Why I Can't Stop Writing About Sean Taylor

I was reminded by a very good friend today about this:

Come back Sean Taylor,
I won't survive another
Six and ten season.

In the earliest days of this publication, Sean Taylor was facing the gun charges that have been the media's starch in their coverage of his demise. My favorite version of the story is this:

Drug dealer stole Sean's ATVs. He went to the drug dealer's house and demanded the vehicles be returned. Dude pulls a piece out on my man, who takes it, sticks in dude's ass and threatens to pull the trigger 'til it goes click. ST pistol whips the dude and leaves the gun at the scene. His SUV is later riddled with bullets by unidentified assailants. He surrenders to the police the next day and immediately wins the media's " unquestionavble scariest black man on Earth"
crown. He later plead guilty to beating the dude up and went to kindergarten to teach inner city youth how to win fights.

Loved to tell that one. Until today I realized it was probably those dudes who killed him. I've decided that from this day forward to ask myself, before every decision I make, "What Would Sean Taylor Do? (WWSTD)"

And do the exact opposite. Most of the time. At least when I'm in the hood.

BTW - The Redskins went 10-6 the season after I wrote that.

Letter to Leonard Shapiro

Sent today at 15:54PM
mailto:badgerlen@hotmail.com


Mr. Shapiro -

I recently came across an article you wrote about the late Sean Taylor. You accused him of "disrespecting Hall of Fame coach Joe Gibbs by not showing up for mandatory offseason workouts and never calling to explain why..." in your piece. As a graduate of the University of Miami, Mr. Taylor attended offseason workouts in Miami along with a number of former UM players, including Ray Lewis and Jeremy Shockey. Coach Gibbs did state at the time that he wondered why Mr. Taylor hadn't contacted him, but later stated that he understood the reason and was OK with it.

Also, I find it interesting that, as a reader of The Washington Post both in print and online, I've never read an opinion column that you wrote before today. Highly dubious of you to call Michael Wilbon a "colleague" no?

Along with being a dubious contributor to the publication (you don't even have a Washington Post email address, evidently), your Post online pictures allows one to discern that you are also fat and bald, as well.

Regretfully,

Dr. Chewbakka
New York, NY

Goodbye Sean Taylor

I've led an extremely sheltered life concerning death. My mother's parents both died when I was too young think about anything beyond the loss of their physical presence. That's my experience with death.

Yet I just found myself wanting to write a letter to Sean Taylor, who died this morning after being shot in his home early Monday morning. I wanted to wish him safe travels to wherever he was bound. This is the first time I ever truly cared about the great beyond, and now I find myself questioning it seriously for the first time as well.

It's silly. I know. We never met. I don't think I ever saw him speak, to be honest. My admiration of him was almost solely limited to the devastation left in his wake in my favorite team's backfield. That and I believed he was unjustly accused of being a bad egg. Watch TV right now. CNN managed to fit in that he'd been fined by the league seven times for late hits. But maybe the bad egg personae is what led thugs with guns into his house. I don't know.

I watched every professional football game the man played. I watched his hit reels on YouTube in the offseason when I needed to feel the season wasn't that far away. And now, I can't believe I'm saying this, I can only hope that he is at peace.

Godspeed #21.

Sean Taylor Recovering, Expected to Miss At Least Two Weeks

The Washington Post reports tonight that "Taylor squeezed a doctor's hand and made facial expressions early in the evening, Redskins officials and a family friend said, providing some hope after he emerged from seven hours of surgery at Jackson Memorial Hospital".

Godspeed #21. Get well soon.

Christmas Wishlist Vol. 1

Merry reader(s),

Now that Thanksgiving has passed and we draw nearer to Christmas every hour, I am going to try and keep you up to date with what I want under my tree.

-Sean Taylor in full health. Not "playing shape" but full health. Godspeed.

-Any appendage from whomever it is that shot Taylor. What? Better that I get to them than he does. 

-A muzzled Sufjan Stevens. Shut. Up. 

Actually, I would like Sean to deliver the head of Sufjan to my home, finding out later that ST's father, the local police chief, cleared him of all the charges related to the removal of Mr. Stevens' dome, as he was the shooter all along.

Yule!!!!

Seriously, I really like Sean Taylor, and he's gotten a bad rap his whole career (even The Post is bringing up "past discipline problems" in their story) and I wish him a speedy recovery and a Merry Christmas. 

I Mean, Come ON

Who wouldn't rent this apartment?!?!?

http://newyork.craigslist.org/brk/abo/472835091.html

Seriously.

Fantasy Football

I play fantasy football.

Fantasy football is a tea party for football nerds like me. It works like this: A group of (sort of) grown men pretend that we own football teams in an imaginary league. Stats win games. Wins and losses are decided by individual players' stats. Stats only. We then discuss with each other and the owners of other fake teams in made-up leagues how our teams that aren't real are doing. We might as well sip fake beer out of empty mugs while watching a cardboard television in someone's treehouse (bar).

I'm going to the playoffs that are so bogus that they begin Week 14, in my league this year and will likely win the whole shebang if I'm not kicked out prior for "conduct detrimental to a bunch of tofu-raised rodeo clown fluffers (READ: the other 'owners')." SEE BELOW - I'm Billingsworth

I promise you this, fair reader(s) - Upon securing the not-real-at-all Championship this year I use my newfound nonexistent media exposure to help single mothers in Darfur learn how to read. Spanish.

I will also use the very real, cold, hard cash winnings from this year's league to buy pornography for all of the younger siblings of the other owners in my league.

Man, Oh Man
Don Billingsworth	Posted: Oct 29, 4:39 PM 1 Reply	Edit
Team Billingsworth	Except for my little run-ins with Dreamboat and Purple Jesus, Team Billingsworth rolls on. I'm reminded of a note I got from the ass-jamming hippie in Vermont advising me as to my "rookie move" of not starting a running back several weeks ago. Hey, Cherry Garcia - Did you see how I left a receiver slot open this week, guy? I know! Rookie bullshit! Did you also see I'm one shy of century mark ahead of you in total points AND just knocked you out of 2nd place? Have fun looking up my kilt for the rest of the season, Jefferson Airplane. When I win this thing, I really hope you get second so you can pay for that vaginoplasty. -Sean Taylor
Re: Man, Oh Man
David Goodlund	Posted: Oct 31, 4:42 PM
Vermont Funkin' N...	I really can't wait until next year when your not in our league. I wish Jason wouldn't have invited such an egocentric fucking asshole into the league I set up. Fuck you and your ego that must make up for the size of your cock. Post edited: Oct 31, 4:40 PM by David Goodlund

C'mon Friends I Haven't Met Yet

This is not a picture of me when I was a kid. I was blonder, smarter and WAY more convincing when I threw tantrums.

