Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!

The Kern Still Hasn't Returned[Editor's State of The Blog Address]

2009-12-19T00:05:00.000-08:00

[Editor's Note-Welcome back hopeful, yet misguided readers! If you hadn't already guessed by the lack of posts for what looks like, oh my, an entire year. To those reading this currently I am guessing you are either here because you are eternal optimists who hope that Kern will return from his childish meanderings and write some of that good 'ol fashioned cheap indignation that seem fleetingly charming with its flagrant and cheap use of c**kless sabre rattling and adolescent sprinklings of profane musings. Or you are here because you generally know that this is usually the time of year when I get my chance to give Kern a swift kick to his virtual nethers for abandoning his post and leaving me to look the fool.

Well, if you are of the former camp, please take your conical hats and sit in the corner with the rest of the empty headed children and wait for the adults to finish talking. As for the rest of you, you're in the right place! Please make yourselves comfortable, I have soooo much to tell you all.

First of all, shame on Kern for not even having the decency to refute any of the various and sundry rumors put forth last year at this time. While I knew he was a d**kless wonder and a lazy dilettante, I always thought he was nothing if not polite. Well, you just showed your ass, sir, and it's as flat and pale as I always imagined it would be. Not that I imagined your ass, obviously. I mean, you never got any sun so it just seemed a natural assumption that you know, it would be on the pasty side and...G*d Dammit, now...now it's all awkward. Thanks a metric f**kload, Kern!

Ahem, as I was saying, since Kern didn't have the wherewithal to bother catching up with me, his old partner in prose, I did a little checking to see what sorts of projects he's been attempting. Without me. As one would expect, without me, Kern is little more than a Garfunkel without a Simon, cast adrift , f**ing up all of his creative endeavors this year. Oh, sweet karma, where have you been the last year?

Ooh, I'll tell you where! Because I have a little sampling of several of Kern's post Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! projects and I am going to share them with you right now. Let's all enjoy the humiliation shall we?

As those of us who have suffered under the sheer weight of Kern's voluminous mountains of derivative ideas and smarmy posturing well know, he seems utterly challenged when it comes to succinctly stating anything when he speaks or writes. It appears that this flighty titbrain of a man follows the philosophy that anything that could easily be said in five words would be better spent squatting out a spool of half baked declarative sentences to rival War and Peace. It is not a surprise to me, dear reader, that Kern came up with one of the most ridiculous and useless applications of modern technology yet after becoming enamored by and likely jealous of Twitter's success: Bloviator.

Yes, you read that correctly. The poor idiot is on the wrong side not only of history on this one, but common sense as well. Since he's so obviously in love with a special brand of thick verbosity that makes Tolstoy look like Hemingway in comparison, his brilliant new service was to do away with the slick 140 characters Twitter uses for lightning quick communication, and instead do the very opposite. On Bloviator one types in short sentences which are then as poorly and painfully inflated as a boob job from a local plastic surgeon found in an Entertainment coupon book. While this sounds utterly stupid, its full potential for ridicule is not complete until one sees an example, and luckily I have one for this very occasion!

Before(Click to Enlarge)

As you can see, we have a very simple statement from the man himself. Simple enough. But run it through the Bloviator and...

After(Click to Enlarge)

Voila! What was once simple and elegant has now become an insanely detailed diarrhea of text, painfully and slowly dribbling its way down your monitor. I would clap at the sheer audacity of the gentleman's attempts at foisting something so obviously moronic upon an unsuspecting public, but unfortunately he is so desperate for approval that he would likely miss the brilliance of my icy sarcasm. There hasn't been this little demand for a product since the disastrous debut of the Angela Lansbury Collection at Frederick's of Hollywood. (I can't for the life of me imagine the target market for edible panties that taste like the giant clump of rock candy at Grandmother's houses, but that's neither here nor there.)

Apparently there is one bright spot for this product, however: legions of high school and college students who would normally throw up their hands in despair and disgust when asked by callous educators to write essays totaling 1000 words or more are thrilled that they can now finish term papers without having to waste all of the precious hours they would rather spend on internet porn or beer pong to construct sentence after meaningless sentence in a ham-fisted and obvious way of padding their term papers to the required length. You just hastened the descent of our youth into a hazy nation of ill equipped dullards with one offensive product. Way to f**ing go, champ.

Moving along from that particular fiasco, I can recall a time when it actually seemed Kern had at least some semblance of writing ability, despite the fact that he later spent the time he should have been blogging drinking beer and taking long trips to the bathroom with the lingerie section of the Sunday K-Mart circular. Color me surprised then to see that he later tried his hand at the greeting card industry. Despite the obviously established knowledge that brevity is not his strong suit, greeting cards also usually involve the expression of, you know...feelings. During our all too brief partnership, it was apparent that Kern's limited range of humanesque emotions were limited to the id driven trifecta of horny, angry, or hungry. Unlike say, John Shaft, a complicated man Kern is not.

What I am about to show you are some of the rejected examples that Kern submitted to Hallmark. These telling results are nothing less than a grotesque picture of a man I thought I knew. See for yourselves:

Ugh.(Click To Enlarge)

Oh, Jesus...(Click to Enlarge)

You've got to be f**ing kidding me.(Click to Enlarge)

Really, Kern? Do you see what you've done here? You've taken one of the most enduring symbols of interpersonal communication and wiped your filthy t**nt with it. What was once a warm smile inscribed on a piece of cardstock would have become a vile, repugnant joke perpetrated upon an unsuspecting public. While anyone who ever read the misanthropic garbage you passed off as "intellectual" or "humor" or "intellectually styled humor" probably recalls, you came across as a peevish old d**k trapped in the body of a young-ish man. Well, if this doesn't illustrate the savage depths you will plumb to pass on your distaste with a society that enjoys itself even if you don't, I don't know what does. By the way, I think you should take down that offensive website called "Kern's Failed Hallmark Cards" down. I mean right now, Mister. For shame, Kern. For shame.

