Don't Stop Believin'

In the area of shameless self-promotion, I have to say that last night's Literary Karaoke event in DC came off pretty well. Thanks to anybody who came on out. The real highlight of the evening was Joe Killiany rocking the mike on Jessie's Girl and Don't Stop Believin. Steve Perry -- you better watch your back.

Sexual Kung Fu

I don't know much, but I do know that saying "sexual kung fu" is funny. Every single time.

What's even more fun is saying "The Sexual Kung Fu Institute." Or the Sexual Kung Fu DVD.

Yeah, it's Friday afternoon and I'm bored and just wanted to have an excuse to say "Sexual Kung Fu."

Press Release of the Week: I'm so confused

I have no idea who, or what, Crazy Frog is. From the picture he looks kinda like a coked-up WWII fighter pilot. Or maybe he's the retarded half-brother of The WB frog, and the helmet is for his own protection. At any rate, Crazy Frog recorded a song, and now has an album. The album is called Crazy Frog Presents Crazy Hits. People in England, apparently, are eating the shit up.

Although, from what I can tell from the press release, the "song" is really just a ringtone. How the fuck does a ringtone get on the British music charts? Can any noise, heard often enough, make the charts? Could Really Loud Fart in Elevator be the next big thing? How about Bus That Honks Every Time It Drives By My Goddamned House, Even in the Middle of the Night When I'm Trying to Sleep?

The whole thing makes my head hurt. I've included the entire press release here. Feel free to explain it to me in the comments section so I don't have to sit up all night wondering about it.

Crazy Frog to Release ''Crazy Hits'' in the U.S. NEW YORK
(BUSINESS WIRE)--July 29, 2005--The Frog that has made England "crazy" is now making its way across the ocean to the American shores with the August 23, 2005 release of "CRAZY FROG PRESENTS CRAZY HITS," on Next Plateau/Universal.

CRAZY FROG's debut, "Axel F," is a combination of a ringtone from Jamster!, a premier provider of mobile content, and the theme song from the classic Eddie Murphy film, Beverly Hills Cop.

"Axel F," leaped to #1 on the UK Singles Chart and was outselling the #2 single, Coldplay's "Speed Of Sound," by three to one. This marks the first time in UK chart history that a ringtone has not only competed for chart positioning with conventional full-length tracks, but has reached the #1 position.

Crazy Frog has held #1 spot for five weeks on the Eurochart. It also ranks #2 in Finland, #2 in Sweden, #2 in Austria, #1 in Wallonia, and #1 in Norway. Estimated European sales are over one million to date. Not too bad for an animated blue biker that is based on a ringtone.

"CRAZY FROG PRESENTS CRAZY HITS" will include such classic tunes as: "I Like To Move It," "Whoomp! (There It Is)," "Pump Up The Jam," and "Who Let The Frog Out." "Axel F" has already started to create a buzz at radio, with recent adds at such stations as New York's Z-100, jumping to Top Five at Radio Disney and being the #1 requested song at Sirius Satellite Radio.

Reasons we might reject your submission

As a service to the writers who are willing to take the great leap of faith and send their work our way, and with a nod to Eyeshot Editor and Friend-of-the-Barrelhouse Lee Klein, who on his site posted actual rejection letters he's sent to submitters, here are some possible reasons we may reject your submission:

--Your story is a thinly disguised roman a clef about your experiences in the Peace Corps/teaching ESL, in which you a) traveled to an African/Asian country, b) struggled to adjust to a new set of cultural conventions and strange foods, then, c) after a long internal monologue while walking down a dusty unpaved road/through a field of flowers/up a mountain to a Buddhist temple/on a windswept beach, d) you had a moment of insight and realized We're All Human Despite Our Surface-Level Differences.

--You are a misunderstood teenaged girl, and you write confessional poetry.

--Your story is a fable or allegory, the lesson of which is one of the following: God Exists, God Does Not Exist, War is Bad, War is Good, We're All Human Despite Our Surface-Level Differences.

--You've used the following word without any apparent irony: wiener. As in: "Jane could resist his masculine wiles no more, so she unzippered his pants and reached for his wiener." Actually, on second thought, we'd love it if you could include that sentence in your story.

--You don't know the difference between your and you're. Or the difference between every day and everyday. Or you sometimes WRITE IN ALL CAPS FOR EMPHASIS. Or you've written your story in purple 18-point Comic Sans font.

--Your story involves overwrought descriptions of the love act, and begins with the words: "I never believed this could happen to me."

--The drama in your story hinges on a surprise twist ending, but has one of the following titles: "The Night My Brother Stabbed Me," "The Dream," "How I Figured Out My Girlfriend Was Actually a Dude"

--Your story is about college-aged kids getting drunk. And nothing else. At the beginning: None of the characters are drunk. At the end: They're very drunk. In between: drinking. We admit this is a fun story to live, but it's not so fun to read. There are literally thousands of stories just begging to be told, but How I Bonged Like One Million Beers and Got So Totally Wasted is not one of them.

--All the black and/or poor characters in your story speak in Mark Twain-style dialect. We're not too easily offended, but this is offensive. Seriously. Cut it out.

--Your story is about how you hate the publishing industry, and literary journals, and how the next editor who rejects your masterwork is going to get a knife to the gut (actually, in lieu of rejecting this one, we may just pretend we never saw it).

--Your story ends when its narrator wakes up to the sound of the alarm/his mother's voice /the phone ringing/his dog licking his face, and realizes: it was all just a dream. A terrible, terrible dream.

PS: Any resemblance to actual, specific Barrelhouse submissions is purely coincidental.

PPS: We really do appreciate all the submissions we get. Seriously. And most of them are very good.

PPPS: If you've recently had a piece rejected by us, and you think maybe we're talking about you, trust us: we're totally talking about people other than you.

PPPPS: We love you.

Rick "The Human Target" Springfield

Karaoke fast approaches and the Barrelhouse crew hasn't settled on a song yet. We're running out of time and it's only under such pressure that great ideas are born, so I submit to my fellow rockers that we throw down with Jessie's Girl by Rick "Star of the Short Lived 'Human Target' TV Series" Springfield. It's easy to sing. Everyone knows the words. And it was used to great effect in Boogie Nights. That seen where Alfred Molina is off his can on coke, dancing around that gaudy LA living room in a half open bathrobe. Cinematic genius.

In other Jessie's Girl news, I went to Panama City, FL on spring break once. There was this huge club there, four floors of wall to wall drunken assholes, of which i was one most nights of my stay. The bottom floor was the techno-buy-ecstasy room. The middle floor was the hip hop, white girls cutting it up room. On the top floor there was a cover band that played every night. They were called rockbox (one word). And every night, around one am, they'd play jessie's girl. I made sure I caught it, every night. You'd be surprised how many people did the same. There's something about the song that has draw. Maybe it's that we all remember Rick smashing the mirror in the video. That was hot.

Payola: It's good for the soul (at least Slate.com thinks so)

Not music day. I know. Sorry. But there are so many flaws in this defense of payola from Slate.com it’s hard to not pick apart its logic. It’s also hard to figure out where to begin a dissection of it. (However, before getting to that, can I say God bless Eliot Spitzer? And not only for going after Sony, but for pretty much everything he’s done over the past four years. Is there another prominent, activist, government official who so obviously puts the pursuit of justice above pleasing corporations? None that I can think of.)

At any rate, here we go on Danny Gross’s piece. He starts his defense by stating:

“It's a truth universally acknowledged that manufacturers of everything from soap to computers pay the folks who control crucial distribution channels to display their wares prominently. It's legal, and no one minds.”