This is a personification of my inner turmoil over nobody sending me invites for any of the cool new sites that are popping up to replace the sacred pig. what(dot)cd or libble(dot)com are supposedly pretty dude.

So, if you want me to stop, please send an invite to the current personification of me now on the right of your screen.

Spanks.

I Love Queens!!!

Excepting some really super subways rides following my deposit there by various forms of mass transport, I've never really spent much time in Queens. That all changed on Tuesday night when Drawler and I went to her cousin the actor's Halloween party in Astoria.

I knew I was in love with the place when I emerged from the subway to find the entire department of the NYPD in charge of saying "Bro!" blocking off the street and laughing amongst themselves. Out of the loop, I crossed the street and it was there that I saw what was so funny:

An SUV completely covered in blood!!!

That's right, folks. The blog that brings you (the occasional) definitive opinions on bloodys n ow brings you real actual effing blood!!!! This cartruck looked like a giant mosquito had just come from the plasma bar completely hammered and spring breaker vomited all over it. I wish the pictures were better, but in the three minutes it took my companion to realize she DID have her camera, the beast had been towed.

More blood at the bottom, and a big thanks to William for throwing a party just so I could meet "the dude in the opening credits with his shirt off" who made it to the final 50 of "So You Think You Can Dance."

Dekes In History Vol. 1

Deke Richards - Motown songwriter!

From some guy in some other band from the 60s:

I had a band in the 60s called the Four Sounds, a very successful bar band. Our friends were The Turtles, The Byrds, and we’d play Sunset Boulevard, and in the 60s there were tons of clubs. We did that for a few years and the guitar player was Deke Richards, he and Freddie Perren produced some of the biggest R&B songs of all time. Had a thing about never taking a bath. A white guy that always thought he was black, he would say “I cant take a bath because it would wash the soul off”. Another guy, the organ player, went on to form the Grass Roots. Well, we decided to get rid of Deke because he was getting kind of crazy, he said he was going to Hollywood and write R&B hits and he did just that and made millions. He wrote ‘ABC’ for the Jackson 5, amazingly huge copyrights.

Fuck. Yes. The guy's a combination of prodigious naming and KEEF, man! This dude was a member of "The Corporation" which were Berry Gordy's hired-gun hitmakers at Motown. "A white guy who always thought he was black..." Hang on, I just found a picture of him

About Brunch...

Faithful Readers -

As you can see, I am being held forcibly against my will. My captor is a savage who knows neither decency nor mercy. Even though hidden by a mask, I am aware of the name of the one who has taken me hostage:

Budget.

Yes, gentle reader(s), I am now fully and deeply committed to not spending all of my dubloons on weekend jags so terrifying to both liver and soul that they may only be sated by the sauce of the name "Hollandaise" and cocktails made from blood squeezed from a woman who's son all wars in the last 2000 years have been fought in the name of.

So - what sounds like more fun than a blog about a 7'8" beast that updates an Excel spreadsheet concerning its fiduciary status in order to stay somewhere above the poverty line?

Besides your mom?

The Land of The Depraved

They say Australia is the land of criminals.

Well, I say that it is. And I'll say it right to the face of any man from The Land Down Under that's at least two inches shorter than me and looks like he'd return a blow (grow up) with an open hand and a squeal. I'll also say it directly behind the backs of any Australians who don't fit said description.

And children.

I mean orphans.

Speaking of orphans and criminals, here's the story of a woman arrested for crushing beer cans between her breasts and her friend who was arrested for hanging nipples off her spoons.

One minute...ah...I said that wrong. Figure it out, teeny boppers and Donny and Marie fans.

Go 'Skins.

F*CK!!!!!

The greatest website in the entire world was shut down by effing Interpol just now. Those motherf*ckers can't find Carmen San Diego but they can shut down my source for free music?

(Story here)

I have spent thousands of dollars in my lifetime on recorded music. CDs get lost. Ask my father. A good many of my OiNK downloads were to replace CDs I'd lost or given away or records I wated digital copies of. Other bands saw me at their shows for the first (and in many cases, assuredly only) time because of music taken from OiNK.

I'm paying more than $1,000 a month in rent and bills. That's $12,000 a year. How much money do you think I make? What? Quit drinking or maybe smoking cigarettes? What fun is a party with one of my oldest friends if none of my other friends are invited?

So you know what Mr. Record Guy - That's it. I'm never buying another new musical item ever. I pledge it from this day forth. I will only make copies of friends' music or buy used records or CDs. No Christmas / birthday / goat sacrifice presents, no indulgences, no CDs from bands whose concert I am attending, even. No nothing.

Independent record labels: If you had any part in this, you Sam Jacobses of the world, shame on you. You're hurting your own acts by limiting our access to them. Your goal is to get better distribution or to sell your deal on an act. Without this, enjoy your 35% of nothing.

To you Spice Girls-producing child molesters who run the labels who instigated this: Go and get f*cked all day long. Every day forever. May your trophy wives or boyfriends explode into a wild year-long herpes outbreak.

Another site will emerge. I will join it. I will enjoy the f*cking of you for the rest of my life recorded music business people.

PS - Don't worry about getting me that fancy new iPod for Christmas or my birthday, loyal readers.

Mr. Of All Wookies? Washington Redskins Assistant Head Coach-Offense, Joe Bugel, Line One For You

That's right, folks.

I just got off the phone with Be-yoogs and it looks like I'm gonna be livin' the dream come Sunday.

The big show. Arizona at home.

What's that you say? At 5'8(1/2)" 167 lbs. I'd be the smallest animal to even play on an offensive line in the National Football League? My lack of any experience on a football field save charging one when my high school team (which I cheered REALLY loud for) won the DC city championship?

Whatever, hippie. I've got fire in my eyes and a stern glance which will strike great fear in the hearts of opposing defenders, some (most) of whom possess genitalia larger than my forearm. Also - Mike Sellers said he'd hook me up with the occasional chip block.

Updates to follow once I reach Redskin Park. One of The Danny's buddies is flying me down after work.

What A Day

It's 67 degrees in Manhattan today. The thin air is manifested in a clear blue sky that serves as no impedance to the sun whatsoever and holds only the light and immediate heat in it.

As a tribute to this glorious 24 hours, a special treat.

Enjoy.

Some Good Friends of Mine

As a good friend of mine once told a police officer, referring to me, outside Noblesville, Indiana, "You don't pick your friends. They pick you."

What he didn't add was that you CAN record them in different mediums and display them on your blog.

Lucky for them, nobody reads it.