Speaking of shameful behavior, it only gets worse from there, I'm afraid. Not content with ruining the business of what used to be innocent sentimental exchanges, our friend Kern then descended into absolute whoredom. He began writing television scripts.

Not just any scripts mind you, but lurid scripts for those awful ill sex farces one might run across on the Cinemax channel during the later evening hours. Hours, I might add which could be used for far more intellectual pursuits. Perhaps the most egregious aspect of this sad squandering of "talent" is that he was not content to simply fill in the spots between the unseemly moans and groans of actors and actresses obviously bereft of craft like a juvenile game of pornographic mad libs, but he gave in to some obnoxious compulsion to drag perfectly good art into it. Below is an exhibit of an obviously cheap defilement of Louis Malle's masterful 1981 film, "My Dinner With Andre" for his own twisted amusement.

Title page of Kern's first script(Click to Enlarge)

A sample page of the script is no less discouraging to discerning cinephiles and anyone with a modicum of good taste or three brain cells to rub together.

Sample page from "Eating Out With Andre"(Click to Enlarge)

Ridiculous! You can obviously see what kind of pretentious pablum Kern pisses forth from that Jiffy Pop bag he calls a skull when he doesn't have an editor. This is just offensive and insulting all the way around. First of all, where did everyone in the restaurant disappear to? Would you have the viewer believe that all of the other diners would be content to quickly pay their bills and leave on a busy Friday evening simply because this inelegant boob with delusions of pantslessness implies(and very heavy handedly, I might add) that he wants to have intercourse with this busty pseudo intellectual numbskull on top of the dinner table?

It's all completely preposterous...and furthermore, Sartre? Gee Kern, why not just say to the world, "Hi, I didn't finish my bachelor's degree, but maybe people won't notice if I throw out enough pointless references by existentialist authors..."

Right, well, we noticed. The guy downtown who rolls around in his own poop and screams at buses about the Fire Department has read No Exit. Nice try, a**drip.

I, for one, am curious as to how one follows up a magnum opus like "Eating Out With Andre". How else will you besmirch the good name of intellectual entertainment? I am half expecting a whole raft of these abominations to slowly dog paddle their way up sewer, with titles such as, "Requiem For A Masturbate" or "Masterpiece of Ass Theatre". Actually, I had better stop as he could be out there right now nodding and scribbling these things down as honest to God suggestions.

Kern, Kern, Kern...my little Daedalus...in your arrogance you flew a little too close to the florescent lamps and your wings melted. Some creatures just weren't meant for bigger things. But I fear this angry punishment I dole out is not because I hate the man. In truth, it's because...I miss him. Checking for new columns everyday and finding the same post I wrote last year is empty and sad. Like watching a mailbox for a package that never comes. I'm staring at that box, hoping one day to find Kern's package crammed inside.

I admit there is a heaping amount of schadenfreude to be had here regaling the masses with Kern's follies and foibles, but the truth is that this space is too big and too vast to lie dormant year after year, even if his work is subpar at best. The world kind of needs an angry old man to stick his d**k in the mashed potatoes every once in a while, just to cheer people up when the world gets too cold and Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! is your dinner plate. Get stirring, you lazy t**t.

But enough of the warm and fuzzy business. Kern, if you're out there, I'm hoping you read this and come home. Then again, if you'd rather stick with your dream job(see number three), I guess that's alright,too.]

[PS-Bring me an autograph?-ed.]

Editor's Corner: Will The Kern Return To Blogging?

2008-12-18T19:34:00.001-08:00

[Welcome dear readers(if any of you are still there), you may remember me as giving the occasional helpful note here and there in some of Kern's past posts and sometimes filling in when he was away.

Well, as you can see, he's been rather lax, if I may use that term, in his postings this year. For reasons unknown, a couple of people(which is nearly a third of the regular readership, incidentally) have been inquiring as to where Kern has been for the past eight months or so and why he seems to have abdicated his blogging throne.

While I don't know, because God forbid the "talent" would ever give me a call and tell me where he is or what he's doing, I can say that there are some theories being bandied about on the internet. Of course, everyone knows that if it's on the internet it's true, so I'll share some of my favorites and the likelihood that they might be true.

1. Kern got himself "in trouble" and had to go visit some family out of state until the due date:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Has been gone almost nine months. Chest seems to have extended over his beltline. Saw that other guy on TV get a lot of attention for doing it and thought it would make himself and the blog popular.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Has disappeared for odd lengths of time before; is probably just getting fat or needs to take a very long, painful s**t. Also, is very bad at following through on things. Sex would be involved, in which case Kern would not be.

2. Kern heard the call of the open road and decided to go "off the grid":
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Easily irritated by people. Would afford him the opportunity to gorge himself in local diners without the shame of friends and families watching his disgusting and gluttonous eating habits. No idiots talking on cell phones on public transit.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Does not have a driver's license. Afraid of bugs. And most animals. And nature as a whole. Gets lost in own 1 bedroom apartment without map. Also, is too much of an attention whore to vanish completely.

3. Kern ran away to join the Australian male strip revue "The Thunder From Down Under":
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Likes Vegas. Chance for male bonding in a fun, convivial atmosphere. Can shake moneymaker rhythmically if situation warrants.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Doughy physique. Isn't Australian. Not good at team building exercises. Fake Australian accent is rather unconvincing. Balled up argyle socks shoved in g-string also unconvincing.

4. Kern gave up on love and went through with seemingly idle threat to become a gigolo:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Likes Masterpiece Theatre and Andy Rooney. Enjoys getting dressed up for social outings. Is hard up for money. Could get used to eating discounted meals around 4 PM every day. Big chance to live out childhood fantasy of being Patrick Dempsey in the film Loverboy.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Disapproving children and grandchildren. Doesn't like being ordered around. Hates changing diapers. Also creeped out by thought of sexing up old ladies.

