Nerdgasm.

I'm sorry but there still hasn't been a man to come along since Glenn Danzig in his heyday who has been hotter. FACT.

Stacy London Quote of the Week

*holding a hideous embroidered tunic* "I don't know who you think you are but Janis Joplin is dead!"



And we miss you already Swayze. :(

Chung channels Farley.

In my first time catching It's On With Alexa Chung, and mind you by accident after wrapping up an episode of True Life, I find myself slightly conflicted. I'll admit, with the promos for the show featuring a model-hot Brit talking music and celebs on what used to be the coolest network ever, I may have had a shred of hope that MTV was becoming hip again and not just the sad parody of hip it has been since...oh, I don't know, '94? '95?

Chung's banter is charmingly English, almost like that of Russle Brand ("Oh Oi'm Aldous Snooow. Booshit, booshit, booshit.) By the way, is he hosting the VMAs? Didn't he just host the MTV Movie Awards? Good god, people. Are we trying to get sick of him like Billie Crystal with the Oscars or what? Back to Chung. She's almost cool. She's almost even qualified to be a talk show host but the fact that one thing and one thing only came to mind while she semi-painfully interviewed Mary J. Blige is haunting me: The Chris Farley Show.

In the classic episode of SNL where Farley interviews Paul McCartney, you find the rumbly, tumbly host rambling about song lyrics and not really asking questions but rather, "Remember Beatlemania...?" Paul says, "Yeah." Farley says, "That was awesome." Chung...*sigh*...actually asked Blige what the 411 was. She also asked her if there was "no more drama." Blige actually laughed a little and flashed that look in her eyes as if to say, "This bitch is trippin'." Mary, I agree. That bitch was trippin'.

Extract. What a collection of assholes.

Jason Bateman is getting work rather continuously and we are all relieved about that. Since the tragic demise of Arrested Development, the guy has gone on to parts in some of my favorite movies, most notably Juno. So scoring the lead role in Mike Judge's Extract seems pretty choice. Why not jump on another version of Office Space, only this time set in a food flavoring factory? And also try saying that three times fast while you're at it.

All right, so Extract is a little bit more than a cynical retrospective on the workplace. In fact, it is a cynical retrospective on spouses, nosey neighbors, irresponsible friends and criminal drifters. Basically, those with anger management issues should avoid this movie for its characters are quite possibly the most frustrating and infuriating people in recent cinema history. And this includes Debbie Reynolds in Mother, people. Seriously.

However, laughs flow freely in this almost classic stoner comedy, driven mainly by Ben Affleck as the "wild card" friend you always invite along with you to Vegas and regret doing so after your first night in jail. Extract is definitely worth seeing...perhaps followed by yoga.

Talk about a piece of knowledge.

When I was younger, I kept a running list of things I had learned in life that I deemed to be important. Sure, we all do in some way. However, these things were not obvious things like "It is standard procedure to wipe after a poop," or "It is best to look over one's shoulder before engaging in a racist joke, no matter how light-hearted." And they weren't profound things either like the value of honesty and accountability. Mainly they were tidbits of knowledge on people I admired and/or people I knew personally. For example, one of my favorites was that my friend Stevie dated a girl who attended clown college.

We all learn cool shit every day, hopefully. And today was no exception when, while watching VH1, I heard of the most kick-ass interview in the history of all rock journalism, maybe even journalism as a vast and endless whole.

In the Spring of '69, the Beatles were months away from an official statement by Paul McCartney announcing their disbanding. At that time, John Lennon found refuge in Canada after the U.S. refused to let him return due to his fervent protesting of the Vietnam War. In Canada, newly married Lennon and Yoko Ono arranged their Montreal Bed-In to advocate for peace.

For then 14-year-old die-hard, Jerry Levitan, it was a chance of a lifetime to shamefully stalk the famous Beatle by knocking on every door of the Queen Elizabeth Hotel until Lennon was found. Not only did the fucker find him, his request for a follow-up interview that he could take back to his high school was granted with enthusiasm.



Levitan's short interview tape was adapted into an animated short and nominated for an Oscar last year. In the recording, Lennon whimsically rambles like any optimistic hippie of the era yet pearls of universal truth are abundant, particularly the deeming of school kids who don't like The Beatles as, "kind of square."

Sean Patrick, what happened to you?