Of course it’s legal—however, I don’t agree with his assertion that no one minds—because the people who accept money to prominently display items like soap and computers own the space where those things will be displayed. They can use the space anyway they want; they can sell it to whomever they like--it belongs to them. It’s kind of like the store is their apartment, allowing them to arrange the furniture how ever they like, even if it’s by selling the best spots to the highest bidder. However, radios that accept money for playing certain songs don’t own the airwaves they use. You and I own them. Radio waves are public and regulated by the government, which ruled, as a result of the payola scams in the 1950s, that the practice of paying for play is a no go. So, unless you, me, and Uncle Sam are getting kick backs from the money pocketed by DJs, this shit simply ain’t cool. In fact, this logic is so obvious that Gross points it out later in the article. He counters by stating:

“How, precisely, are consumers harmed if a radio station in Toledo played Celine Dion more than it otherwise would have in the absence of payments… Fifty years ago, the prospect of a big record company like Sony and a big radio station owner conspiring to fix what got played could have threatened an important component of the economy and actually stifled musical creativity. But not today. With declining record sales, the rise of Internet and satellite radio, and the advent of iTunes, iPods, and podcasting, radio stations and record companies have become an object of pity more than fear.”

Once again, keep in mind that we as citizens of the United States own the airwaves. I don’t know that we are harmed by listening to Celine Dion—hell, from the sound of things I’ll be karaoking to her greatest hits on Saturday night—but I would venture that smaller, more interesting bands, despite the advent of new music technologies, are still adversely effected by the fact she is spun 10 times an hour when they can’t get a spot on most play lists. Despite new technologies, there are still places in the world, North East PA for instance, and Toledo OH I’d imagine, that still rely on main stream radio for cues on what music to purchase. Yes, Napster and itunes are great, but how would you know to download a Q and Not U song if you’ve never heard of Q and Not U? Word of mouth only travels so far outside of cities. What about the kid in Topeka, KS who hates country music, who hates Nelly, but buys those CDs because it's the only music he knows about? If radio was truly a service to the public stations would offer up different types of music, allow as many people as possible to get a piece of the pie, and appeal to a variety of tastes.

Finally, my absolute favorite point in Gross’s argument is the following:

“Entertainment payola is harmless because this is a consumer market that functions reasonably well. Books and movies backed by huge, ubiquitous promotional budgets won't gain market share and displace competitors if they suck.”

This comparison is completely senseless. When we talk about payola, we’re not talking about advertising. We’re not talking about buying thousands of ads in thousand of music magazines. We’re talking about record companies paying DJs to play albums the record company produced in order to sell more of them than they normally would. In terms of the marketing of movies, this would be the equivalent of studios paying theatres to play their movies, not spending millions on trailers and commercials that are often better produced than the movies themselves. What movie studios do is advertise. Advertisements are only suggestions. You don’t have to actually see the piece of shit being advertised. However, when every radio station in one market is accepting payola from the same record company, where do we turn the dial for relief? Well, I’ve got Celine Dion down here. Oh and I’ve got Sum 41 here. And I’ve got some great classic rock over here.

Perfect.

Not to get all hippie-ish, but the reason I get so bent out of shape about this is because I’d like to believe music is an art form first and a commodity second. Christ, at this rate, I’d be happy if commodity and art were at least on equal footing. I know it’s naive. I know record companies don’t spend a fuck load of money producing an album because they think their band is going to be the next Velvet Underground but because they want a return on their investment. And yes, I think they’re starting to pay the price for this in reduced record sales and fewer people listening to the radio, but part of me still wishes they’d learn their lesson and focus a little more on the art of things. It would be hard for them to lose more money then they have in the past ten years, so why not try it?

You should go out and buy this magazine right now (and no, it's not ours)

I read Harper's maybe twice a year, usually when I find myself either at lunch or in an airport without a good book and I'm not in the mood for one of the men's glossies: GQ, with its tips on how I could dress if I were a multi-millionaire yachtsman, Esquire with its profiles of the beautiful people, Details and Men's Health with articles and photo spreads that toe the thin (and constantly blurring) line between metrosexuality and homosexuality.

I always read the Harper's Index and the "readings" section, both of which are at once hilarious and troubling (and both of which, I just discovered, are available free online here here and here. I usually try to read at least one of the features, but they're often a bit overwritten and high-minded for my taste. They're like the serious (and thick) nonfiction books I buy sometimes in my more ambitious moments, then leave to wither away unread on my coffee table or my bookshelf.

So it was with a little trepidation that I moved beyond the "readings" section in the August Harper's and into the meat of the issue. But I'm glad I did, since the magazine ran one of the best essays I've read in a long time, on one of my favorite topics (as evidenced by repeated postings on this blog): Christianity in America.

For the last few years, as the rise of evangelical mega-churches has officially become a national phenomenon (and my parents have moved to Dallas, home of more arena-sized churches than you can shake a vial of holy water at), I've been wishing some non-evangelical Christians would at least enter into the debate over America's religious future, a debate that seems to be dominated by a lot of red-faced screaming and smiting but not a lot of actual substance.

Well, Bill McKibben, a scholar-in-residence at Middlebury College and a practicing Episcopalian, has finally answered the call. In his Harper's essay, he provides a nuanced, well-reasoned discussion, which is increasingly rare these days when the subject is either politics or religion (or in this case, both). Here's the opening paragraph:

"Only 40 percent of Americans can name more than four of the Ten Commandments and a scant half can cite any of the four authors of the Gospels. Twelve percent believe Joan of Arc was Noah's wife. This failure to recall the specifics of our Christian heritage may be further evidence of our nation's educational decline, but it probably doesn't matter all that much in spiritual or political terms. Here is a statistic that does matter: Three quarters of Americans believe the Bible teaches that 'God helps those who help themselves.' That is, three out of four Americans believe that this uber-American idea, a notion at the core of our current individualist politics and culture, which was in fact uttered by Ben Franklin, actually appears in Holy Scripture. The thing is, not only is Franklin's wisdom not Biblical; it's counter-Biblical. Few ideas could be further from the Gospel message, with its radical summons to love of neighbor. On this essential matter, most Americans — most American Christians — are simply wrong, as if 75 percent of American scientists believed that Newton proved gravity causes apples to fly up."

The rest of the essay is at times funny, at times distressing. But it gets down to what I find to be the most worrisome part of the new American Christianity: that it doesn't very much resemble Christianity at all. What it does look like, as McKibben points out, is our culture at large, which is so focused on the individual that it's lost sight of that call to selflessness and community so important to the Gospels.

"A rich man came to Jesus one day and asked what he should do to get into heaven. Jesus did not say he should invest, spend, and let the benefits trickle down; he said sell what you have, give the money to the poor, and follow me. Few plainer words have ever been spoken. And yet, for some reason, the Christian Coalition of America — founded in 1989 in order to 'preserve, protect and defend the Judeo-Christian values that made this the greatest country in history' — proclaimed last year that its top legislative priority would be 'making permanent President Bush's 2001 federal tax cuts.'"

"The power of the Christian right rests largely in the fact that they boldly claim religious authority, and by their very boldness convince the rest of us that they must know what they're talking about. They're like the guy who gives you directions with such loud confidence that you drive on even though the road appears to be turning into a faint, rutted track. But their theology is appealing for another reason, too: it coincides with what we want to believe. How nice it would be if Jesus had declared that our income was ours to keep, instead of insisting that we had to share. How satisfying it would be if we were supposed to hate our enemies. Religious conservatives will always have a comparatively easy sell.

"But straight is the path and narrow is the way. The Gospel is too radical for any culture larger than the Amish to ever come close to realizing; in demanding a departure from selfishness it conflicts with all our current desires. Even the first time around, judging by the reaction, the Gospels were pretty unwelcome news to an awful lot of people."

Ah, I could go on quoting this guy all day. But buy the issue and read the essay for yourself. It's definitely worth it. I'm tempted to borrow a move from my mother's playbook: clip the article and Xerox it, then mail a highlighted copy to everyone in my family. Especially the kooky evangelical arm of the Ingram clan, though that might get me disinvited from future family reunions. Which, now that I think about it, would be like killing two birds with one stone. To the copy machine!

The Week in Craig

I stumbled upon this fantastic weekly feature on The Black Table, which is obviously way cooler than us, because they thought of it first: the Week in Craigslist.