5. Kern was eaten by his obnoxious cat Rama:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Rama hates Kern. Has drawn first blood.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Rama would have no one to torment. Also, Kern not made of wool.

6. Kern is in rehab:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Compulsive personality. Had been under a considerable amount of stress before absence. Possibility of writing half-true memoirs to sell millions of copies.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Doesn't think addiction to pornography and video games warrants rehab. No beer on premises. Isn't famous enough to reap any notable benefits. May run into Amy Winehouse. (Shudder)

7. Kern has become an eccentric recluse in the vein of Howard Hughes:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Embarrassed due to pathetic book sales, may be ashamed to face the world. Lots of empty bottles around apartment to pee in. Spends most of his free time hanging around the house already. Plentiful opportunities for epic power napping.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Not known for fastidious cleanliness. Too far removed from local watering hole. Apartment is too cold for long bouts of nudity. Not rich enough to be eccentric. Would have to spend more time with Rama. (See item 5)

8. Kern finally made good on his joke to run away to join a monastery:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Easy to keep up vow of chastity from years of practice. No troublesome wardrobe decisions. Quiet neighborhood. Free access to delicious beers.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Not Catholic. Too fidgety for church services. Cannot keep mouth shut for any considerable amount of time, making vow of silence near impossible.

9. Kern is involved in a scandalous love triangle:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: Could possibly be charming enough to get two lovers. Has very little common sense.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: Love triangles between Kern, his left and right hand don't count.

10. Kern is actually a fictional persona, much like J.T. LeRoy, and the individual in question got bored keeping up the charade:
WHY IT'S POSSIBLE: "Kern" seems a bit too offbeat to be a real person. Person acting as "Kern" may have mistakenly thought that nebbish, Walter Mitty-esque dorks elicit laughs from public at large.
WHY IT PROBABLY ISN'T: No one's life is so sad that creating a fictional persona like "Kern" would be a step up.

Anyhow, the reality of the situation is that in the past eight months I have only gotten a sprinkling of e-mails from that snotty c**ktucker, one of which was a coupon for a free small coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. Good lookin' out, Diamond Jim. From what I could cobble together from his sporadic mewlings of butchered text, he said that he had a rather busy year which didn't allow him any extra time to work on the blog.

Well, folks, to that I call bulls**t. I know when I've seen a man past his prime, and dammit I think Kern has crossed that threshold. Not that he was that good in his heyday, but at least he tried. I, for one, believe that it's not like the Internet is a poorer place for his lack of constant griping. Having to edit his irritating word gruel day after day was a terrible injustice. I have good ideas, but I toiled behind the scenes, trying to make that silly bastard a success. Let's deal 'em up straight, Kern(wherever you are).

Your formulaic pablum is the literary equivalent of the hot buffet at Sizzler minus the sneeze guard. Oh, it may look appetizing on the first pass, but when you get down close to it, it's all the same snotty, warmed over crap rearranged on our plates in different colorful variations. If this is what you call food for thought, I'd rather f**king starve. It's all so predictable, Kern. It doesn't matter if you never blog again, because I have cracked the Kern Code allowing any half-witted nincompoop with a keyboard and a grudge to write their own Crotchety Bastard columns.

As you can see in the example below, I have discovered through the use of special algorithms and complex indifferent equations, that almost all of Kern's Crotchety Bastard columns can be broken down into a simple standard boilerplate form, with slight personal variations depending on whatever irrational minutiae he has chosen to misdirect his anger toward. It's like a very self-absorbed, whiny ass Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Exhibit A

There it is. The secret of Kern's "style" as it were. Go back and check this formula against any Crotchety Bastard and you'll see what I mean.

So there you have it dear readers. I don't know where Kern is, or when he'll be back, but if he's reading right now, let me be the first to say: we're onto you, buddy boy. Enjoy your endless summer, but know this: You aren't fooling anyone, twinkletw*t. -Ed.]

Your Crotchety Tip Of The Day

2008-04-03T07:09:00.000-07:00

As I get older, the thought has crossed my mind that being crotchety might just be bad for my health. That being the case, I've been making an earnest attempt of late not to get too worked up about any issue unless I see it repeated multiple times. Well, that's not working so I'm going to do what I normally do and bitch about some minutiae instead.

Crotchety Tip #339:

If you find yourself parking on the street in a residential neighborhood, please take a moment to familiarize yourself with your chosen spot. Are you:

a) the requisite number of feet from a fire hydrant?

b) away from painted curbs?

c) parking your shitbox of a van right in the path of a city bus?

If you answered a or b, give yourselves a pat on the back.

If you answered c, however, you can get bent you selfish, dickless fuck. Thanks to you, I very nearly had to stand around for another thirty minutes of testicle freezing frolic when my bus couldn't see the riders at my stop thanks to the undeniable opacity of your groovy rustbomb. I had to jump up and down flailing my arms like some kind of escaped mental patient to flag the driver down. There are a lot of things I would love to be doing on a Monday morning. Unexpected exercise/performance art is not one of them.

For the love of God, if you're going to leave the Mystery Machine coralled somewhere in the neighborhood, at least take that fucking hippie camping dome off the top. Is there some hidden benefit to having a tall car that myself or others might not be aware of? Hey, you know what? Go nuts! Why don't you tack a scale model depicting some of the world's greatest architectural acheivements to your roof? My vote is for Antonio Gaudi's Sagrada Familia, but you can go for something more recognizable if you like, such as the Eiffel Tower or a Big Boy statue. Either/or.

For your lack of consideration for others, and their potential transportation woes, I sincerely hope that a family of long footed pootoroo crawl into your nose while you sleep and make violent love to your sinus cavities until your head explodes.