Welcome

The entire staff of Wookiemania would like to extend a warm "RRRRRRRR-rrrrrr-A-rrrrrrrr- AAAARRRRRRRRRR" to the interweb's newest locale for reading about a 20-something woman's conversations with herself : "Let's Blog It Out"

(Ed. Note: The staff of Wookiemania would like to formerly apologize to the staff of "Let's Blog It Out" for our inappropriate actions during a recent sales meeting (right).

Please note that Isiah Thomas has been sacked as chief gender equality consultant at The 'Mania.

That is all.)

Brunch At The Lodge Redux

"I'll have two bloody marys, please." Author receives bloodys, produces a 10.

"That'll be $14."

"But they're two for one, no?"

"Yeah, but that's per person."

Long stare by author.

Yesterday's brunch at The Lodge in Williamsburg was perfect.

Dare I say it, wooks and wookettes -

5 of 5.

The service was wonderful.

The waitress independently verified my suspicion that, yes, the hollandaise that morning was pushing past all specified means. The eggs were apparently poached not by mortals, but demigods whose sole mission on this, this Wasteland, is bene-fection.

The bloodys were spot on and 2 for 1.

All for $15.

The Lodge is, as of right now, the hands-down best brunch in the 5 boroughs.

The Lodge
318 Grand @ Havemeyer
Brooklyn, NY G-MAP
718.486.9400

Take Me Down

It would be easy to say, "Hey, mister! Where's all the brunch reviews?" or "Hey partner! I thought we were gonna talk about bloody marys here!" and have two very valid points.

Unfortunately for you, writing about brunch is WAY harder than posting clips of Guns 'n F*cking Roses from 1988, when they ran for president as a band and I think they won.

Enjoy.

Al Sharpton's Frat Brothers

Hey! Where do you think YOU'RE going, son?!?

You'd better believe we saw you put that in your pocket! Those forks belong to the club!

Just kidding, Pedro! Oh!!! Oh, you should have seen the look on your little brown face!!!

Hey why don't you get Jerry, Frank and me another Mt. Gay?

Finally!!!

Worried your reception won't be this fun?

Concerned your in-laws (not pictured, but agency guarantees similarity) won't be living in your home within six months of your nuptials?

Are you from Crozet?

If you said, "Hell Yeah!" to any of these questions, gitcher mouse down to http://www.marryourdaughter.com

Yessir - fine Christian girls whose parents just can't wait to get 'em out the trailer!!!

Hat Tip: The inspiration for King of All Wookies

The Law of Averages

Technically, there is nothing wrong with an average brunch. While a subpar bloody or bene' isn't as satisfying as a similar-quality pizza or roll in the proverbial hay with the proverbial farmer's daughter, the act of sharing a morning-ish meal with someone can ofter supersede good-enough-ish food.

SATURDAY
2:45AM

Author: Wow. This is probably the most sober I've been on a Friday night in, like, since I got here."

Evil Bad Person Who Made Me Do It: Yeah. I kinda wanna get drunk. Let's go get drunk.

Author: But I have to be up in the morning to feed the orphans before volunteering at the over-the-hill dogs for over-the-hill folks home in Trenton!!!

EBPWMMDI: C'mon.

Author: Right.

Needless to say, I woke up miles from my (new)(temporary) home in Bushwick (son!). Brunch being a meal best served close, we hit the streets for Alias.

Bloody: 2 of 5

Please don't think me a glutton or worse when I note that I expect my bloody in a pint glass with a real straw. One of the cocktail realm's truest triumphs, open to many brialliant interpretations, the bloody is an inherently messy beverage that needs the most direct delivery system possible. And it should be as big as possible.

This being said, I ordered the crustacean bloody which included an Old Bay'd rim, a shrimp or two on a skewer, lemon garnish and the "special blend of spices". Oh yeah - served in a water glass. Christ. What did they think? If their concoction had any real taste at all, they'd get a sucker like me to order 5 of them? Luckily it didn't.

Benedict: 2.5 of 5

Deviating from the classical standard in the land of Benedict is OK. There are rules one must understand before they can be broken:

• English muffin can be substituted for, but only by another bread-like product
• Canadian bacon can be substituted for, and here the rules are more lax - I've had excellent bene's featuring everything from crabcakes to smoked portabella mushrooms
• These two must be substituted for in a manner resembling the original Benedict structure

So - when I read that there's going to be Smithfield Virginia Ham and something called "goetta" described as a sort of less meaty scrapple on the menu, I expected the ham on top of the other stuff.

WRONG.

Meat under one egg, stuff under the other. Let me again reiterate: WRONG.

Eggs were perfectly poached and the whole thing was served with a nice mixed greens salad. Still - WRONG.

Service: 2.5 of 5

Eh.

Waitress was semi-attentive. (It's still up for debate whether I ordered the coffee that came to me) Food came out fast enough. Took a little while to get the check.

Whatever.

Price: 2 of 5

$10 for the beney and $7 for the "special" bloody.

Would have been pretty excellent if they had sprung for, oh, I don't know - a whole meal and not one piece of ham and a cocktail in a Dixie cup. The place apparently has Cincinnati roots, but it didn't seem all that authentic...Must have been their omission of Cheetos from the menu.

Alias
76 Clinton St., New York, NY 10002
at Rivington St.
212-505-5011

LATER THIS WEEK: DR. CHEWBAKKA HEADS TO BEAR COUNTRY FOR BRUNCH ON SOME GIRL NAMED JANE. STAY TUNED.

UTRIS on iTUNES

Ladies and gentlemen, I have footage of the last UTRIS reunion show.
It was our first show in a while, so it's sort of a medley but The Kid looks great, doesn't he?


So - Make sure to go to The iTunes Music Store and load up your fancy new iPods with all of your favorite Utris jams.

Hooray!

Kayne West is bad as hell.

Kanye famously believes that George W. Bush hates black people.

Thusly, in celebration of the end of the political career of the second of GWB's most thuggish cronies, I send you a white guy in a tractor and a bathrobe doin' Kanye's "Stronger".

Unh!

Saturday Brunch

The Nice Jenkins were in town for gigs at Buskwick's Goodbye Blue Monday and The Ocatgon's CD release party tour which consisted entirely of last night's show and no CDs. Sandwiched between was a day of dinsoaurs and a night of bourbon dancing that spat me out on Saturday's sweaty sidewalks in Chelsea, which happen to be packed with brunch offerings. Deathray and I decided on a joint named Fiddlesticks.

Benedict: 3.5

The eggs were overcooked and the hollandaise was simply there. Big bland potatoes that were required a good deal of ketchup. The saving grace was the bread basket we were brought. A heavy, grainy semi-sweet bread that's baked fresh every day, it was the saving grace of the meal.

