and rip shit up at the drop of the hat. Grab a bottle of Absolut, a beat up old pick-up truck, some fireworks and a machete and drive screaming into the night for parts unknown. I know. I see some of the gray hair from all the responsibilities that come along with a family, a house, two cars and a shit mess of cats. I get it and, y’know, I can respect that.

Let’s be honest, Dave has accomlished something that I never could. The stability and comfort of a happy, well run home where a young kid can grow up with a sense of security and love. No east task in this fucked-up mess of a world we’ve created for ourselves, so kudos to guy for that.

Still.

Motocross, dude. Mo-to-cross.

Anyway, he tells me her Highness is quite happy with the Wrangler, that, with 4-wheel drive and those over-sized tires it’s about as good a vehicle in the snow as you’re going to get and, given the outdoor lifestyle they sometimes like to lead, it’s the perfect vehicle for some of their Northern Adventures. Then, in the summer, the top comes off and the music gets turned up loud and it’s all wind and sun.

Jesus, when he puts it like that, if it doesn’t sound good. Looks like they still manage to have some pretty fun times despite all the day to day grind and what not. Go figure.

Nice job, Dave. Now don’t forget to stop by Munitions Depot on your way up here on Monday for that case of black powder and copper piping I ordered.

Dirty Shelley should be gone by then and we got work to do.

Monster Island Rehab

January 8, 2010
Heidi Fleiss Celebrity Rehab

Yeah, I blew the Smog Monster one time, so what?

It’s admission time. And no, that doesn’t mean I’m going to fess up anything about my involvement in the Holy Cross Girl’s Lacrosse Team sex scandal. It’s never been proven that I was anywhere near Worcester the night of the alleged incident or that I do indeed own a Roman Gladiator costume, either. So keep your paternity tests to yourselves and let’s move on.

No, I’m talking about admitting something even more embarrassing than impregnated Catholic co-eds.

I’m talking about Celebrity Rehab.

And my addiction to it.

Let’s be honest. It probably has something to do with enjoying the sight of people more fucked up than I am, that’s true. It’s not like I’m getting anything terribly emotional or intellectual out of watching leathery old b-level celebrities throw up and blow snots on each other. No, the enjoyment that I feel watching the show is a bit more visceral. And let’s be honest, it is enjoyment, through and through, at seeing the miserable, venal, gutter level abyss that these delusional, self-important Celebri-douches have brought themselves to through substance abuse.

So is it wrong to gain enjoyment out of someone else’s pain?

Not in this case, friends. These are not the down and out underpriviledged of the world. These are pampered, wealthy fame hogs who have used whatever small level of public notoriety they’ve gained, and the money that comes along with it, to fund spectacularly indulgent chemical dependencies. They have, as you might say, made their own beds and it turns out those beds are in the Pasadena Recovery Center.

Good luck to this Doctor Drew guy, by the way. A seemingly decent, intelligent, good hearted guy with, I think, a genuine desire to help folks who’s created for himself the Monster Island of rehab facilities. Makes the guy on Animal Planet who takes care of those hyper-violent, brain damaged chimpanzees seem like he’s filming Romper Room.

And trust me, this season is the Atomic Bomb of Fucked-uppedness when you look at the cast of heavy lidded Hollywood back alley types they’ve assembled.

The Cast:

  • Dennis Rodman. Only there because he’s been ordered by Court to do so, he truly believes there’s nothing wrong with him and claims to have perfected some sort of Zen mind thing that puts his intellect above everyone else’s. Even though his speech is so slurred they need subtitles for him and when asked about Cannabis says, “Not unless you just mean eating steak…”
  • Heidi Fleiss. Possibly the ugliest woman walking the Earth at this time not mauled by rabid primates, she’s done something to her lips with plastic surgery that makes her look like she should be hoovering plankton off the ocean floor for sustenance. Enters the program fresh off a long, hard day of crystal meth use. Lives in the desert with 20 parrots but calls herself the greatest Madame who ever lived. Right.
  • Mckenzie Phillips. Jesus, what can I even say about this one? A true dark goddess in the world of drug abuse and mental depravity. Smoking weed at 10, shooting coke at 17, a lifetime of incest and opiate addiction. I’ve built a temple to her in the deep woods here and I sacrafice goats in her name from time to time, she’s that legendary. By all indication from the first episode, she’s the most well adjusted, stable personality of the group.
  • Mindy McCready. So you’d think after having an illicit love affair with scumbag, steriod abusing pedophile Roger Clemens at age 15, there would be nowhere to go but up in your life, right? Not the case. Here’s what you do. Marry a vicious spousal abuser who attempts to beat and choke you to death and then, as soon as he’s released from prison, go hook up with him and get yourself pregnant. Then get totally fucked on booze and pills, try to kill yourself twice, have said child removed from your custody and placed with the mother who abused you as a kid as you serve a prison sentence for assaulting her. Cap it all off by having a seizure on national television and what you have there is a recipe for pure comedy gold. Or one hell of a great country and western song.
  • Tom Sizemore. Hasn’t actually shown up on the show by the end of episode one but the previews show him a sweating, haggard, psychopathic meth/heroin hound who probably wishes he died on Omaha Beach at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. He’s already been the star of another grim, unwatchable VH1 reality show and has a history with Fleiss during which he beat the fuck out of her and, sadly, served some time for it. A joyous reunion lies ahead, no doubt.
  • Token Drug Crazed Ex-Rocker. There’s no real need to know his name but apparently he was the bassist for Alice in Chains and got thrown out of the band for drug abuse. Read that again. Thrown out of Alice in Chains for drugs abuse. You’ve got to be gobbling chemicals the way the Cookie Monster eats oatmeal raisin for that to happen, dude. It shows as the guy is a rambling, vacant mess who’s pacing the pool deck in tight withdrawal a mere 30 minutes after his arrival at the facility. Early highlight: him getting a gaping bloody hole in his hip swabbed out after it got infected where he was shooting up. Sweet.
  • Add in a couple of random, out of control former reality show twat bags and you’ve got your cast. I guess that ultra-nasty, whiny little twit-princess Keri-Ann Douche-Sipper, recently rejected from from VH1’s sex addiction show will be on hand at some point to take her top off and douse another couple or six people with water before she gets kicked to the curb again.