You're welcome.

Love,

The Crotchety Bastard

RIP: Ola Brunkert

2008-03-17T07:46:00.000-07:00

Ola Brunkert

I have a confession to make; deep down there is a part of me that doesn't hate ABBA. And by that I mean, I actually secretly like them quite a bit. Yeah, yeah...go ahead and laugh, despite the image they were all very stellar musicians in their own right and...well, we can debate this later.

Anyway, I was a little shocked and saddened to read today that drummer Ola Brunkert, who recorded and toured extensively with ABBA throughout the Seventies, was killed in a freak accident involving a glass door shattering and cutting his throat.

Sure, he wasn't someone I could have named right off when discussing the band, but the fact is that in the world of music some of the best musicians are the unsung legions of session players, who spend their lives making others sound their best without often garnering the acclaim they rightfully deserve.

That being said, my condolences to his friends, family, and fellow ABBA fans around the world.

Your Crotchety Tip Of The Day

2008-03-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing that The Crotchety Bastard cares about, it's public service. I'm sometimes too exhausted[hungover-ed.] from charity work[drinking MD 20/20 with hobos beneath various Seattle overpasses] to write out the kinds of lengthy diatribes you might be craving. That's why I'm instituting The Crotchety Bastard's Crotchety Tip of The Day(Trademark Pending). When even the Bite Sized Bastard is too much to stuff down one's craw, I offer instead a succinct amuse bouche of snarling, patronizing goodness. Think of the delicious! Without further ado, the inaugural tip.

Crotchety Tip #574: If you find yourself at any point during the day using the phrase, "I drink your milkshake!" or "I drank his milkshake!" or "He just drank your milkshake, motherfucker!", please go to the mirror right now. Look closely and note your physical appearance.

If you are not:

a) Daniel Plainview

b) a waitress in a diner and/or soda fountain

c) fierce R & B singer Kelis

Immediately go to the nearest drawer to you, dangle your testicles in said drawer, and slam it shut with all of your might. Repeat as you say the phrase until you find that this is no longer clever to you in the least. If you don't have testicles, just go ahead and have someone kick you in the box and shove you.

You're welcome.

Love,

The Crotchety Bastard

PS-No, your version isn't any different.

PPS- Seriously, just fucking stop it.

You Kids And Your Bands Named After Flying Rodents...

2008-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Fans of Vampire Weekend:

Hi. I always thought of myself as the type of guy who's pretty open to new music. I know the "blogosphere" has been all abuzz lately about your "OMG! New Favorite Band or Whatevs" or whatever you kids are saying these days in regard to Vampire Weekend. I was wondering if you might be able to help an aging music geek understand something.

What the hell is the big damned deal here? Did I miss something? Why did every hipster under the age of thirty get an erection when they heard a band that sounds like the boring illegitimate lovechild of Paul Simon's Graceland and Spoon?

If someone could perhaps explain the fascination, I'd greatly appreciate it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat some Sunsweet Prunes and listen to some Sonic Youth records with the rest of the senior citizens.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Crotchety Bastard: Sour Gripes

2008-02-22T07:36:00.000-08:00

Hello all. I realize it's been a while, and I may have to refire the old bile pump, but I caught a couple of things on television that were so tooth grindingly heinous, I felt I had to come out of semi-retirement. That said, let's get to bitchin'.

1. Nip/Fucked or Jumping The Scalpel

I was crestfallen when I read Matt Roush's Jeer in the Cheers and Jeers section of TV Guide this week, as his opening line was very close to my own clever thought about the state of the show as I went to bed Tuesday night, and I knew people would suspiciously eye me as some kind of half rate phrase scavenger. Well played,Mr. Roush. Well played.

On the other hand, it was comforting to know that I was not the only one whose disdain for the show has finally reached critical mass. Whitney Matheson of Pop Candy fame said:

"Let's just forget this season ever happened. Ugh."

I'm with Whitney in spirit, but like many other traumatic experiences I would love to repress[Oooh! Like the "Body Of Christ" fiasco. He hates talking about that one!-Ed.], I can't. Let's confront those Season Five demons head on, shall we?

For anyone who's ever seen Nip/Tuck, it is common knowledge that some latitude needs to be given in the suspension of disbelief department. It's a show that's made its bones by thwarting both convention and good taste at times. This is something I can deal with. I can take crazy to a point. Hell, sometimes I love me some crazy. But this season went beyond crazy; the concepts were so far out there they were dry humping the stratosphere. Characters were introduced or brought back only to be used as empty ciphers to carry out a litany of two dimensional depravities and gross out moments that would put the Farrelly Brothers squarely in Masterpiece Theatre territory by comparison. It used to be that the deformed and disenfranchised clients on the show were once the vehicle by which viewers examined their own fears and failings. Ah, but that's sooo 2004! Currently the revolving door of "freak of the week" patients would even make Tod Browning's corpse blush. In fact, it's not just the cases that have gone over the edge. Now there's something here for everyone who cares more about shock value than plot or theme.

If there was a theme this season that the gang at Nip/Tuck wanted to make clear(and I think this was almost the only one) it's that being caught up in the pursuit of fame is a dark and awful thing. This singular pursuit wouldn't have been so bad if a)that wasn't a subject that has been done to death since paparazzi chased Ug around on the first wheel trying to draw what kind of wooly mammoth was hiding under his loincloth on cave walls and b)there hadn't been a distinct lack of actual commentary on the subject. Their brilliant method was to set up some faux television series which would serve as a giant wink to everyone that, hey, we know we've gone off the rails, but we know it's all just fun trash anyhow! I see. Rather than fixing the show, or choosing to imbue it with substance, they chose to go meta. In my estimation, there are usually a couple of reasons writers go this route. Laziness or desperation. Flip a coin, boys. I think either answer would fit.

