Kinetic

The actual placement of albums by the same artists is confusing to me, since it really contradicts popular opinion in a lot of spots. I mean, I'm completely offended by the fact that the Kinks don't appear on the list until well into the 200s, considering that they were the second best (British, which absolves me from even getting into any Motown stuff) studio band to emerge in the 60s, but the fact that Something Else by The Kinks comes after The Kink Kronikles is just stupid. Ditto Eno's Another Green World before Here Come The Warm Jets. And post-Eno Roxy Music albums over the first two? Fuck off.

Yeah, their first album is thoroughly good. Utopia Parkway was hugely disappointing to me, in that it really only showed flashes of the brilliance that really seemed effortless on the first album. Why they seem to have hit a lot bigger with "Stacy's Mom" than with, say, "Denise" or "Radiation Vibe" is a total mystery to me, but it's easily their worst single yet and certainly doesn't have me clamoring to the record store to pick it up.

And he stabbed himself in the HEART, for fuck's sake. That's a hardcore way to kill yourself. The fact that he commited suicide is not all that shocking, though. He was a hopeless addict and a deeply depressed person from all accounts. His records were great, though, and he'll be missed.

So the Bucs are off to an extremely disappointing 3-3 start. I could sort of live with the other two losses, since they both came in overtime and in games where they had numerous opportunities to win. But this one really stings because they looked like absolute shit for the vast majority of the game. They just could not stop the run throughout the first half and were really only in the game throughout the second half because of San Francisco mistakes. It may be time to bring back the fabled Buccaneer Clock in my sig, which went an impressive 6-1 once I started using it. Something has to turn this shit around.

I saw them in June of 2000 in Florence, Italy. For those of you that visit Pitchforkmedia, this was the same show that Brent D. referenced in his Kid A review. Fairly amazing stuff, although my enjoyment of the new material was somewhat lessened by the fact that I had never heard it before and most of that era Radiohead stuff is hard to wrap your head around on one listen. I can't really argue with their song selection or performances, which is to be expected when you consider that that was arguably the band at their absolute peak. I'd probably consider seeing them again if they played around here.

No one should dismiss The Monkees before hearing "Stepping Stone," a song that's good enough in its own right but even better for the fact that it ended up being covered by everyone from the Sex Pistols to Minor Threat.

None of those bands are faux 80's anything. Their style of garage rock is basically 60s based, starting with The Kinks and shooting off into a lot of the stuff on the Nuggets compilation. "Louie Louie" and stuff like that. I'd like to nominate the Eagles and second the Def Leppard nod.

Brian Eno's "St. Elmo's Fire."

I don't know that there was anything logical about any of your arguments. You claimed to not care what people on a message board thought, and yet you threatened to bludgeon someone with a baseball bat for insulting your mother, who he or she has obviously never met. You also attempted to deflect some of the criticism of your hilarious picture by claiming that a co-worker of yours--who just so happens to be a cheerleader--thinks the picture is nice. That doesn't seem like the action of someone who is completely unconcerned with what a bunch of strangers--many of whom are unbelievably hideous--think of him. And you're trying too hard. Seriously, get a grip, Marcy.

This is a fucking message board and you're not worth the effort, Marcy.

Don't call me Kin, Marcy.

I'm developing a soft spot for The Lukester. I'll be your friend, little buddy.

My main point of contention with you is not so much the threatened violence or the dorky picture, but the fact that your mother is a whore.

No, I thought he did a pretty good job. You made some ridiculous threats of violence, he posted a picture of you looking like serious NAMBLA bait...check and mate, my friend.

Like Michael Hutchence of INXS, for instance. If you can't laugh at autoerotic asphyxiation, you need to check yourself for a pulse.

No, I dig what you're saying. It's hard to imagine TheLukester having much of an ass.

Someone needs to lighten up and have a hearty laugh at dead people.

Assuming that this is a gimmick, it's really a one joke character. Not like, say, Metal Ed. Metal Ed had legs, man.

I found John Ritter's death to be about as funny as any of his awful sitcoms.

I'm wary of the new Belle and Sebastian. I haven't liked much of anything they've done since If You're Feeling Sinister.

There's a potential major downside if her suicidal urges are based on mental illness of some sort. One possible scenario has him engaging in sex with her with the understanding that it's only because she gave him permission to enter her duty-free, only to have her flip out when he makes it clear after the fact that her services are no longer needed. There's the possibility of angry letters written in the blood of stray cats, stray cat corpses left on his doorstep, some sort of elaborate gnome-related revenge tactic, and so on. It's highly advisable not to fuck the legitimately mentally ill. But if this suicide business is a just a ploy to get attention, you should definitely go for it. You might get some Bauhaus records out of the deal, too.

I'd also like to go on record as saying that the long post up there was not intended as an insult to Mik, who I have nothing in particular against. I'm just as desperate as any of you to join the growing legions of Bankettes and will stop at nothing until he acknowledges me.

That must be the public school education talking. It's not your fault and I forgive you.

I'd like to go on record as saying that I lead the jet-set lifestyle of a wealthy playboy. In the florid prose of the truly educated, I will now describe for you the unimaginable luxury in which I live my every waking moment: For one thing, my parents are both wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. Croesus blushes when he peers upon their bank statement, and much of that money has been earmarked for my use, thus ensuring that I'll never be forced to work in construction or textiles or grease maintenance like you bottom-dwellers. Their riches and social clout have allowed me to attend and graduate from not just one Ivy League school, but all of them. What's more, I could get an honorary degree from any school in this country faster than any one of you could get the clap from Drunk Suzie down the hall in your fetid state school dorm buildings. Did someone mention women? Well, I've had them all. I took pictures and posted them on the Internet. No, you may not see them. Like stimulated chimps, your fingers--all calloused and blistered from hours spent earning $2.65 impregnating barnyard animals--would creep down your bib overalls and begin engaging in something rather unsavory, as opposed to appreciating the artistry involved in my lovemaking. But rest assured that no amount of effort--no electronic devices, no sordid dates to the laundromat, no pills you ordered after seeing a terribly convincing infomercial on late night television--will ever enable you to pleasure a woman the way my mere glance can. I have pictures. And I've posted them on the internet.

"Leaping" springs to mind. There's also the non-catch in the 99/2000 NFC championship, which, while technically the correct call, was so ridiculous that the NFL actually changed the rule altogether during the ensuing offseason.