They focus on a different subject each week, list out some of the best ads from the knick-knack drawer/singles bar/yard sale/fetish club that is Craigslist, and then post snarky comments, generally about the amazing lack of self-awareness among some Craig posters. Such as this joker, who prefers that his new friends meet the following physical criteria: "my attitude is workplace NYC and non-denominational church, for the most part it doesn't make a difference--just appear to be middle class or higher."

He would also prefer that his new internet friends be Blood Type B.

Hard to believe this cat had to resort to the internet for friends. Anyway, check it out. It's a great feature and Amy Blair from the Black Table is mean and funny and I mean that in the best possible way.

The Worst Album Covers Ever

In honor of music day, I give you this collection of the worst album covers ever.

(Yes, I know, I haven't posted at all, and here are two posts in one day... trying very hard to make up for my delinquency.)

Too Old for Cold?

My youthful, beautiful girlfriend just yelled in from the other room, as thrilled as I've ever heard her about anything: "Honey, guess what? Coldplay is coming. And you know who's opening? Rilo Kiley. We are SO going."

Now, I'm 37, and immediately upon hearing those words, it was like I could literally feel myself aging in Superman-like superspeed.

I went through this rapid transition from "awesome, hon" to "I wonder if they're already passe" to "I'm too old to like Coldplay anyway" to "Man, that traffic's really going to suck" in like four seconds, leaving me laying on the couch in a bummed-out heap in complete awe of the simply miraculous fact that I even know Rilo Kiley at all.

It's even more miraculous that I think they rock.

So what I find myself wondering is this: when does Coldplay become Oldplay? How old are you when you can't go to pop music concerts any more?

And will somebody PLEASE tell me if Coldplay is already "coldplayed out?"

Fun with footnotes

I'm not sure whether this brief post is more appropriate for Music Day (since it cites rap lyrics) or Reading Day (since it comes from Harper's Magazine's "readings" section, which compiles bits and pieces of odd things from other publications). So I figured I'd post it late in the day today, on the cusp of the two daily themes (the August Harper's is really good, by the way -- but more on that tomorrow).

The following is a footnote to a U.S. Appeals Court decision:

"The trial transcript quotes Ms. Hayden as saying Murphy called her a snitch bitch 'hoe.' A 'hoe,' of course, is a tool used for weeding and gardening. We think the court reporter, unfamiliar with rap music, misunderstood Hayden's response. We have taken the liberty of changing 'hoe' to 'ho,' a staple of rap-music vernacular as, for example, when Ludacris raps, 'You doin' ho activities with ho tendencies.'"

Another karaoke possibility

Do you think the karaoke machine has music and words for Pac Man Fever?

If you've got the fever, you can read "news" updates about the song and its creators, see "where are they now" style photos and even stream Pac Man Fever 24/7 at this website.

And who knew there was an entire album of video-game-related hits? Try as they might, though, Buckner and Garcia couldn't manage to replicate their initial success with follow-ups like Do the Donkey Kong, Froggy's Lament, Goin' Berzerk or Ode to a Centipede.

A Careful Consideration of Potential Karaoke Options

Okay, so following on Mike's post below about the Literary Karaoke event (this Saturday, 7:00 to 9:00 in the basement of the Big Hunt in downtown DC), following is a careful consideration of the pros and cons of several karaoke options for Team Barrelhouse. Please note that this is in no way an exhaustive list, but rather the first group of songs that came into my head. Please post your suggestions afterwards.

Rock and Roll All Nite, by KISS

Pro: Loud. Singing ability not necessarily required.

Con: Hard to replicate without going all the way – face painting, boots, costumes, spitting blood, breathing fire.

Style points: You really can’t argue with KISS.

Crowd involvement potential: 8 out of 10

I Walk the Line, by Johnny Cash

Pro: Slow. Easy to follow along on that little monitor when you’re drunk. Fairly easy to replicate bass singing style of the Man in Black.

Con: Hmmm…it is a country song.

Style points: Depends on your feelings about Johnny Cash. Rebel/outlaw legend, or cornpone country star blessed with late-in-life hipster status by Rick Rubin? (I’ll go with rebel/outlaw legend.)

Crowd involvement potential: 6 out of 10

Surrender, by Cheap Trick

Pro: Good group-drunk singalong. Not many lyrics. Get to sing “your mamas allright…” just like Damone in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Con: Nasally singing style hard to replicate without damage to throat and/or echoes of Axl, Sebastian Bach, or Vince Neil.

Style points: Ten years ago, retro style points for “hey, I thought they were a joke but that song is actually kind of good, still.”

Crowd involvement potential: 7 out of 10

You Shook Me All Night Long, by AC/DC

Pro: It’s AC/DC, man. Memorized lyrics in 8th grade.

Con: Strangely hard to sing, unless you’ve got a natural throaty rasp going for you.

Style points: Opportunity to wear schoolboy outfit and jump up and down in a sweaty rage.

Crowd involvement potential: 9 out of 10

Midnight Train to Georgia, Gladys Knight and the Pips.

Pro: Hooky, slow, call and response lends itself to karaoke. Everybody wants to be a Pip.

Con: At least two people should kind of be able to sing. Everybody wants to be a Pip.

Style points: Solid pull out of the memory bank, kitschy, still a pretty solid song.

Crowd involvement potential: If you can sing, 9 out of 10; if you cannot, 4 out of 10.

Flight of Icarus, by Iron Maiden

Pro: Opportunity to see Aaron do the Flight of Icarus dance.

Con: Having to sing Flight of Icarus.

Style points: Aaron does Flight of Icarus dance.

Crowd involvement potential: Doens't everybody want to see Aaron do the Flight of Icarus dance?

In consideration of other potential karaoke songs, please note the following:

1. We will be drunk.

2. None of us can actually sing.

3. We are all men.

4. We will be drunk and none of us can actually sing.

Discuss.

Will sing for money

A brief break from our regularly scheduled programming for a little shameless self-promotion:

This Saturday, from 7 to 9 p.m., your trusty Barrelhouse editors will be participating in the first ever (that we know of) D.C.-Area Litmag Karaoke Event at the Big Hunt in Dupont Circle.

There may be some brief readings. There will definitely be drink specials. And the four of us (or maybe five, depending on how many beers we can force-feed Dan, our business manager/Colonel Tom Parker) singing and dancing on stage for your amusement like the trained monkeys that we are.

The event will cost you $5 at the door, with all the money going to D.C.-area litmags (not just us). Any dollar bills you stuff into our shorts during or after the performance, however, we will keep for ourselves and use to buy beers and various potted meats. Editors gotta eat!

Here's a link with more information about the event.

The Barrelhouse editors will be performing as The Aaron Pease Project. What we lack in singing ability we more than make up for in drunken enthusiasm. Also, if you tip him enough, Joe will sing Celine Dion's The Heart Will Go On.

The Week in Swayze

It may not be an Oscar or an Emmy, but finally The Swayze is getting some much-deserved recognition: The Video Software Dealers Association is honoring the actor with an Independent Career Achievment Award at their annual conference this week in Vegas.

In sadder news, The Swayze is apparently so self-conscious about his knees, which he injured in a horse riding accident, that he's asked for a knee double (2nd item) for a new movie he's shooting called Keeping Mum. Hobbled knees and all, we still love you, Patrick. You're like the wind through our trees!

And on Sunday, nursing a beer-and-pork-sandwich-induced hangover from my trip up to Philly, I actually watched about 30 minutes of Dirty Dancing in Spanish. ¡Nadie pone a bebé en una esquina!

The Greatest Surveillance Video of All Time

In general terms, not as good as anything involving farm animals, but still, for a rainy Saturday in Florida, surprisingly funny.

http://www.deezteez.com/extinguisher/

I pity the fool who's reduced to shilling socks!

If they ever make an updated version of the Mr. T in Your Pocket, here's another soundbite they can add: "I pity the fool who has holes in his socks!"

I'd like to say I made that quote up, but alas, it's real, straight from the mouth of T himself, or perhaps from the mouth of his publicist, speaking on T's behalf. Mr. T has been reduced to shilling socks. Oh, how the somewhat mighty have fallen!