Speaking of lazy writing, it seems fitting, then, that the finale was a piss covered maraschino cherry on top of the bleached sphincter sundae that was Nip/Tuck's most recent outing. It seemed one of the few things Ryan Murphy and company were missing from Tuesday's ill fated finale was an odometer styled counter in the lower corner of the screen slowly rolling back number by number to tally up the plethora of oh so edgy, envelope pushing moments wantonly hurled in our direction like one of Christian Troy's used condoms.

-Take for instance, Emmy's mom. I can imagine the writer's meeting on this one:

Writer 1: So, we need something good for the end of the season. Something spicy...something taboo...

Writer 2: Christian could have a long lost daughter no one knew about.

Writer 1: Not spicy, dude.

Writer 2: Wait a minute, wait a minute...Matt, reeling from a breakup doesn't know she's Troy's daughter, right? So what if they do it?

Writer 3: Eh, that's a good start, but it's pretty tame. We almost did that storyline on Seventh Heaven once.

Writer 1: Ok, how about the mother comes to LA to enlist Christian in breaking them up?

Writer 2: Meh.

Writer 1: But she's a double amputee.

Writer 2: Keep talkin', I'm listening...

Writers 1,2,3(In Unison): ...and Christian fucks her! Gimme five!

As generally twisted as this sorry sequence is, they went the extra mile to stay classy and panned up showing her stumps during the sex scene. The disturbing part isn't seeing a disabled person having sex. It's watching her used as some fetishistic sideshow prop to get people riled up. It's a shame that a show that once seemed to offer genuine commentary on the shameful obsession our culture has with vanity has cast those themes aside to satiate a desire to appall for the sheer sake of it.

-Julia had amnesia after being shot. Hmm. Pardon me while I pour myself a huge glass of snore. They must have run out whatever they were on while writing the rest of this nutty morass of sex and whatever else they tried to pad the season with.

-Christian and Annie get into an accident because of paparazzi. Ooh, we'll show you, tabloid journalists! We're going to use the biggest finale cliche in the book and have one of the principal characters in a wreck. That'll teach you, you bastards!

-Then there's Colleen, the not-really-an-agent stalker. Famous people get stalked. Got it. With all the subtlety of a two by four covered in fists, she popped up several times in that final episode. Gee, I wonder if she might try to do something crazy in the last couple of minutes. That would be shocking. Oh, wait, she just burst into the OR and started stabbing him. Huh.

If you found yourself surprised by this, allow me to congratulate you. You've just watched your first television show. I'm sorry, but this "exciting twist" couldn't have been any more telegraphed if the cast of Riverdance had been doing a dance number in morse code in the McNamara/Troy lobby, tapping out, "Behind You, Dumbfuck!"

There you have it, a perfect end to a once great show that decided it would rather be The Young and The Restless on PCP than the thought provoking show it used to be.

On second thought, I like Whitney's idea better...

2. The Bland Leading The Bland

I'm not exactly sure who the intended audience was for American Idol when it first came out, but I imagine the focus groups were made up of a diverse mix of prepubescent lasses who keep notebooks full of puffy scratch n' sniff stickers, male divas, and drooling simpletons whose heads contain a slow, leisurely game of Pong where the brains they were so spitefully screwed out of should reside. This, of course isn't saying much considering the legions of wistful, doe eyed starfucking hacks who band together into frightening, untalented mobs in several major American metropoli year after year with a song in their heart and an unyielding desire to actually be a part of this imbicillic freakshow.

You may be wondering why I didn't follow the sage advice I've leveled at others on countless occassions, to turn the channel to something, anything with more merit. Simply put, my remote failed. I've been a part of some inopportune technical failings in my time. Being stuck in elevators, the power going out with a freezer full of ice cream in August, loss of internet po...well, you get the picture. This however, was far more desperate. I sweet talked, pled, cursed, banged and cursed some more. Nothing. I was stuck halfway in some sort of digital cable purgatory, trapped between hell and day nine of the Jeopardy! Teen Tournament. Finally, reason began to overtake panic and I calmed down. Maybe, I thought, I've been too hard on these guys. I decided to open my heart and my ears during a medley of Sixties favorites. It seemed as though it would be harmless enough, a sweet well meaning nod to the sunny idylls of yesteryear. It wasn't.

Why No, I Wouldn't Like To Buy Any Amway Products

I was instead treated to the vanilla stylings of well scrubbed, well intentioned warbling by a group of clueless boobs whose most notable feature was their lack of notable features. I can't really remember what songs were unfortunately singled out for this round robin sonic abortion, but I doubt it really matters that much. To begin with, all of the male contestants seemed to have been gangfucked by Wink Martindale's wardrobe closet. Awash in the dull rusty glow of their Botany 500 knockoffs, this embalmed cast of Tiger Beat automatons mugged shamelessly to viewers, panhandling for the votes and sympathies of America's bored and witless, whose lack of discernible personalities made The Stepford Wives look like they were from Girls Gone Wild: I Hate My Daddy Here Kind Drunk Stranger Give Me A Free T-Shirt And Ogle My Fake Breasts Ooh I Showed Him! Edition. And they might have succeeded, too, if not for one minute detail: these dolts couldn't charm their way out of a wet paper bag.

The ladies were a little bit better. Kind of the same way having your balls nibbled on by an hooker with a mouthful of broken glass is better than, say, getting a vasectomy with a rusty Spaghetti-o's lid. I could detect one voice that seemed natural, while the rest screeched, bleated, and growled their way through. I'm also unsure as to why there seems to be a girl in these things who must gargle Jack Daniels like Listerine in order to channel some godawful strain of Janis Joplin, growling all of her parts with a raspy faux-soul patina, but there she was in all her eardrum grinding glory. While Janis Joplin may have made it work in her day, this came off as horribly fake. I'm talking Dirk Diggler prosthetic penis fake. On the upside, they were all wearing different outfits, though it looked as though they'd been scraped from the floor of the local goodwill. Free Advice: just because it's vintage doesn't preclude it from being hideous.