Bloody: 2

Whatever. Two drinks included with a dish sounded too good to be true these certainly lived down to that notion. Served in 10 oz. glasses with old celery, the mix was weak and thoughtless with a negligible amount of booze to go along with it. The "2" is because they both deserve a "1".

Service: 4.5

This may be the only time I give this score as long as the brunches I eat are served to me anywhere in New York City. Yes, folks - the 5 boroughs are, in my limited experience, home to the worst servers in the universe, whose open disdain for you and their profession is almost worth 18% sheerly for the audacity with which both are displayed.

However, our server Alisa was both attentive and friendly. Granted, we were her only table, but she wrote "Thanks, Darling" on my check and told me that she liked my wallet and sat down and didn't freak out when Deathray exhibited her dance moves, which call to mind an infant chipmunk mid-seizure.

Why no "5"? Gotta have my dogs in the tub for that shit.

Price: 4.5

$10. Awesome.

Why no "5"? See above. And free.

Remember kids, brunch is as much about who you're with and what you remember from the previous 12 hours as the food. So - I found a great place to sit outside and be near-broke at. And while I think Deathray gets her name from what it's like to try and listen to her over a meal, she does girls everywhere a great service by providing that wonderful signpost they can point to and say, "Well at least I'm not that crazy."

Fiddlesticks
56 Greenwich Avenue
New York, NY 10011
212 463-0516

Let The Good Times Roll

This video was taken right in front of my old subway stop right before a huge rainstorm stopped the show on the first day of summer. Everyone there got very wet, but the band played straight through stopping only when the power was pulled on them.

The name of this band is Cheeseburger, and I would like to nominate their debut self-titled album as one of the greatest of all times. Most songs are conveniently played in the same key with, even more conveniently, the exact same three chords!

Cheeseburger. Awesome.

Right, guy?

Mariachi Mania

We here at The 'Mania try to keep it light with the same gusto that we try to keep it real. The last thing America needs to do when fires up the ol' World Wide Interweb is be confronted by a Wookie.

But fuck this bitch.

Sorry. Let's lighten the mood with a little prayer. I'm sure the pictured would oblige. And just to make sure, let's make sure we all pray this to a Protestant god.

"Good god in heaven I pray today that in your humblest of humbilities your almighty sword of righteousness split this woman's heart with a massive coronary. And Lord, hear my prayer to let her soulless body still be warm in the ground when a hard-working, American Dream-worshiping, contributing-to-the-beautiful-quilt-of-our-society family of Honduran immigrants closes on a mortgage to buy her house with.

"May the children of this family go to the same schools the woman in this picture's children went to. May they play on the same suburban streets and sing the songs their parents taught them in Spanish directly over the grassy hillsides under which this shrew will be interned.

"We ask this in your name, Lord. Amen."

Gosh. That's way better than the pledge of allegiance.

For the Washington Post article in which this picture is featured, click here.

Scary Shit

Keep reading. This is not it.
+























Ever seen a blind person smoke a cigarette? It weirds me way out.

What the fuck kind of sense does that make?

They can't see how cool they look. They can't see people instantly respecting them for their danger.

If scientists and my comic books agree, then these renegade blinds (definitely the preferred nomenclature, dude) must think cigarettes smell REALLY great in their clothes and hair.

Maybe there's a scent contained in cigarettes that your average sighty can't wrap his olfactory around and it's the most blissful thing in the universe.

Perhaps it's a million praying mantises all doing tai chi while humming a three-part harmony of "American Tune" around the bed you awake in next to this girl on top of the Sound of Music mountain still pretty drunk on a Sunday as she whispers, "Do you like brunch?" in your ear:

















Yes, yes. That must be it.

Brunch-ish

So.

About this whole "brunch" thing. As stated, I love me some brunch. I feel there is no finer repast than that which brunch provides. And while lack of flexibility has long been one of my defining characteristics, consistency is not, and one must recognize the difference.

No brunch Saturday. Woke up late, had to run errands.

That led The Kid and me to ride over the bridge (which reopens its dedicated bike lane today) Saturday afternoon which turned into The Kid and me drinking giant beers and meeting these girls and going to dinner and going out dancing and not making it home that evening.

I knew a Sunday brunch was going to be tough all week because I had very concrete plans at 1:00PM.

But I did have a brunch of sorts, so let's let the 'Mania begin:

The 86th St. 4-5-6 Stop
86th st. and Lexington Ave.
New York, NY

The place was pretty crowded when I arrived, but luckily I was alone, so it was pretty easy to find room for myself. The hostess must have been having a smoke or seating someone else as I never saw her. Let me tell you - this place was dirty. It looked like the floors hadn't had a good scrubbing in at least a couple of days!!!

To be honest, the joint seemed a little touristy, too with many obvious ones holding shopping bags and the like. What's funny is that no one really seemed to be eating. Like, no one. Then I think I found the reason why: A saw a rat!!! I saw it scurrying and almost lost my lunch, until I realized that I still hadn't seen the waiter!!!

That was enough for me, so I took the next subway train to a place in The Bronx that I've heard really good things about.

Benedict (0 of 5)

What the fuck is this? This place doesn't serve eggs? It's a good thing I had those two big-sized Sapporros at the last place.

Bloody (0 of 5)

What the fuck is this? This place only serves beer? Didn't I have to deal with this a couple weeks ago? For christ and all the angels, am I going to have to drink a light fucking beer for brunch?!?!? Alcoholics drink beer at this time of day! Brunch is the only meal that allows you to booze and eat midday without worrying those around you that you're alone in your apartment sopping up mouthwash and cooking sherry.

I decided to try one, just this once, telling myself it was a native custom and I remember not to look down upon the indigenous.

Apparently it is also their custom to have not one but several beers for this ritual. When in Bronx, right?

Service (3 of 5)

The host was pretty cool and got me to my seat quickly. It's really weird how they serve the food here. You don't have one waiter. There are a whole bunch of them (and not a single cute waitress) that serve each menu item individually. That is, if there is a menu. Nobody brought me one.

Price (1 of 5)

Am I the only one who finds it odd that I paid a cover to get in to this place? And $9.00 for a "big" beer? Lunacy.

I can't score the place well based on any of the 'Mania's very inflexible criteria, but I can reliably say that, for some reason, I felt drawn to the place and will probably end up going back.

Yankee Stadium
161st Street & River Avenue
Bronx, NY 10451
Open 82 days a year - Hours Vary
gsteinbrenner@hotmail.com

All Better

And all it took was entering my favorite line from my favorite TV program into Google Image Search:

"Rochelle"


What could be better than that, you ask?

These lovelies, that's what.