"I found out after all of these years that if you want to be tough, you've got to walk tough. And the only way to walk tough is to wear Hanes Double Tough Socks!"

For any of you Barrelhouse readers in the Chicagoland area, you have the unique opportunity to see Mr. T throw out this evening's first pitch -- without shoes! -- at U.S. Cellular Field. The Chicago White Sox are taking on the Boston Red Sox, which makes it a perfect time for Hanes to introduce Mr. T as the official spokesman for their line of Double Tough Socks. Get it? Sox-Socks? That's what we call synergy, people.

You may be asking yourself: What kinds of socks are worthy of an endorsement from the T-Man himself? And the answer is: Only the best.

"'Hanes Double Tough Socks were created in direct response to the No. 1 sock complaint for men and boys - holes in the heels and toes. Consumers wanted a tougher sock, so we designed a sock with extra durability along with the comfort you expect from Hanes,' said Director of Marketing, Hanes Socks Jolanda Uittenbogaard. 'Because we doubled the reinforcement in the heels and toes, Hanes socks now last longer, providing even more value to our consumers.'"

I wonder what the No. 2 sock complaint of men and boys was? And what about women? They don't like the durable socks?

Here's a link to the news release, if you think I'm making this up. Believe me, I wish I were.

When Harry Potter fans attack

I realize that making fun of adult Harry Potter fans is like shooting fish in a barrel, particularly when those fans dress up in full costume for the latest book's release.

But when one of those costumed fans then goes home and rants on livejournal about how she lost the costume contest and thought about stabbing a child? Well, I consider that fair game.

"I made an effort. I spent money making an effort. I showed up early. I will remember and treasure this event for ever and eternity. And I'm passed over for an ugly little brat with a sparkly tie. Woo fucking woo.

I didn't stab her in the eye with my wand. I WANTED to. I talked about doing so VERY FUCKING LOUDLY. I was going to eviscerate her mother with the cover of my brand-new copy."

Really it's worth reading the whole thing. Lots of exclamation marks and all-caps anger, which is always fun. See, back in the pre-internet days, this girl would have had to go home and scrawl her angry screed in a diary decorated with frowny-face stickers. But now, thanks to livejournal, we all get to join in the good times.

After this post, we promise to return to our usual lowbrow snarkiness

I'm linking to this article with the warning that reading it may require you to watch a brief, possibly painless but possibly irritating ad, unless you're a Salon.com subscriber (I was forced to watch one for the ACLU featuring, for some reason, a naked middle-aged man on a tractor).

It's worth the trouble, though: Novelist James Hynes (Kings of Infinite Space, The Lecturer's Tale) recently read Anna Karenina for the first time, and his take on the book is refreshingly non-pretentious and heartfelt.

"The younger me would have been more credulous, perhaps, would have taken the novel's reputation as a masterpiece – maybe even the masterpiece – at face value. … The older me is a little more world-weary and streetwise: OK, Mr. Big Shot, Mr. Canonical Masterpiece, Mr. Greatest Fucking Novel Ever Written – what makes you so hot? Bring it on. And here's the rewarding part – you saw this coming, right? – the rewarding part is that the book does bring it, after all."

Probably once a year I check a couple books out of the library that I've decided I should finally get around to; Anna Karenina was one such book a couple years ago (just after Madame Bovary). I'm happy to say that neither book was a disappointment and, like Hynes, I particularly enjoyed Tolstoy.

When I picked up those books, I'd been out of college for several years and it was my first re-entry to the world of the 19th century novel. One of the first things I noticed was how different the narration was than what I'd become accustomed to by reading so much contemporary literature. A number of books are still ostensibly written from a third-person omniscient perspective, but what this generally amounts to is various close, over-the-shoulder third person narrators with only brief forays into real omniscience. Clearly, in the 19th century, it was much more acceptable for that omniscient authorial voice to intrude. Or, intrude is the wrong word, really, as the omniscient voice in Anna Karenina is there all along, ruling over the kingdom, God-like, while the camera periodically narrows in on a given character, then backs out again to allow for more commentary from on high.

Of course there are advantages and disadvantages to this kind of authorial voice. As Hynes rightly points out, there are sections of Anna Karenina that are almost unbearable, as they have little to do with the action of the book and are either long passages of description or mini-treatises on philosophy or the arts or social conventions that, while sometimes interesting, don't always do much to propel the story forward.

What I appreciate about these 19th century narrators, however, is a kind of authority that's rare today, and refreshing: this is the world I have created, the author seems to be saying, this is the objective reality of the story, and you will sit here patiently while I deliver up the goods, even if that means wending your way through a few detours and diatribes. Maybe it's a sign of cockiness – the author's belief that people will indeed sit there and take it, that his is a voice we'll want to listen to – but since both Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary are firmly planted in the literary canon, it's a cockiness that's hard to argue with.

And really, it takes a certain amount of hubris to write a novel in the first place, even a lousy novel, unless you're doing it as a purely personal exercise to be buried forever in a desk drawer. So there's something to be said for the author who doesn't shy away from this ego-fueled venture by cloaking his story in a this-is-just-one-way-of-seeing-things subjectivity.

So why don't we see more of this kind of narration today? Part of if, I imagine, has to do with literary fashion, which is always waxing and waning, and with the influence of film and our shortened attention spans. I wonder, though, if there's a larger shift afoot in the way we view the world that's changed the way we read (and write) novels. These days, everything under the sun is subjective, which we're constantly reminded of when we read news stories about current events (stories that, we're told, are biased in one direction or another by the journalist's politics), when we read self-help books (we're all on our own spiritual and emotional path) or talk to our shrinks (our problems are unique, and informed by chemicals or else our lousy childhoods). It's also evidenced in the sort of situational ethics preferred by politicians and professional athletes. Everything is indeed relative.

The point is that we're fast approaching a worldview in which there is no objective reality, if we haven't reached that point already, a universe in which everything is necessarily filtered through our own singular experience. And so maybe we don't know what to do with an omniscient narrator anymore. Maybe we can only approach stories as things that are seen through the eyes of a particular character, whether that means first person or the kind of limited third person that sits perched atop a character's shoulder like a parrot with its wings clipped.

In a fiction workshop, attempts to write in the third-person omniscient often result in comments like: Who is this narrator and why is he telling us this story? Why doesn't he show himself? Where is he hiding, in the clouds or something?

I don't think a 19th century reader would have asked himself those questions. It was clear enough who the narrator was: the author, who in the book's universe is the approximation of an omniscient God, and whose presence, I reckon, was appreciated in much the same way the religious appreciate the presence of a real God in their view of the universe: as the one truly objective seer, the one way to get the real story, and not just a debatable version of events.

Even Though It Isn't Tuesday, I'm Feeling Very Nick at Nite

So, I don't have cable or dish hooked up here in the heart of Dixie (where I am actually within driving distance of a place called Appalachicola, which in my head I hear in the same stentorian tones that Lorne Greene used to use at the beginning of the original Battlestar Galactica--"A shining planet, known as Earth.)

ANYWAY, I've been thinking about the shows that ought to be in rerun that aren't (CPO Sharkey, anyone?) or have been beaten half to death by syndication (God help me, but I can't ever watch The Andy Griffith Show ever again). And I'm working on a piece for the next Barrelhouse about (dum de dum) Get Smart.

Barbara Feldon, ahead of her time. Savvy, professional, able to both bring home the bacon AND fry it up in a pan. So here's the question of the day, Barrelhousers: Quién es más hermoso, Barbara Feldon o Bonnie Franklin?

And the best radio station in America is still KCRW. www.kcrw.com.

Radio, Radio

Of course this was inevitable, but it's still disheartening. Radio, like so many other things, has long since abandoned its quirky, single-market roots, where an interesting, music-loving DJ could play the records he or she liked and function as a kind of tastemaker for listeners willing to strap themselves in for the ride. Once playlists became things that were programmed nationwide by the marketing departments of a few large companies, it was only a matter of time before the DJ was disposed of altogether.