As much as I hate to admit it, it may not have been completely these poor bastards fault. I wonder if any of this sad tasteless stew of sanitized music-esque product could have been salvaged if the arrangements weren't aural Nyquil. Jesus Christ, these are supposedly upbeat tunes we're talking about here! Poppy tunes with full toe-tapping potential were being castrated by a drowsy band whose sheet music probably consisted of staffs with eighth notes drawn as tiny Ambien with stems and flags. Any trace of emotion or honest to God soul was excised leaving behind a withered, generic husk of the songs they once were. And that was with oldies. Oldies, dammit! Can you imagine what sort of wet blanket they might throw on far cockier, sexed up fare? I wish I couldn't, but these sell out Lite-FM refugees wouldn't know.38 Special from the Early Bird Special. These butchers make Lawrence Welk and his Musical Family look like The Ramones in comparison. With this kind of lazy somnambulistic backdrop, can I really blame these wistful youngsters with their Cristal hopes and dreams of someday making sweet flavorless karaoke love to the ears of a mostly indifferent public for last night's shockingly dull performance? I just don't know. If nothing else, the whole experience taught me an valuable and special life lesson.

Batteries don't last forever. The shrill, haunting braying of nincompoops, however, endures.

29 Things I Hate About Kern/Birthday Roast '07

2007-12-19T07:15:00.000-08:00

[Editor's Note: We here at Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! have a certain soft spot for tradition. Because of this, we decided to look at Kern's birthday post from last year which I wrote compared to the treacly, chin quavering, "would you like an extra vagina to go with all that estrogen?", It's A Wonderful Life horses**t he wrote the year prior. And guess what? Of hundreds(ok, ten) people polled, people were absolutely riveted by my tasteful, yet blisteringly humorous send-up of Kern's faults and foibles. Which doesn't honestly surprise me, because despite that enormous a** ego of his, his "comedy" is really more about performing loud, spastic movements which make people so nervous they laugh as they plot to find the nearest exit, which, and I'm looking at Kern here, doesn't make you funny.

So because it's Kern's birthday and the public has long been denied my brand of hilarity for far too long, I thought I would take this opportunity to fire up the spit and roast this smarmy, lackadaisical talentless malcontent. I love it, let's start...have you ever noticed that Kern...um...]

Hello, dear editor of Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! Were you about to roast me when I had my back turned again?

[...]

That's what I thought you'd say. You know, a proper roast would involve guests, and a party. Otherwise it's just talking shit behind my back.

[Mmmm...yes. Yes, it is. Look, I didn't want to have to be the one to tell you this, but let's just be honest, you've gone soft. Your output is spotty and best, and somehow you think people are going to be all excited when they wake up one morning and see that you've come out of hiding to grace them with a luscious new barrage of acidic witticisms. Who the f**k do you think you are, funnyman, J.D Salinger? Yes, it's a surprise to us all in much the same way a cat leaving a coiled present on your carpet is a surprise. You've lost your edge. Your simpering prose is nothing more than a futile attempt to stroke your flaccid ego when you feel down on yourself. Incidentally, that's the only thing on you getting stroked. I'd make a rimshot noise, but it would look godd**n ridiculous in print.]

Apparently you've forgotten the Crotchety Bastard columns.

[Well, there have been so few of them, I think everyone else has, too. Snap!]

This is pathetic. But in the spirit of things, I'd like to roast myself a little.

"You know you've arrived when things are being named after you such as Trump Tower, Flutie Flakes, Rockefeller Center, etc. I am pleased to announce that I, too, have been achieved such an honor. Is it a building? No. Is it a cereal? Not quite. But I did find out that my name and likeness will be used for a new pharmaceutical that will help millions. It's called Kernbutal, and while it's not something glamorous like a cure for cancer, diabetes, or asshole lesions, it is a surefire cure for rampant insomnia. I dispense it orally and people begin to nod off in no time at all. However, Kernbutal does have side effects which include irratibility, nausea, impotence, and slow absortion in general."

"Some have expressed the thought that I'm an old man trapped in the body of a young man. Let me say this about that: if this were true would I have had a hot, sexy time at Halcyon Hills Retirement Community last Saturday where I did wicked hits in an oxygen tent, drank body shots of Metamucil off of a woman named Beulah, and was offered the gum job of my life. It wasn't."

"Not to brag, but my smash hit book Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! is soon to be translated into French, Spanish, German, Japanese and Tagalog. Now people of all cultures and walks of life will have equal opportunity to not buy my book."

[Are you quite serious? Is...is that all? Thanks for wasting everyone's valuable time. That was about as funny as epilepsy of the penis.]

Hmm. Sadly, I think he's right. I'm just not into it this year. Perhaps the audience might help.

Dear loyal readers, if you've got a funny roast style insult for my birthday, please leave it in the comments.

Other than that, let me just say thanks to everyone who did put up with the sporadic and generally unfunny posts this past year, and I hope to bring some more crotchety joy to you in '08.

Proust's Madelines and Kern's Omelette

2007-11-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

As my father pulled the final link of its band, I watched him look at it one more time before handing it over to me. The silver Invicta had initially been a birthday present he'd given to my uncle Clay during one of the routine family reunions we had been embarking on since moving up North.

"If you'd think about him everyday when you look at the time," my father said quietly, "you know, that'd be real good."