The Redskins Make Me Want to Hurt Myself, Doctor

ESPN.com's list of the 50 current players likely to be headed to the Hall of Fame includes no Redskins.

It's a great read, even when it gets a little speculative in the late 30's. It's lack of 'Skins-clusion is a bummer, but it doesn't warrant any outrage from this furball.

........Whoa...Just went looking for a good picture of LaVar, who could have been our guy had his knee held, and I stumbled upon this article. It's Sports Illustrated's take on the 2000 draft. The words "Superbowl Contender" and "Norv Turner" will never appear that close together ever again.

Then I really vomited: "...owner Dan Snyder celebrated his first NFL draft by lighting a cigar, crossing his legs and propping his feet on the desk."

It's August and I'm not even that pumped. Don't know who's on the schedule this year. I don't know if these fancy Brooklyn brunch places will even have TVs, let alone ones they can/will turn to 'Skins games.

Boo-hoo for Chew. E.

No Brunch This Week

Weak sauce, for sure.


In my defense I would like to produce the telephone number I Gmail'd myself.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Deke Shipp
Date: Jul 29, 2007 2:44 AM
Subject:
To: kingofallwookies@gmail.com


9r7 34001704

Keep in mind, members of the jury, the giver was Russian, had just moved to Brooklyn, and told me she was very something that sounded a lot like "lonely".

Stifled by my inability to crack my own brilliant code and the solid 5 hour drizzle drill conducted from 11:00-5:00PM, I missed my favorite repast of the week.

Thanks, not, to Iceman and Cousin Charlie for putting me there.

Nobody Ever Asks If I Want Bag

I work in a building on Canal St. in the fake bag district of New York City's Chinatown.

Here, thousand of unattractive middle-aged whites moo their way up and down the streets they pack looking over I (Heart) NY shirts and fake Dior sunglasses.

What they are really in my neighborhood to do is buy fake designer handbags. Every time I emerge from the subway or finish crossing an intersection I hear it:

Baeg? Baeg? You wan baeg? Chanel. Fendi. Coach? Baeg?

Right in front of my very eyes one of the most sacred American laws is being broken by the people who claim divine right to the freedoms we hold. Never mind that intellectual property is the driving force behind competition in our economy. Where do these people think the bags are made?

Ohio?

Depending on who you ask, the bags are made in China or sweatshops in bellies of the giant industrial spaces that make up a great deal of the neighborhood's charcter. I prefer the latter, as it lends itself rather unromantic indentured servant vibe:

Wang's mother had been dead for little over a year, and the beatings from her father were becoming more frequent and brutal. The local pimp was a friend to her brothers and even in a town of 2.5 million poor Chinese, word travels fast. Then, one night a handsome stranger asked Wang if she knew of "Amelica". A week later she was loaded into a shipping container from which she would not emerge for 8 horrifying days.

Right?

Basically the whole thing is like a giant wook parking lot, which some people claim is really this thing called a bazaar. I say fuck that. Have you ever huffed nitrous at a Bazaar? You think the people at Harper's are listening to Air, giving each other backrubs in the break room? Fuck that.
What? Good god fucking damn it, I'm hung.

Next week, kids.

About The Author

Ready to waste the rest of your day? Just type in "Muppets" on YouTube and click away.

Thanks to Chief Imus Killer for the link (he's the guy in the pictures).

Brunch Is Back, Son!

I'm bringin' this sh*t directly back to its roots.

Brunch.

New York City brunch to be exact. That's right, kids - The 'Mania has up and moved itself to Brooklyn and seeing as the editor-in-chief is currently employed, there will be brunch.

For those unfamiliar with the glory days of The 'Mania's brunch-stravaganza, the criteria are as follows: I eat eggs benedict, I drink a bloody mary and I observe. Simple. Used to be just on Sundays, but up here they gots brunch on Saturday, too!

Next, I relay my opinion on the benny, the bloody, the price, and the service on a .05-5.00 scale with no standard increment between. I may reference the experience of other diners, but since this is about the science of brunch, I maintain a control, me, allowing you, the reader, to expertly and accurately interpret posted results.

Shall we?

SATURDAY
Les Enfants Terribles

I will readily admit that I can be a pain in the colon to brunch with, for I hold certain truths to be self evident. For example - "Brunch is not brunch without bloody marys," is a good one. One day I may not order one. But until then, and even then, I demand the option. Thus, I had to strike down poor Mollywood's intitial spot for to do the brunching.

"Couldn't you just have a mimosa?"

So, around the corner we strolled to Les Enfants Terrible, a small Bistro bordering Chinatown on the LES that posts which type of mussels they will be serving in the evening. Bonus, right? The place was near dead, with one two tables inside and a couple folks at the bar.

BLOODY: (1.5 of 5)

Not based on the fact that we had to order it at the same time as our meal (service)
there was no love here. Spicy to overshadow the fact that the cocktail had no taste. Also, I believe it was made with Aristocrat vodka, which is akin to offering your uncle a drink and then karate chopping him in the throat. My companion took a hearty sip of hers and was done.

SERVICE: (1 of 5)

I will try and stretch this rant out over the course of many posts, but I have yet to get good service in New York. As mentioned before, the place was dead and the waitress didn't get our drink order first; she waited until we were all the way ready. Thanks.

She was cute, saving her the one point. Really cute actually.

Our drinks took a while, for which the bartender, I'm sure, shares the blame. He was a classic LES drink slinger - tall, skinny, clever (read: expensive) t-shirt, some form of mullet/rat tail, and general ennui for the whole "doing his job" thing.

Actually, you know what? The waitress was really cute. I'll give her another .5 for that.

The hummus we ordered as an appetizer came out at the same time as our bennys and steak and eggs.

BENNY: (4 of 5)

Pretty effing good. My companion likes her muffins toasted, which they weren't, but I'm pretty nonchalant about that. One egg was poached perfectly, while the other one was overdone. CAbacon was nice and thin. But the kicker were the taters and the greens. A whole mess o' full on Belgian-style frites, golden crispy, and a well dressed mesclun salad rounded out the sizable plate. The hummus stuff was ish - babbaganoosh (sp?), tapenade, hummus and salsa, and is not included in the score.

PRICE: (2.5 of 5)

Around $65 (with tax, no tip) for 2 bennys, steak frite, hummus plate, OJ, and 2 bloodys. No real sticker shock upon delivery, but then I remembered that poured my bloody using a $7.99/L bottle of Molotov cocktail and was unimpressed.

In summation, if I lived on the block and it was my super-different pal working behind the bar, I might go back for a lazy afternoon (I think they had TV), but it's not worth crossing the river for.