And in some ways it's a relief, really. Who wants to listen to the inane drive-time banter of the Daily Morning Zoo or Kookie Karl's Crazytorium? Not me. But I can still remember a time when local radio was cool, when I could tune to my favorite station and leave it there all day. A time when driving across a few states meant the chance to find out what people in other markets were listening to and maybe luck into a station that filled its early-morning hours with bootlegged Grateful Dead shows or small-time local bands or weird disco/polka formats.

Now, driving from Washington, D.C. to Washington state just means an endless loop of the same songs. I feel sorry for anyone making a cross-country trip without a CD player or an ipod these days, because your only hope for a break from the oppressive sameness of corporate radio will be catching some gospel or bluegrass on a public station, or maybe picking up the weak signal of a college station for a few miles.

A while back, we interviewed John Richards, who in many ways is the Last DJ Standing in the radio wars, and let me again give a shameless plug to his station, an outfit out of Seattle, Wash., that started as a small-time college operation and now streams online to listeners around the globe. It's great to see KEXP have so much success, but at the same time if commercial radio were even marginally palatable, I can't help but think the station would still be just a small blip on the landscape. A cool blip, definitely, and one that Seattleites would gladly rock out to, but probably not the worldwide empire it seems to be growing into.

Just as people twenty years ago would have laughed in your face if you'd suggested they should pay for the chance to hear decent radio programming over a satellite system.

Hug it out, bitch

Entourage is quickly becoming one of my favorite TV shows. It's worth watching if for no other reason than it features two of the funniest characters on the ol' boob tube today: Jeremy Piven as super-asshole agent Ari Gold, and Kevin Dillon (Matt's brother) as out-of-work actor and professional hanger-on Johnny Drama.

I've read some bad reviews of the show, most of which strike me as misguided in lamenting Entourage's supposed "missed opportunity" of not exploring the darker side of life in Hollywood. As best I can figure, these people are fans of Six Feet Under and The Sopranos who were looking forward to more of the same. And while that may not be a bad show idea -- a high-drama, sensitive look at the dark underbelly of life in L.A. -- it's not even close to what Entourage is all about.

This is a comedy, people. Maybe you've been thrown off because there's no laugh track, or because each episode's humor doesn't revolve around a simple misunderstanding that gets blown into ridiculous proportions, a la every sitcom ever created. But with a dearth of funny material on TV these days (we now live in a universe where Two and Half Men is a commercial success) we should be thankful, I think, for the laughs we get when Ari rants at the assistant of a low-level studio exec who won't return his calls: "Tell Dana I'm going to take the pictures from Cancun and start a web site. It'll be called i'm-a-hollywood-whore-dot-com and there will be no registration and no fee and I'll take out a full-page ad in the L.A. Times promoting it. Tell her I want a fucking call-back!"

Or when Ari tells his Asian assistant Lloyd that his outfit makes him look like "Michelle Kwan in drag."

Or when Johnny Drama, who is constantly asking his more succesful brother for bit parts in his movies, says you have to play "gay or retarded" to win an Oscar and that he'd "definitely take it in the ass for an oscar." Prompting Turtle to announce: "You'd take it in the ass for a guest spot on The Hughleys."

Maybe it's not high-concept, or even highbrow, but it's funny. And it captures something authentic about the kinds of exchanges guys of that age have, in the same way Swingers did. The difference, of course, is that the characters in Entourage actually are living the high life in their Hollywood mansion, with nearly constant parties and Laker floor seats and run-ins with various celebrities (including guest spots by Gary Busey and a pot-smoking Bob Saget). And as ridiculously as the characters may behave, there's a part of every guy who knows that if someone had given him millions of dollars when he was 22 or 23, he would have been no better.

Things I'm Pretty Sure Special Agent Johnny Utah Did Wrong in Point Break

So Point Break was on yesterday and I was just hungover enough to watch it and enjoy it. Twice. Following an exercise some friends carried out one night, I’m listing out the things I can remember that Special Agent Johnny Utah Did Wrong. If I remember correctly, there were 64 on the original list. Below are 10, off the top of my head.

I'm no FBI agent, but I’m relatively sure that jumping out of a plane without a parachute, or letting the guy you’ve been tracking for a year go so he can surf a giant wave are not listed as proper procedure in the FBI handbook. That said, I’m sure there were way more than 10. Please feel free to add your own.

Things Special Agent Johnny Utah Did Wrong in Point Break:

10. Befriend notorious bank robber/surfer/zen something-or-other Patrick Swayze and his notorious gang of surfer bank robbers.

9. Go get Gary Busey a meatball sandwich right when the bad guys start robbing and shooting people.

8. Jump out of plane with no parachute.

7. Fall in love with Lori “Tank Girl” Petty.

6. Let bank robbers kidnap Lori “Tank Girl” Petty.

5. Allow self to be more or less kidnapped by notorious bank robber gang (note: this also has something to do with being in love with Lori "Tank Girl" Petty).

4. Play serious touch football on the beach with notorious bank robber gang.

3. Tell notorious surfer bank robber gang his real name.

2. Be named “Johnny Utah.”

1. Let Patrick Swayze ride “Fifty Year Wave” instead of taking him into custody.

Press Release of the Week: The Donald gets served

Well, kiddies, I'm off to sunny Florida later this afternoon, so you get your Press Release of the Week a day early. And it's a doozy. Some guy named Kevin Blatt, who calls himself the "producer" of the Paris Hilton sex tape, is jumping on the reality show bandwagon with a program that, according to the headline, Dares to Trump NBC's The Apprentice. Get it? "Trump" The Apprentice? If the show is half as clever as that pun, it'll be a real treat.

Blatt is pretty cagey about the details of the show, except to say that it will be called The Ultimate, Ultimate Challenge and will involve "physical and mental challenges." He devotes most of the release to shit-talking about The Apprentice, saying his show is a deliberate attempt to "mock The Donald's reputation for toughness" and will make The Apprentice "look like band camp," whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.

"I'm taking reality TV beyond the rules, where viewers want it to go," Blatt says. Which makes sense. Because if anything's been holding reality TV back it's the genre's stodgy allegience to "the rules." See, other reality shows are all, like, straight-laced and corporate and stuff. But this one's gonna be, like, totally extreme and in-your-face and shit. Word.

Anyway, in just nine short paragraphs, Kevin Blatt has made himself out to be possibly the world's most self-involved asshole. And not to quibble with his resume, but what exactly was involved in being the "producer" of the Paris Hilton sex tape? A video transfer? Nice work, Spielberg.

Besides, isn't "trumping The Apprentice" sort of like making a sitcom that promises to "blow According to Jim out of the water?" Way to reach for the stars, Kevin Blatt.

Baby Needs Milk

As usual, the day after a Barrelhouse "meeting" is silent on the blog, as we're all recuperating in our own ways, being paid to do so by our own employers. So in lieu of any real posts on books, literature, or anything else written, I'll leave you with this Dictionary of Carny Slang, courtesy of Barrelhouse poetry editor Gwydion Suilebhan.

And remember: don't be a lugen, watch out for the goon squad, or you'll go out horizontal.

Blowing with the wind of change

Maybe it's all this talk of disappointing music. Or maybe it's the gods playing their cruel tricks on me. But whatever the reason, I've had that Scorpions song "Wind of Change" stuck in my head since about ten a.m. God. Damnit.

I can't say this song is "disappointing" to me, since I don't really know any other Scorpions songs (unless I do, and just don't realize they're by the Scorpions), but I imagine this is someone's most disappointing song of all time. Since, as I understand it, they're an otherwise fairly hardcore band (or not, since really I don't know much about them at all, except I remember they all looked vaguely Heavy Metal and even in the Wind of Change video there were stage pyrotechnics).

Oh, God, here comes the whistling again. Please, please, please make it stop.

As a sidenote, while fishing around the internets for some more information about the Scorpions, I found out they have one of the most headache-inducing web sites I've ever seen. Click at your own risk.

Paul Anka puts another nail in Kurt Cobain's coffin.

A lesser man would take this as proof that punk is dead, but as none of the bands are actually punk I think we're okay.