I nodded wordlessly, sliding the now comparatively dimunitive timepiece down my wrist. Though my uncle passed away almost exactly two years ago, I do find myself thinking about Clay often when I put it on and take it off. It was no surprise then, that this past September he was at the forefront of a nostalgic mind and an empty stomach as I sat down at the quasi-(in)famous greasy Seattle institution we locals know as Beth's Cafe. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

One of the cornerstones of my relationship with my uncle was my fanatical attempts at performing stomach stretching feats of gastric daredevilry. The memory of his amused, proud and slightly skeptical countenance as I shoveled a three pound piece of Lawry's prime rib down my gullet and asked for his baked potato after eating mine never fails to bring a smile to my face. As I recall the last morning I saw him alive, he urged me to eat a giant stack of pancakes followed by eggs, bacon, and God knows what else. As I swirled the soft syrupy detritus around the plate a few times before finishing, the man shook his head and told me with a smile that this was half the reason he showed up for the family reunions was to watch me eat. One of the last things I remember him saying at the table was, "Look out, y'all. My man Al is puttin' on a show!"

There was a large checklist of Everest sized culinary acheivements I wish I could have tackled for Clay's amusement, one of which was his challenge for me to eat a couple of the double sized offerings from Fatburger. I never did get that chance, but one day this past September, I was telling my friend Sarah stories about Clay, and it dawned on me that as a tribute I would tackle one of the most intense and gastronomically taxing food gauntlets ever thrown down by a restaurant. By god, I was going to eat the famous Beth's twelve egg omelette.

That's right, dammit. I said twelve. A dozen eggs. Six of one and the half dozen of the other griddled together with my choice of heartstopping meats and cheeses and romantically posed on a crispy carbohydrate mattress of steaming hash browns. If there is such a thing as food porn, this canary colored monolith of yolky goodness is like serving Sunny Side Sluts IV on a pizza pan. A daunting dragon of the comestible variety, I sat in that rickety booth with two thoughts. One, I hoped wherever he is, Clay was watching. Number two: I was going to slay this motherfucker without hesitation or mercy.

Fig. 1: Twelve Egg Omelette Pre-Kern

After it arrived, I stared at it. Blurry cell phone pictures do not do this thing justice at all. And just to make sure that this was truly a Clayworthy feat, I had them load the behemoth with cheddar cheese, sausage, and ham. Yes sir, this thing was going to take balls of steel and arteries of teflon to master. I was strapped to a runaway train barrelling toward fate, and that day fate happened to be smothered in Tabasco sauce.

To say that I fully decimated the platter would be overstating the case a little bit, but as you can see from the photographic evidence below, I ate the ass out of that omelette, and took about a third of the hash browns with me. Also, contrary to the picture, I did actually end up eating the toast as well, because Sarah informed me that the Knott's Berry Farms Apple Cinnamon jelly was delightful. As is usually the case, she was not wrong.

Fig. 2: Twelve Egg Omelette Post-Kern

With the spoils of war slowly expanding in depths of my gut, I thought about what this whole production was really about. To most people it was little more than a childish stunt based on the mortified looks and gasps of horror that I later received when regaling people with a chew by chew account of the mealtime mayhem, but like many other things in life there was far more to it. I find one of the most curious and heartwrenching aspects of the human condition is our innate ability to participate in this life's multi-tiered buffet with its myriad possibilities for joy and heartbreak when all we have at the end of the meal is a doggie bag full of faded experiences we hope to enjoy later.

Memories on their own mean little. If left to merely cursory and periodic enjoyment, they will stagnate and lose their potency. My repast at Beth's was my small but earnest attempt at engaging my recollection of Clay the same way I would have if he had been right there, and at the end of the day this kind of experience is how I want to hold any memory, living vicariously through myself in the present while keeping a reverent eye toward the past. It's very difficult, growing into the realization that we can never really hold on to anything for good. Those times when one finds themselves alone with these memories can be the most morose and solitary times of all. But they aren't, not really. I'll watch people leave me enough for ten lifetimes but when I refuse to only passively remember the world that made me, I know there is something to make things bearable again.

I will stand up surrounded and buoyed by thousands of secret smiles past, say "fuck it", and put on a show.

Wait Until The CDC Hears About This...

2007-10-10T08:01:00.000-07:00

Meet your new (least)favorite rapper: Flava Les

My worst fears have finally been confirmed by answering a series of well thought out questions from leading experts on social backwardness and shameful indulgences in intellectual pursuits. I just found out that I've tested Nerd Positive.

Though a cure for Nerdiness is rare and elusive, this affliction isn't fatal, and is at least a treatable condition with proper maintenance. If you're one of hundreds of thousands of people with this terrible malady, please know that you're not alone. Well, actually you probably are. But not in spirit, and that's probably close enough. For more information please contact:

Study of Human Unwillingness To Interact Normally or simply dial 1-900-SHUTIN*. Our trained counselors are here to help assure you that you may still be able to live a normal life despite the fact that you speak Klingon, have hooked up a catheter tube underneath your computer desk so that you don't have to leave your seat to urinate during three day sessions of World of Warcraft, or perhaps have a wank while looking at a two hundred dollar Wonder Woman statue every night.

So come on, let's let the healing begin...

Hugs and shit,

Kern

*[$7.24 for the first minute, $4.00 for each additional minute. All calls will be monitored for quality assurance and laughs at your expense by people far cooler than you. 100% of the proceeds will go to eradicating the threat of Nerdiness in our lifetime.

Ok, actually, you know what? That's a lie. It's actually going straight into Kern's pockets so he can stuff himself with expensive beer and rich Belgian carbonnade and frites before going home and walking around with his pants unbuttoned doing a poor imitation of Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" simply because he can.

You know Kern, you're a selfish t**t. It's all about you, isn't it? Kern, Kern, Kern. That's all we ever talk about around here anymore. I have hopes and dreams, too, other than editing your sloppy, sporadic prose. Do you even write anything longer than a snide self-referencing paragraph anymore? Right, that's just what I thought you smug, bleached anus. I hope that you develop an embarrassing penile rash shaped like Don Rickles right before a big date, you sniveling pencil neck twirp. Oh wait, you'd actually have to get a date first.