Les Enfants Terribles
37 Canal St. NY, NY 10002
212.777.7518
Cash or AmEx only


SATURDAY
The Lodge

This was not my first brunch at The Lodge. In fact, I've eaten brunch there, in the same seat served by the same waitress several times now.

It's a pretty great place for brunch. Essentially open air, the joint has a nice bar / waiting / couch area and plenty oold chairs to sit in and old tables to lean on. Some brunches lucky diners get to listen to PM Dawn-era early nineties slow jams, and mostly that all my emotions take take on a Sunday afternoon.

BLOODY: (5 of 5)

2 for 1.

Seriously.

Served in mason jars with a lemon (correct!) and a long toothpick of olives, the perfectly spicy, and on this occasion extra-Worcestershirey, bloodys have horseradish you can bite.

Did I mention that they're 2 for 1?

SERVICE: (2 of 5)

Did I mention I've had the same waitress a couple of times?

This bitch is lazy. Straight up. That or rude and stupid.

Two bloodys, two bennys. They came pretty quick via a runner. Asked him for a side of bacon. The waitress, busy blowing the cook for a fix? deciding what new clever tattoos look best of pale skin? never got the message. No effing bacon.

The hostess, who is lovely, saw that we had stacked our plates and brought the check. I feel bad about the 2, because the support staff is very good and very friendly.

BENNY: (4 of 5)

In between our waitress leaving us to take a shit and never coming back, the eggs were delightful. Both perfectly poached on a lightly toasted English muffin, with a nice slice of CAbacon in between. The potatoes were rosemary hashbrowns which probably come from a bag, but if so, the bag was dusted with happy memories and teddy bear hugs.

PRICE: (5 of 5)

2 bennys: $16
4 bloodys: $14

I'm always happy to pick up the check at Lodge brunch.

Overall a great experience, perfect for slungover people-watching, and it's only a bike ride from my place. A friend of a friend just started to wait there and he's a lifer, so maybe things are looking up. Heard dinner's pretty excellent, too.

The Lodge
318 Grand @ Havemeyer
Brooklyn, NY G-MAP
718.486.9400

A couple than Mr. De Le Sac forgot:

**Thou shalt only 'av a bird in yo' band if it's tha bass playa

**"Monkees -- Just a band"

Condolences

To all of those who lost someone on the Virginia Tech campus today.

It's been almost eight years to the day since the Columbine murders, but the horror and outrage that event brought on seem to be missing from people today. Why?

Columbine had a standoff, something happening live for TV. Tech holds only a report of events and press conferences for the 24-hour channels.

Columbine was high school. Compulsory. Tech, a state school that only recently shifted its focus from agriculture, is a college. Not mandatory, and somewhat exclusive.

Columbine had Dylan and Eric. We still don't know the Tech shooter's name.

I'm sure that in the coming days, police camera work will somehow surface, revealing the gory details of today's slaughter, and at least one or two eyewitness accounts will serve as tomorrow's headlines, but in the age of video-on-demand-I-wanna-see-it-as-it-happens, today's events are ringing somewhat hollow in the national conscience.

Go thou, deceased, to this earth which is a mother, and spacious and kind. May her touch be soft like that of wool, or a young woman, and may she protect thee from the depths of destruction. Rise above him, O Earth, do not press painfully on him, give him good things, give him consolation, as a mother covers her child with her cloth, cover thou him. - Vedic Funeral Rite

No So Original, Mr. Richard

I know.

I'm a day late and everyone is now well aware of Keith Richard's assertion that he snorted his father's ashes.

When I heard this, I was amazed. F*cking shocked.

It was one thing when The Stones stopped making original music. The next was when the live show became little more than a cabaret version of their greatest hits record. But Keef was always an original. Until now. I offer the jury an excerpt from the staggering brilliance of Mr. Leary's "No Cure For Cancer":

I was reading an interview with Keith Richards in a magazine and in the interview Keith Richards intimated that kids should not do drugs. Keith Richards! Says that kids should not do drugs! Keith, we can't do any more drugs because you already fucking did them all, alright! There's none left! We have to wait 'till you die and smoke your ashes! Jesus Christ! Talk about the pot and the fuckin' kettle.

So, I mean, the bit was about Keef, and it did use another form of ingestion, and it was him that we were supposed to be doing. I guess this keeps the level of "Keith Richard won't shock us until..." at "he marrys a cow, and during the 'height' of the honeymoon blow it's brains out when a .22, then have a dead- wifecow 'Champagne and Brains!' hot tub party with Ryan Seacrest, Katie Couric, Presidential Defense advisor Brent Scowcroft and the every on-air personality at Telemundo and convert to Lutheranism in the morning."

Phew.

Special thanks to assistant proto-editor-in-chief C Pat for his contributions to this and many other wonderful ways to waste your day.

Original Gangsta

In fact, this motherf*cker right here was the FIRST!

Hat tip to the beautiful McKay.

UPDATE: Link Fixed.

F*cking Peyton

Dude won the Superbowl this year, so I can't say he never "won the big one" or that he didn't "have the ugliest head I've ever seen". Now I can't even say, "He's not really f*cking funny."

Enjoy.


Thanks to Tyler Durden for a great blog that I read with the regularity of a 45 year-old vegetarian.

God Bless The Russians

Stalin, Chernobyl, Stolichnya, and years of famine, plague, and inhuman cold only killed the weak ones. The survivors had kids like this little tiger.

Wow.

Budweiser

Budweiser rules. The people who sell it rule. That f*cking eagle rules, too, which is pretty great because as a general rule I hate eagles.

For example, it got me so 2002 drunk the other night that my friends were all "Whoa, duder. You never get like this," as I partied on. Bud pitchers at the bowling alley are only $7 bucks, and with $1 games, you can party all night on just a couple bucks!!!

I know that the logo over there isn't just for Budweiser, and that it represents a lot of beers that are not Budweiser. It even stands for stuff like Bacardi Silver coolers and stuff, which are OK if you're a 14 year old who wants to get drunk or the older dude who wants to make that happen never OK in any situation.

So this weekend, if you decide to be cool and come party with The Nice Jenkins, who party like this guy , drink Budweiser. If you don't - drink Bud anyway and thank Jesus your parents went to college.

Something for Friday

Good lord on a pickup bed full of watermelons. These are the cutest f*cking babies in the world.

Never mind what their names are (Henrietta & Skillet) or who they belong (people who owe me lots of money) or why I'm using this space to post pictures of them (ransom). How f*cking cute are these two?

The only thing that could make these two any cuter would be dressing them in matching Redskins cheerleader outfits. Or watching them drive a car. As a team.