    I can’t fucking wait I tell you.

    I know, I know. It’s low brow, pandering titilation that appeals to the worst voyeuristic nature within us. Very true. But I swear to you this is not the proverbial car crash that you can’t look away from. This isn’t in the class of “so bad it’s good”.

    No, this is High Art people and not in the sense that you have to be high to appreciate it. This is the human condition laid bare in all it’s glorious ugliness and depravity. It’s what our celebrity worshipping culture has led us to, the natural end results of our cravings for fame and fortune.

    It’s who we are and what we deserve. Every Thursday night at 10. Tune in, won’t you, and check back here on Friday’s for some delicious post-show rehashing and fun.

    You know you want to.

    Mountain Man

    January 6, 2010

    Saddleback Mountain Maine

    Well, as if the snow covered wilds of Hooksett, New Hamphire weren’t wintry enough for me, I’ve just returned from an excursion even further north to the winding, icy mountain roads and deep woods of Rangeley, Maine. I think it’s going to be a new holiday tradition that when the time comes for the world en masse rises up to celebrate the turning of it’s arbitrary calendar to a new number I’m going to make a point of getting as far away from the human race as possible. So I went where the deer and moose outnumber the people.

    I may need to go even further, though. Rangeley is becoming a bit of a tourist stop. Skiing, snowmobiling, hiking and what are a big portion of the local economy so there is that flood of outdoor enthusiasts from Massachusetts and places south. They can be ignored easily, though, as they tend to spend so much time doing shit during the day they can’t hang when the clock turns past 8:30 pm.

    Luckily, it’s still Maine. Meaning, it’s stuck about 50 years in the past and there are an abundance of people who have intimate knowledge of grain alcohol and enjoying making homemade bombs out of leftover fertilizer.

    Like Larsen Fournier, former local Game Ranger who was fired for falsifying moose dung counts and selling bootleg hunting licenses on the side. He’s perfected a recipe for brewing moonshine out of parsnips that can make you hallucinate like a motherfucker. If you don’t mind the profuse sweating, shortness of breath and constant urge to find the nearest axe and start swinging, the shit is killer. He’s also known locally for single handedly starting the LSD/Nicotine Patch trend.

    One night he helped me steal a snowmobile from the Border Patrol and we went on a 3 a.m. run through the endless miles of backwoods trails they maintain up there, cranking it up to 90, screaming and firing off rounds from an assortment of old shotguns he’d had lying around his trailer. Ended up just east of Mattawamkeag before the engine blew up and the beast threw us into some brambles in a logging clearing. We hiked to the local town and had homestyle breakfast at a local diner called Bear Spoor before Larsen dumped a pot of home brewed on the head of Stephen King’s publicist.

    I fully admit, though, I did spend one day skiing on Saddleback Mountain (pictured above). I had no choice as the one person I trusted not to act like a dork during the holidays, my bodyguard Dave, had brought along his family and wanted to take his five year old daughter skiing for the first time. So I indulged.

    Now, I’m not the best skier, mostly because I never learned how to stop so there were a few issues with other folks on the mountain, notable that guy I knocked into the snow making machine on that Black Diamond run up top. I would have apologized, just like I would have to that dude I pushed off of the chair lift when I was scrambling to get my flask out of my jacket, but when you’re doing a buck ten and can’t stop screaming, there’s little room for politeness. Anyway, a few wind abrasions and a potential cracked rib aside, it was good fun.

    I happen to know that Dave and his daughter had a fucking blast, that’s for sure.

    Anyway, I’m back here at the bunker now and socking myself in for the bleak months of winter to come. I’ll be writing a lot more as there’s a ton of stuff swirling about inside this mess of a head that I need to get out so check back at intervals to see what spills out.