Forgive the reviewer for calling the lyrics to "smells like teen spirit" stream of conscious (even the words he sites are a series of paired opposites).

The Double Double Deuce

I know Tuesdays are for TV, and movie day was yesterday, but all usual Barrelhouse rules are suspended when a news item concerns, even tangentially, our favorite actor: The Swayze.

If Barrelhouse were run by Matt Drudge, this item would be in all-cap italics with a little red police siren rotating above it:

There is going to be a Roadhouse sequel!!

Of course Road House 2 will NOT star The Swayze, who as we all know has a keen business sense and, like Kenny Rogers, knows when to hold 'em, etc. etc. When to hold 'em: Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights. When to fold 'em: previous Dirty Dancing sequel proposals, the short-lived Dirty Dancing television series, and Roadhouse 2 (apparently).

Instead of Swayze, the second Roadhouse will feature some guy named Johnathon Schaech. Already I don't like this. Somehow, "what's your favorite Schaech [apparently it's pronounced like deck] movie" doesn't have quite the same ring to it (though I suppose if your answer were How To Make an American Quilt, that might indeed say something about either your gender, your personality, or both).

Schaech will be playing "a graduate student who must run his uncle's bar and fight to maintain control as a local crime boss tries to take it over." Huh. I'm not sure a grad student is the person you want protecting your bar against crime bosses, unless his graduate work is in kung fu or drunken knife fighting. I'm a grad student, and if I had crime bosses after me, I'd be hiding behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey crying like a little girl.

So while I'm keeping my fingers crossed on Roadhouse 2, I'm predicting straight-to-video.

There's also, apparently, going to be an I Know What You Did Last Summer 3, which, according to the Reuters story, "focuses on new characters who didn't appear in the first two movies." Translation: this movie is so bad even Freddie Fucking Prinze turned it down.

And apparently a second Hollow Man. But since I didn't see the first, I have nothing snarky to say about that one.

I...Am...Hair

My name is Dave and I am a Blow Out-aholic.

It’s true. Shameful, embarrassing, and seriously not cool. But true. I’m talking, of course, about Bravo’s reality series, Blow Out, which follows the trials and tribulations of Beverly Hills hair salon owner, hairstylist, entrepreneur, and all around slow-witted, combative, odd, frequently bawling semi-psychopath Jonathan Altin.

Sounds like a terrible idea, although no more terrible than, say, the new Gilligan’s Island, or Celebrity Fit Camp. The difference between these shows, and other, lousy, destination-oriented shows like the Restaurant or Hell’s Kitchen, is Jonathan. Owner of the cleverly named Jonathan Salon and upcoming Jonathan Product (that’s “hair product,” for those of us whose last hair-related purchase was a two-gallon jug of Pert), Altin is a fantastic reality television creature.

He seems to be a talented stylist and an adequate businessman, presiding over a pack of predictably flighty, flirty, bitchy, pretty, and stupid hairstylists. But, like Trishelle or Omarosa or Richard Hatch before him, what really sets Jonathan apart is his uniquely made-for-reality-TV persona. He fights with everybody, breaks down in tears at least twice an episode, and is marvelously self-absorbed to the extent that he simply doesn’t notice much of what is going on around him, or even recognize that things are happening that don’t have anything to do with Jonathan or Jonathan Salon or Jonathan Product.

When Jonathan says “I…am…hair…” he really, really means it. And he means it as some kind of profound personal mission statement. And, even better, he really thinks that we all know exactly what that means. And that we care.

Like any good reality TV hero/villain, Jonathan is nothing if not mercurial. Well, maybe mercurial is too highalutin a word for it. He’s bitchy. He changes not just his mind but his entire outlook, his persona, his whole thing, and he does it maybe five times an episode. One minute he is battling with the executive supposedly charged with developing the labeling campaign for Jonathan Product (“Scott from Zorbit,” another incredibly self-obsessed and combative asshole who seems straight out of central reality casting, and who, had he been a few years younger, would have fit in frighteningly well on Paradise Island or the Love Cruise); the next he is tearfully assuring Scott From Zorbit that the Jonathan Product bottle -- a clear thing of goop with, surprise, the word “JONATHAN” in giant-ass sans serif type along the side – is truly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Jonathan does other things too. He breezily navigates the tipsy-turvy social waters of his own salon with a Fonzerelli-esque air of one just a notch above the Malphs and Cunninghams who are cutting hair and fetching drinks for the likes of Lisa Rinna and that blond haired chick who lost one of the American Idol things. He creates a show, “Feeling It,” which is pretty much an in-person power point presentation about Jonathan’s specialty, the “long layer cut.” He breaks down at the shrink’s office like a fey, self-absorbed Tony Soprano.

And he says "Jonathan Salon" or "Jonathan Product" or, uh, "Jonathan," in literally every sentence. He insists on reminding everybody – Scott from Zorbit, the hair bunnies, designers and models and Lisa Rinna and yes, you and me, that we are merely people, recipients for Jonathan Product, customers who might pay $500 for a long layered cut.

But Jonathan…is…hair.

Six Feet Under: Not Dead Yet

Last week, Dave rightly lambasted what's been a relatively weak final season of one of my favorite shows. But it still has its moments, and this week's episode had more than a few. I've always thought Six Feet Under is at its best when it's exercising its dark and offbeat humor, so I appreciated its brief comic turns this week: Clare walking in on her mother searching her room for pot and asking if the brown stuff is as potent as the green (and really, Ruth smoking pot is in itself extremely funny); David and Keith's married-couple bickering; Vanessa's Canadian nanny taping her Survivor application; Clare going to work in an office (I really hope they keep this subplot up, because it's spot-on in its comically depressing portrayal of cubicle life). There were other nice moments as well, enough to keep me from losing hope entirely in one of the most compelling shows of the last several years (although the old-lady group singalong toward the end was maybe a bit much).

As much as I love the Clare-in-an-office stuff – and it is funny, especially her annoying coworkers – there is something a little arrogant about the way a lot of movies and television shows, including this one, portray the subject of artists at corporate jobs. These jobs are funny, yes. Soul-sucking, certainly. But excuse me if my sympathy meter doesn't start humming with activity because poor misunderstood Clare, like just about every other artist I've ever known, has to work for a living. I'm so sorry Daddy's trust fund didn't come through and you can't laze away your afternoons making collages and smoking dope and sniffing your own farts. Welcome to the real world! God, I feel like my father. But still, it is true that most of us with artistic inclinations have to get jobs, at some point in our lives, and they're not always great jobs or fun jobs or creative jobs. Lots of people without artistic inclinations have to get such jobs too. Sucks all around.

This reminds me of one of the only things on the Drew Carey show that's ever made me laugh out loud:

"Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."

"My God! They're living on nothing but adrenaline and dreams!"

Thus (mostly) spoke a member of INXS as he watched in awe as 15 contenders spazzed out in front of him in a desperate bid to become the next Michael Hutchence. In a weird-but-not-so-weird coincidence, the spazziest performer, J D Fortune*, bore a distinct resemblance to Tom Cruise, and whose to say that it wasn't?

Most of the contenders seemed to have talent, but unfortunately some of them seemed unfamiliar with the conventions of the rock n' roll genre. Ty, the black mohawked rocker, sang Cult of Personality by Living Colour. Rocking song, but adding some Mariah Carey**-like aural flourishes at the end did him no credit, even if Dave Navarro was drooling over him. An Aussie took a shot at Smells Like Teen Spirit but his voice was more suited to show tunes. Dana, who sometimes looked like the hottest 70s groupie still alive, but then sometimes like the hottest 70s groupie who didn't get out of the 70s alive, added some feminine angst to Knocking on Heaven's Door, screaming for a good 20 seconds. (Pssst....Dana...you're knocking on heaven's door...isn't that bad enough?) And some other dude sang Heroes which I thought was a Wallflowers song, making me very angry, but then I found out the Wallflowers covered it from David Bowie....but still, that's wrong. Having to link Jakob Dylan and Bowie is bad; throw in Jakob's pa and you start wishing that the only time Bob and Jakob ever got mentioned together was on Jakob's birth certificate.