Happy St. Patrick's day from Dr. Chewbakka, Henrietta, Skillet, and that guy behind you with the nail gun.

Patti Smith Is An Idiot

And The Rock And Roll Hall of Fame yearly inductions are for @ssholes. The same guys that decided to build their museum in Cleveland should be trusted to vote on dudes like Grandmaster Flash?

Patti Smith goes in to the RRHoF today and she isn't even worthy of being called an @sshole. Read her opinion being inducted in today's NYT, and try to hold back your most recent meal:

My late husband, Fred Sonic Smith, then of Detroit’s MC5, was a part of the brotherhood instrumental in forging a revolution: seeking to save the world with love and the electric guitar. He created aural autonomy yet did not have the constitution to survive all the complexities of existence.

First - MC5 were a one-hit wonder from Detroit. Their 1968 live rocker "Kick Out The Jams", with its single of the same name, is a kind-of classic. To say that this donated anything more to the world than being the first successful garage band is read said 14 year old's journal and, like, go, "Totally!" They didn't want to change the world, let alone save it. They wanted to smoke weed and bang chicks, leading the way for other Motor City greats like The Stooges and Ted Nugget to the exact same thing. Their next album, which was all about the hits, baby, was awful and the group disbanded shortly thereafter to raise kids and live in the real world.

Secondly - I may never read the New York Times again. I know its a Monday, but they let this idiot write about herself for 11 paragraphs? That garbage is "Fit to Print"?!? I'm amazed the piece isn't peppered with quotes from Jim Morrison or Wavy Gravy. Where are the "I love Fred" or "Mrs. Johnson is a B-I-T-C-H!!!!" doodles?

Tonight the above-mentioned will join Michael Stripe, Eddie Van Halen, and many others in getting up to pat themselves on the back and pretend to not notice that they have become the exact losers that they sought to wrest control from when they made the music that
got them to the podium.

Except Michael Anthony. He's been one wrong note away from the Bar-Mitzah circuit for 25 some years now and loves just who he is at this very moment.


And Patti - Your husband was a sh*tty guitar player.

Slow Day

They're beginning to pile up.

I know. One day I'll be peering past a coffee cup proclaiming me the week of 3/6-3/12/12's best sandpaper salesman and long for my days of solitude and rest. One day.

Until then, I'm coming to realize that, though my disdain for most of them is great, I need people.

What on Earth will ease my pain?
Better....

I know! What always cheers me up?

A Haiku For A Dying iPod

My iPod's en route
To her savoir. Her maker
She hasn't met yet.

Get better headphone jack. I can't lose you. Your my only hope.

Oh...Heh-row...

Wanna see what it looks like when 100 couples that all look the same have sex?

Here you go.

Ask Trey

Dear Trey,

Are current CO2 emmissions levels to blame for global warming? All of my friends say they are, but then again, none of them believe in registering to vote of using condoms. (Just to be on the safe side, I set my car on fire last week so I won't drive it.)

Oh yeah - I totally started collecting Coke bottles to make a necklace for you for when you go to prison.

-Mihawala (My boyfriend told me it's Algonquin for "Works Instead of Boyfriend")

Dear Mihawala,

Are you f*cking kidding me? And not about the stupid f*cking name or the garbage that you want to hang around my neck...

Global warming and climate change due to carbon increased carbon emissions?

What do I say? "No, I don't, but I found it totally cool to drive around the country with 5 18-wheelers and 4 tourbuses for close to a decade? I think Al Gore's right, but he wouldn't mind so much that you guys drive 2-to-a-4Runner and I was responsible for some of the greatest SUV-laden all day traffic jams of the past 20 years? I approve of scare tactics like this disgusting "Public Service Announcement" whose airing on network television is an FCC mandate?"

F*ck you. How dare you consider me that f*cking naive.

All I ever asked you to do was pick up your f*cking garbage. And I still had to hire those of you who would actually work to pick most of it up after you left.


..........Hey - I'm really sorry. Let's just say that I'm "really stressed out" right now because "the man" is making sure I don't take my "medecine" by "taking a urine sample for opioids every 36 hours."

For more information on carbon emissions and their effect on the enviornment, check out the Oregon Petition's website. OK? I'll wear the necklace, too.

-Trey

Why Am I Awake?

To be the first blogger on your block to tell you that Britney Spears tried to kill herself last night.

The article also says that a source close to Ms. Spears revealed that the singer wants her estranged husband Kevin "K-Fed" Federline to take her crazy ass back.

Maybe this is all a trick. Sure, there have been the rumours that she shaved her head because she was worried The Fed would find drugs in it, and that she's left rehab like 4 times, and that she has to borrow bikinis from strangers, and that she has purchased no less than $240 worth of pudding (Awwwwww yeah) for two gentlemen named Barry & Levon.

Dude, these are mostly facts. (I read them on the World Wide Interweb.)

Perhaps she's testing ol' K-Fizzle.

Think about it. With Britney's background, she's lucky she's only got two kids that she isn't raising in a swamp, amusing herself putting blond wigs on alligators. Her DNA can't figure out how/why she doesn't have a wardrobe that consists solely of Tweety Bird and Tasmanian Devil t-shirts and "her jellies".

Maybe she's seeing just how far she can string her man out before he takes her back. I figured she'd go the "entire softball team in an hour including pictures and some video (with sound)"-route, but she bypassed it and went straight for the "pretend to hang myself in my $10,000 a day treatment facility". Now, when K-to-tha-F takes her back, the first thing she'll do is take off her shoe and beat his cowering ass with it, screaming "Who's crazy now? Not ol' Jack Tripper!! Not ME!!!"

Don't believe me? What's David Mamet doing right now? Anybody seen him?

Didn't think so.



Ed note: What's really great about this episode of Ms. Spears' unraveling (for me) is both the lunacy of it, "Britney wrote 666 on her shaved head, and ran around the clinic screaming 'I am the Antichrist!'" and the absence of any inappropriate photography I might feel the need to post.

See - I'm applying for a grant from the NEA (I can be jobless forever!) and I don't think that they take kindly to posted photos of starlets running around all high on methadone with their hoo-hoo holes vaginas all hanging out and sh*t. (They're sticklers for anatomical accuracy, too)

Don't Worry

Be crazy.

And a little bit sweet, I guess.

Helps to have a bizillion dollars, though...

No New Posts Posts?!? Brah...Where's The Love?

Right here, guy.

Black

Louis Chude-Sokei's article in today's LA Times "Redefining 'Black'" separates my man Brack-O Bama from the section of the population defined as African American.

Brack's father is from Africa. But his mother is as white as can be. This would drop him in the "mixed" category. Same as Tiger Woods. I'm sure that it was easy to pitch him as spokesman to the board of American Express, right?