My immense joy at hearing there was actually going to be a sequel to Troy Duffy's The Boondock Saints was immediately met with the shock of my life. While watching the trailer, the automatic check list is already ticking away the people that are crucial, nay, mandatory for this thing to float. Billy Connolly. Check. Norman Reedus. Check. Willem Dafoe? All right, he's not in but he's replaced by hottie Julie Benz, ok fine. Sean Patrick Flanery? Oh great, they replaced one of the fracking brothers. Just lovely! How in the hell...rant rant rantiness ensues before I finally realize that the unfamiliar face I see before me in SPF's place is actually the man himself.

What. The. Hell?

What happened? I know it's been ten years and, looking back, I think Boondock Saints may have actually been the last time I saw him but come on! The man is barely recognizable. The most puzzling thing is that he looks fine. It's one thing if ten years takes a toll on you but in Flanery's case, that's not just it. He just looks completely different. It's as if I am witnessing a body snatching and am desperate for people to agree with me lest I go insane and start wearing a foil hat to keep the aliens from reading my thoughts. Help me out here!

Sunday at Outside Lands...minus the sun

Festivals. What are they if not high priced hassles with no parking, ten dollar beers and port-o-potties you always convince yourself you are never going to use again but always end up caving when it’s time to break that seal? God, I hate festivals. But Outside Lands, you sure are the lesser of these money-sucking evils. And your Sunday lineup was the perfect cap to a three-day musical binge.

Sunday’s foggy weather rivaled the ashy skies of Silent Hill; it was that damn gloomy. So what better a setting for Nashville’s The Dead Weather to make their Bay Area debut? Now that’s what we’re talking about when we utter the term “super group.” Never mind The Raconteurs. This is the band Jack White should have started a long time ago and now has with The Kills’ Alison Mosshart, Dean Fertita of Queens of the Stone Age and fellow Raconteur Jack Lawrence. If you didn’t know that Mosshart is this generation’s take on Joan Jett, and how could you by listening to those crisp, poppy Kills beats, you do now. White’s down and dirty blues roots transform this Londoner who normally walks on the mild side into a Joplin-like goddess. Filthy and sneering, The Dead Weather drips with badassery and is truly the band to know this year.

And if festivals are good for anything else, it is their ability to showcase well-deserving indie bands such as Ohio’s Heartless Bastards who have gained solid momentum this year and are on the verge of exploding their meaty folk into the mainstream underbelly. Any fans of The Decemberists will gladly gobble this act up. Singer Erika Wennerstrom brings back classic female crooning with a vengeance. Think the scene in Elf where Zooey Deschanel sings Christmas songs in the shower. Wennerstrom evokes the same warmth and charm yet holds her own as a strong rock woman.

Henry Rollins may have said it the best. “…Fucking Ween.” Oh, Ween. What are you if not the answer for those who hate The Dead but still feel the need to fill the stony, college rock void in their musical repertoire? What are you if not brilliant with age and intoxication level? You are stupid music for smart people. You are the godfathers of twisted on a sweetly retarded level, like Forest Gump. And you’re still kicking. Aaron Freeman can still sing the hell out of “Take Me Away” while Mickey Melchiondo can still shred out a monster version of “Johnny on the Spot.” Ween, as that drunken college co-ed kept screaming to the back of our heads despite numerous dirty looks, we love you.

It is almost impossible to remind yourself while watching M.I.A. that she is someone’s mother. One badass mother, mind you. Who else could rightfully and tastefully pay homage to ailing Beastie Boy Adam Yauch with a sick sampling of “Sabotage?” And all while wearing oversized, red, vinyl cap sleeves that somehow didn’t look stupid at all? M.I.A. was the perfect party topper complete with Hammer-era dancers and blindingly brightly colored stagewear. The Beastie Boys would have been met with a worthy opener had they been able to attend. But who better to take their place than the self-proclaimed greatest band in the world?

“I’m fucking forty,” confessed Tenacious D’s Jack Black. “But I’m fit. I’ve been doing yoga. I’ve been taking flax seed oil.” Black proceeded to let a body double show how he can still do “flip flaps” across the stage. Fight ensues with Black and Kyle Gass, leading to “Dude (I Totally Miss You),” yada, yada, yada. I hate to say that you’ve kind of seen them all after witnessing your first D show. Not to say that this matters at all, whatsoever. If you can watch The Masterworks over and over again, you can see The D just as often.