One thing that I thought was cool was the choice of songs. You Really Got Me, Baba O'Reilly, One Way or Another, Remedy by Black Crows, and other solid rock n' roll songs. However, I missed the beginning of the episode and assumed that the singers chose them, but judging by the end of the first episode, when they have a limited number of songs to choose from for next week, I'm guessing I was wrong. So kudos to the producers, then. Mark Burnett, you magnificent bastard!

The girls were better than the boys, and I think a girl will win out in the end, probably over the Bo Bice-alike who sang the Kiss song. They seemed to understand better that rock n' roll is not about hitting every note, but growling and scraping over some notes when you have to. However, most of the girls added unnecessary flourishes and along with some of the guys, had too much polish to their dance moves. In truth, rock n' roll is all about spazzing out, and while you don't want to have an epileptic fit or gyrate your hips out of the earth's orbit, it is necessary to combine moves that reflect preening self-fascination with some "rough around the edges" clumsiness. After all, rock n' roll is all about living in the moment, right? With nothing but adrenaline, dreams, and Dave Navarro to take you to the next level, where Tom Cruise awaits.

*A pseudonym
**At what point does bringing up Mariah Carey's aural histrionics, as opposed to Beyonce's, Ashanti's, and whoever else, date me? I guess I can take comfort in the fact that Whitney Houston wasn't the first singer I thought of.

They look like me! And you! And everyone we know!

I saw “Me and You and Everyone We Know” this weekend. I liked it for a bunch of different reasons, but one of the best things about it was that the characters actually looked like real people. You could imagine them walking down streets in your neighborhood, or working in the cubicle opposite yours, or helping you try on shoes in a department store. None of them could double as underwear models and get away with it. Does that ever happen anymore, even in independent films?

For whatever reason, there’s no room left in movies for average looking main characters. Of course, non-models were always exceedingly underrepresented in Hollywood, it’s not like flicks from the fifties and sixties were filled with a bunch of ugos after all, but can you imagine a major studio releasing a movie today in which someone resembling Billy Crystal plays the romantic lead? What about a young Jack Lemmon? No way. Those guys are now condemned to the sidekick rolls, or, even worse, the guy the woman leaves for her really cute best friend who also happens to be “the one.”

Plus, the younger the characters get, the better looking they have to be. Think about teen movies from the last teen years and teen movies from the seventies and eighties. If someone made a remake of “Stand by Me” or “Breaking Away” do you think those kids would look like they did in the originals? No way. They’d look like the kids from Harry Potter, so sweet and precious and perfect that their agents would be in constant negotiations to make them the next spokesman for the Gap.

I like to thing these things come in waves, that the pendulum will eventually swing the other way, again populating movies with people who look like they spend as much of their time eating as they do working out, but I can’t see it happening anytime soon. For now we’ll have to content ourselves with the occasional crack in the ice like “Me and You.” Otherwise, we’ll have to muddle through while staring at Jessica Simpson’s ass in the big screen adaptation of "The Dukes of Hazard." I know it’s going to be rough, but what other choice do we have?

Does Dave Eggers Rule the World?

I post this diatribe without comment, only to note that it may have merit but I wouldn't know it as I don't regularly read a) rock criticism or b) what new hip established writers have to say. I'm just trying to stir the pot a bit, get a little rough n' tumble going.

Build-a-Bear loves freedom, and huggable child actors

Everyone loves bears. Or at least huggable teddy bears, the kind that would never maul you in the woods or steal your pic-a-nic basket or dress in flannel shirts and cruise San Francisco's Castro district. So this week's Press Release of the Week is a celebration of all things Bear-tastic as the Build-A-Bear company cuts the ribbon on a new store in the heart of Manhattan.

For those of you not familiar with the Build-A-Bear franchise (anyone who's not in their target audience of young children and lonely middle-aged women), the stores allow shoppers to create customized teddy bears that they can dress up in oh-so-cute outfits and hug and hug until their little arms won't hug any more.

Nothing says Bear-tastic like a precocious child actor, in this case Marc John Jeffries, one of the stars of Disney's Haunted Mansion and the short-lived Tracey Morgan Show, who will be master of ceremonies for the store opening. Jeffries will be joined by pint-sized gymnast Dominique Dawes, who may be an actual adult these days but is still just as impish and cuddly as ever.

But wait, you ask, is there some way the Build-A-Bear franchise can use this foothold in New York to capitalize on 9/11?

Of course there is! The grand opening of the New York store will feature (how could you not have seen this coming?) bears wearing official New York City fire department and police department uniforms. The store will also debut it's "Fureign Friends" line, who'll be wearing "international bear" costumes which I'm sure will not be at all culturally insensitive. Children will now be able to pit FDNY Bear against Terrorist Muslim Bear in a fight to the death. What are you looking at, French Bear, with your cute little beret and freedom-hating air of superiority? You want a piece of this action?!?

But the best thing I learned from this press release is that Maxine Clark, the founder of Build-A-Bear, is referred to as Chief Executive Bear. Seriously. Do you think all the other corporate officers have "bear" somewhere in their title? Is this mandated by the company? Is there some poor account executive who for the rest of her life is going to have to explain that, no, the "bear" on her resume is not a typo?

Look away, look away, look away, Dixieland

I have a sort of love/hate relationship with the South. Sometimes I feel like a battered spouse in a Lifetime Original movie: I want to stay away, I know I should stay away, but he's so beautiful and charming. Maybe I'll just give him one more chance. Things will be better this time, I just know it!

I lived in South Carolina for about 14 years. It's a really wonderful place in a lot of ways, and there are a lot more well-educated, reasonable people there than the stereotypes would have you believe.

But then there's ridiculous shit like this this that makes me think it's time to check into a shelter and start filing the divorce paperwork.

Please, South Carolina, I'm pleading with you: don't let the crazies come in. You've worked so hard to change your image since that whole being-the-first-to-secede-from-the-Union thing. Do you really want to go through that again? I know it all seems innocent at first: just a little prayer in school, maybe a Ten Commandments monument in front of the court house. But before you know it these people will be banning alcohol and hanging the gays from flag poles by their underpants and waving their guns around while yelling about States' Rights. Do we really want to go through all that again?

What we blog about when we blog about books

I've noticed that Thursdays tend to be a little light on the posting here in Barrelhouse world, which got me to thinking: do we really not have much to say about books? If that were true, it would be a tad disheartening, since we are, after all, supposed publishers of literature (or at least stories and poetry and essays -- I'll leave the 'literature' tag for someone outside the magazine to decide on).

The truth -- or at least my guess at the truth -- is that we have plenty of things to say about books, but maybe they're a little tougher to write about for us than music or movies or laughably bad reality television. Because books are actually very close to our heart-shaped places (as anyone who's ever submitted their work to a literary magazine knows, editors don't have actual hearts, just approximations).

When I watch a bad TV show, I may feel like I've just lost a half-hour of my life, but it doesn't make me angry. It's my own fault, really, for tuning in. What did I expect, after all, from something called Beauty and the Geek? And if I go online and criticize said show, what's really at stake? Everyone knows it's stupid: it's not as if I'm going out on a limb.

But when I read a book, I'm much more liable to be disappointed, or even angry, because my expectations are much, much higher, whether that's fair or not. And I also know there are a lot of people in the world who are smarter than me, so quite possibly I've disliked a book just because I've missed its point completely, or was a lazy reader, or my brain is clogged with too much malted hops and bong resin.

But I'm going to go out on a limb with my feelings on this one, which I just finished: Home Land, by Sam Lipsyte. I really wanted to like this book from the moment I picked it up at the local bookstore and read the back jacket: the novel's narrator, Lewis Miner (aka Teabag) is 20 years removed from high school and comparing his loserish life to the lives he reads about in every issue of Catamount Notes, the high school alumni magazine published by his former principal. So far so good, I thought.