I understand that the common usage of the word "African American" refers to "an ethnic group in the United States whose ancestors, usually in predominant part, were indigenous to Sub-Saharan Africa...(and who) descend primarily from enslaved Africans brought to the United States, especially the American South, between 1565 and 1807." (Thanks, Wikipedia)

Doesn't my man's one degree of separation from The Motherland define him better as an African American? Tell Jimmy O'Bannon, a Boston native whose father was an immigrant to this country that he's not an Irish American. F*ck...tell him he's not Irish. When the paramedics finish removing the pint glass shards from your stupid face, call me, so I can tell you about your stupid face again. People's ancestry, before ten or twenty years ago when a white college professor decided that "black" was a negative term (it's NOT), used to define the prefix of their Americanness.

Chude-Sokei uses the above definition for African Americans in his article, but refers to all other immigrants of a dark persuasion "black". So - Jamaican Americans are black. Jamaicans who's ancestry tells the same stories of people being ripped from the same villages in Western African and taken East on the same ships, with a generation or two stopping in Kingston before settling in Queens, are different than their neighbors whose great grandfathers were taken a stop farther to Charleston. They are black immigrants to this country.

Huh?

BOB is blacker than me. He's blacker, certainly, than most of the people whose houses I hung out at in Alexandria, VA. For those people for whom their potential vote for him hinges on his "blackness", I would offer that not supporting him for his supposed lack of it may ruin any chance to vote for a President who has "more."

Two Great Tastes

That don't necessarily taste bad together...Enjoy your weekend.

Thanks to Prof. Slant for the tip.

Still Reading

I Love 'Roo

The Police • Tool • Widespread Panic • The White Stripes • Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals • Wilco • The Flaming Lips • MANU CHAO Radio Bemba Sound System • The String Cheese Incident • Franz Ferdinand • Bob Weir & Ratdog • Damien Rice • Ween • Gov't Mule • Ziggy Marley • The Decemberists • Kings of Leon • Michael Franti & Spearhead • Wolfmother • Regina Spektor • The Black Keys • Galactic • DJ Shadow • Gillian Welch • Spoon • Keller Williams (WMD'S) • Sasha & John Digweed • STS9 • Old Crow Medicine Show • The Hold Steady • Lily Allen • North Mississippi Allstars • Fountains Of Wayne • Hot Tuna • Feist • Hot Chip • John Butler Trio • Ralph Stanley & the Clinch Mountain Boys • Aesop Rock • The Richard Thompson Band • Dierks Bentley • James Blood Ulmer • Xavier Rudd • Gogol Bordello • Junior Brown • Tortoise • T-Bone Burnett • Mavis Staples • Clutch • Cold War Kids • Dr. Dog • Paolo Nutini • Brazilian Girls • RX Bandits • The Nightwatchman • The Slip • Girl Talk • Railroad Earth • Martha Wainwright • Rodrigo y Gabriela • Annuals • Tea Leaf Green • Sam Roberts Band • Elvis Perkins in Dearland • Charlie Louvin • Sonya Kitchell • Mute Math • Apollo Sunshine • Uncle Earl • The National • The Little Ones • Black Angels • Ryan Shaw • Lewis Black & Friends • Dave Attell • David Cross
__________________________________________________________________
David Cross at Bonnaroo would make the $150 ticket worth it, honestly. Thanks to the good people at Starr Hill Beer, The King of All Wookies will not only be there, but will have all of the access.

***To shill for my sponsors quickly, but honestly - Starr Hill is good f*cking beer. The Jomo (pronounced Joe-Moe, jerk) Lager is a staple of any growing wookie's diet, and responsible for many decisions of questionable merit.

Sick lineup, brah. See ya there. If you've got passes. F*ck a Gen. Pop.

Ask Trey

Ernest,

This is your lawyer. My secretary alerted me to this "column" where people ask you questions. Here's a couple off the top of head (in no particular order):

HEROIN?!?!?!?

What the f*ck on earth where you thinking?

Don't you remember that scene in The Godfather, where the heads of the Five Families are talking about "narcotics"?

Haven't enough of your heroes died or lived as shells of their former selves to freak you out a little?!?!?!?

Do you wanna look like this in a couple years?

Well, you may have no choice, 'cause it's gonna be a bitch (read: expensive; very expensive) to get rid of these charges, and that's the sort of get-up they'll have your skinny white ass in after about four days in the can.

Sound good?

- Sal Salamonianesto, Esq.

Sal,

Pebbles and Marbles, you know?


Trey Anastasio is the former guitar player for experimental-rock band Phish, and a junkie. His comments do not reflect the editorial stance of Wookiemania, or its parent company 1 For 3 | 2 For 5, LLC

Where's The Cadillac?

Holy Jesus.

Having no job can be, at times, its own reward. Then, on special days like today, Jesus himself reminds you that a full work day limits by a third the amount of time you would have to look at supermodels in small bathing suits...

...Or paint.

I promise you, dear reader, that I will not rest until I have seen every picture posted on the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition's super-special website. That, friend, is my job today.

Thank you Jesus.

And The Superficial for the tip.

Offer Good While Author Lasts

I'm well aware that as my stewardship of this blog as fallen by the wayside, readership may be trending in correlation. Just gonna throw this one out there to the newly anointed and the hardest of hardcore Wooksters, then:

I will be celebrating Valentine's Day in my bed this year, with about 10 hours of Sinatra and 100 pushups to get done. If anyone would like to add themselves to that list, you probably know how to get here.


Happy Valentine's Day, kids.

How Many Days?

100 Albums in 100 Days is now up and churning for your viewing pleasure.

Churn baby, churn - Wookie infern-ooooooooooo!

A New Hope

With no more job to stand in its author's way, one of the greatest blogs ever to owe its origins to both the owners of every lot's three-legged dog population and bass-playing extra-terrestrials, WOOKIEMANIA returns. For the fourth time.

What should you expect as a reader of WOOKIEMANIA? Well -

Interviews with celebrities!!!

Poetry!!!

Pictures of Christy Turlington from the early to late 90's!!!

Pictures of the author from the mid-oo's!!!

All of this without the use of his laptop's factory "Enter" key. For now.

This blog will no longer be featuring brunch reviews. Now that the author is jobless and soon to be extremely indigent, he can no longer afford, and thusly no longer wants to talk about foie-gras wrapped in seared Serrano ham served with a perfectly over-easy egg over homemade brioche. Thank you, Mas.

Thank you.

The rest -

I am going to try to listen to 100 albums in 100 days. More about that later.

The Nice Jenkins are poised to dominate the world. We're going to help them, right?

Go 'Skins.