Then, Test #2: I opened the book up and read a few pages. The first chapter is a letter Miner, the narrator, is writing to Catamount Notes, detailing exactly how his life has failed him (or how he has failed himself). And it's hilarious. Spot on.

Sold.

But, ultimately, the book disappointed me. The premise -- that what we're reading are letter-form "updates" mailed first to the ex-principal, then to an old classmate of Teabag's who takes over editorial duties for the Notes when the principal loses his marbles -- began to wear thin after a couple chapters. It limits the voice, for one: the first "letter" is laugh-out-loud funny, the fourth or fifth a bit tiresome, like a stand-up comic who doesn't know when to get off stage.

And I started to have doubts about the plausability of the whole thing. This is all a letter? I'd think, as suddenly full scenes started to appear, with dialogue and sensory observations and then, every so often, a brief direct address to remind us of the book's conceit. It was as if Lipsyte had, at the very outset, put himself into a very small box by choosing a clever form and then had to either a) live and die by the few items contained in the box, or b) stick his arms out and start grabbing things from outside the box and hope no one notices.

Well, I noticed. And it disappointed me. I'm sure Lipsyte will get over it -- he doesn't need my approval, after all, and even though I wasn't so keen on this book, I liked bits and pieces well enough that I may pick up one of his others.

So, Barrelhousers, what else are we reading? Anything good? It's probably never too early to pre-order the forthcoming memoir from that Runaway Bride lady. It's sure to be the feel-good story of the year.

Getting Jiggy Wit Debt

As TMC pointed out, Saturday’s Live 8 concert raised awareness of African debt relief, pressuring the world’s 8 most powerful leaders to end world poverty through ear splitting guitar licks and body rockin’ b-b-b-beats.

But can’t anyone else see what’s really important here? Where the real story lies? It’s been overlooked by the pop stars, media, and politicos alike.

The return of DJ Jazzy Jeff.

Last seen being thrown from the steps of Judge Philip Bank’s Bel-Air home, Jeff has spent the last 10 years locked in the lab with nothing but his turntables and crates full of Bob James records. Last Saturday, DJ Jazzy Jeff donned his headphones once more and took to the stage in Philadelphia.

While Jeff has kept busy running his “A Touch of Jazz” production company, churning out hits like…umm…er…hmm, his former partner Will Smith has struggled to find work, resorting to no name indie flicks like Independence Day, and the subtle and esoteric Wild, Wild West.

Jeff has returned to help launch Smith’s aptly titled new album Lost and Found. Godspeed, DJ Jazzy Jeff, Godspeed.

Beverly Hills: The Waning Years

I'll chime in on this topic. The best thing I saw on TV over the holiday weekend was an old rerun of Beverly Hills 90210 on Soap Net. It wasn't even a particularly great episode -- Brandon and Josh Rifkin run for student-body president and vice-president, almost get taken down by Hispanic Alex (who we know is a Bad Guy because he has menacing facial hair), get a last-minute campaign boost from basketball player D'Shawn and win the election, but Josh dies in a fiery car crash outside the Peach Pit just as the election results come in. (Why is it that in TV shows and movies, every car accident ends in a dramatic fireball? I've seen my share of car wrecks, even some pretty bad ones, and yet I've never seen a car blow up on impact.) Also, Valerie seduces Dylan. Like I said, nowhere near Great Episode status, but I can't help it: I love me some 90210.

Unfortunately, as far as I can tell, Soap Net airs their Beverly Hills reruns at 5:00, so unless I start sneaking out of work early, I won't be catching the rest of Season Five. Which is a shame, because there's lots to love about that first Valerie-filled College Years season. Most of which have to do with Valerie's pot use: it's easy to forget now, but back in the innocent days of the mid-90s, television writers could still brand a character as the Troubled Youth by putting a joint in her hand. And other characters (mostly Brandon) could still be shocked and appalled that their college-aged friends were smoking the drugs. Now we have a show like The O.C., which can't seem to go more than one episode without hordes of nubile teens snorting blow off glass-topped coffee tables like they're enjoying an after-school snack. Ah, innocence, why have you abandoned us?

Season Five is also notable because it features one Ray Pruitt (aka Jamie Walters), moody singer-songwriter and occasional abusive boyfriend, who apparently thought 90210 would be the perfect launching pad for his musical career. And the opening of the Peach Pit After Dark, which, as a nightclub attached to a diner, has to be one of the weirdest business ventures ever. Plus, the show's creators are still trying to pass off Steve Sanders and Andrea as college sophomores despite the fact that Steve's losing his hair in clumps and growing a paunch and Andrea is clearly forty.

Incidentally, I just realized that this season was the midpoint for 90210, even though it feels like the waning years. That show stayed on the air at least two seasons too long. The whole "everyone decides to go to the same college" routine was enough of a stretch, but when they were suddenly out of college and still hanging around together? I may be a sucker for the show, but even I'm not buying that one.

America, F**k Yeah

Happy fourth of July, ya'll.

I think there's some nudity in the movie linked to above, and I know there's a whole lot of f-bomb, so, you know, if you're not into that sort of thing, you should probably not click. You should maybe click here instead.

This holiday's not going to celebrate itself, people!

As I noted last week, my day job requires me to peruse a lot of press releases. This week's Release of the Week was selected in honor of America's birthday, and I'm posting it here with a nod to fellow Barrelhouse blogger Tom (or am I contractually obligated to call you tmc?) who hails from the City of Cheesesteaks and Surly Sports Enthusiasts.

Apparently Philly, despite its charming, profanity-spewing locals and its plexiglass-encased Liberty Bell, is having some trouble attracting visitors for July 4th weekend. So area hotels have banded together with the following message:

Philly Hotels Say 'Come On Down'; Plenty of Rooms Available in Philly, Tonight Through July 5

Nothing like the stench of desperation to attract visitors to your city. This press release is the equivalent of that dorky kid from your fourth-grade class, the one with the elaborate headgear who smelled vaguely of cheese, announcing that he's got a couple spaces left to fill at his lunch table.

"We still have plenty of rooms available for visitors to stay to enjoy the Live 8 concert on July 2, a patriotic Philly Pops concert and lighting ceremony of Independence Hall on July 3, and the Elton John concert on July 4 with a fireworks finale," says John Kroll, president of Greater PhiladelphiaHotel Association (GPHA) and general manager of the Hyatt at Penn's Landing.

My mom always packs me a pudding cup, and I may be willing to share! Who likes Capri Sun?

The rest of the press release is pretty boring – just a bunch of facts and figures about public transportation and the city's various attractions. But then, in the last paragraph, we're treated to this great quote, which apparently is some sort of new motto for the city, though it sounds a little sleazy:

"It's true what we say ... Philly is more fun when you stay over."

Oh, that's a nice offer Philadelphia. But really, I'd rather just sneak out now and make the walk of shame under cover of darkness. It's so much more awkward in the morning. Am I supposed to stay for breakfast? Is cuddling required? But I had a lovely time, really. I swear I'll call you soon.

VH1 once again stretches the meaning of the word celebrity

VH1 has really outdone themselves in this latest round of their "Celebreality" programming. The new Surreal Life will feature Jose Canseco and Bronson Pinchot, and the new Celebrity Fit Club includes Gary Busey, Jackee Harry (from 227), Victoria Jackson and Jani Lane, the lead singer of hair-metal band Warrant.

There's really not much I can say about this, except: where do they find these people? Are there a bunch of twentysomething VH1 staffers sitting around a conference room table somewhere, taking bong hits and rattling off names? "Ooh, ooh, remember that show Perfect Strangers, with Balki Bartokomous? 'Don't be re-di-cou-los.' That guy would be awesome!" "Yeah, or how about that Jackee woman? Hey, Sammy, don't bogart the Fritos!"

I also wonder how they decide what project to use as the identifier for each "star." Some of them, like "Victoria Jackson (Saturday Night Live)" or "Jackee Harry (227)" are obviously no-brainers. But is Bronson Pinchot really best-known for Beverly Hills Cop? And while The Busey has made 94 films since 1978's The Buddy Holly Story, apparently the people at VH1 still believe that to be his best-known work.