Oh yes, Kern. I did indeed go "there". -Ed.]

God Bless You, Internet!

2007-08-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

The internet is chock full of amusing memes and crazy videos. Normally I don't go in for a lot of that crap, but occasionally there is that one joke or video that's so spot on I hope everyone sees it.

Ladies and gentlemen, courtesy of some kind soul on Fark.com and YouTube, I humbly pass along to you, The Hipster Olympics.

I'll be back soon with some pseudo-intellectual garbage/personal essay I actually wrote soon.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Kern's Favorite Day Of The Week: Neuterday

2007-08-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!"

As most people who know me are aware, life with my new cat has not been quite the loving Hallmark card I expected it to be. In fact, I think he may be some unholy simultaneous reincarnation of Elizabeth Bathory and Allan Fundt, as at home with blood letting as he is with surprise attacks for his own amusement. I've been told that age will take care of a lot of this. While that may be true, there was one thing left I could think to do to possibly retard the sprawling imbalance of power in my household, and it's not pretty.

Young Rama turned six months this week, which means that I got the green light to have him neutered, which I'm happy about for several reasons. First of all, it's better for the cat in the long run as he'll have less risk for cancer, and he won't be interested in territorial marking, but it also means that he won't end up with the same level of bitter and unfulfillable sexual frustration as his owner; quite frankly, if both of us started howling uncontrollably in the throes of a horny, crepuscular fit, I think the building management would be content to toss both of us squarely on our asses by the dumpster in the alley next to half crushed cans of MGD and someone's soiled mattress. As solid as those reasons are, the biggest draw for his surgery is the potential promise of a slightly calmer cat. Don't get me wrong, kittens will be kittens, and Korats will be kittens nearly forever, but Rama is a whirling cloud of silver destruction and fevered yelping and to be honest, it's a little much at the moment. Even if he toned it down to say, eight instead of eleven, I'd feel a little better.

As I type this, I can sense that any male reading this is shaking their heads, secretly holding a silent vigil for the cat's nuts, holding their jocks and wincing with empathy. I, on the other hand, am not. I knew the exact moment that I lost sympathy for this seemingly emasculating rite of passage and it was two weeks ago. People who have read up on Korats will tell you, the breed not only sticks to their chosen people like velcro, but in times of distress or sadness, they sense this and will make their own sweet attempts to comfort their ill or sad human. During a particularly overzealous session of play, Rama managed to tangle his toy to the point it was practically unusable, but as it is his favorite toy and he looked so disappointed that we'd stopped I walked away for a bit to fix it for him. This turning my back on him for a second was, of course, unacceptable. As I squinted and puzzled over this ridiculous little length of gnarled string, Rama had stealthily sidled up beneath me and jumped at the toy with his claws out. This wouldn't have been so bad, except that he landed a bullseye right in the soft pinkness of my nailbed.

Having never bitten my nails or cut them too far, I was unaware of how much blood this seemingly benign and mysterious area of the body could loose upon the world. Turns out, it's a metric shitload. I yelped[like a little girl!-ed.] and ran for the alcohol and after drinking some bourbon, I went for the rubbing alcohol. My eyes were fuzzy masses of involuntary wetness as my futile attempts at stemming the bloodflow only served to bleed and sting when held to the fiery bite of the isopropyl. I ran to the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid alternating between my best curse words and a whole dictionary full of pained sounds I'm not sure were actually invented yet. I thought about all of the literature I'd read about how Korats handle seeing people sick or in pain, and as I saw Rama sheepishly slinking toward the bathroom with his little blue head hung low, I began to realize I was about to see this miracle of feline compassion for myself! I couldn't find it in my heart to be mad a the little one, who didn't know any better, and who came to check on his best friend. He finally reached the bathroom, looking up at me with those baleful, almost green eyes. He let out a soft, pitiful meow and looked up at me and I knew he was going to come nuzzle me or jump in my lap as if to say, "I'm sorry!" I smiled and put my hand out to him as he let out one more tiny mew. He then proceeded to back away from my hand and plop over on his back. Staring straight at me, with a mound of bloody toilet paper wrapped around my finger like a miniature mummy, Rama looked at me and promptly began to lick his nether regions.

I know that it's ridiculous to ascribe human motivations to animals when they do things; but that little irrational, emotional, petty part of me almost feels like if he'd had a middle finger he'd have used it, choosing his balls instead because they were handy. Being the small, petty bastard I am, my first thought was, "Yes, that's right. Taste the taint-bow. Enjoy the delicious flavor because it ain't gonna last forever. And when you do go in, I'm going to leave that office smiling. Smiling, dammit!" Sadly, after his breaking things, jumping on my counters, and scratching and biting me several time since then, I never once forgot that thought.

Today was the day. I took my little boy in and dropped him off in the hands of caring professionals who I have the utmost faith in. I almost felt bad for the little bugger watching how scared he was when we first let him out of the carrier for his pre-exam. Deep down, however, I know his getting a naditude adjustment will better for both of us and I did smile a little on my way out as I realize there is one definite upside to all of this: even if the behavior doesn't go down, and he still goes about wrecking the house with his regularly gleeful impunity, I know that in the struggle for control of the household there is one thought that can give me a shiny hint of hope that I still run things around here.

When it comes down to it, he just doesn't have the balls to push me around anymore.

"Our Contract Says 'No Bathroom Stuff'!"

2007-08-20T07:59:00.000-07:00

I had the good fortune of checking out Superbad over the weekend, and while I would say that the hype was a little distracting, it was amazingly funny and I think it's going to be one of those comedies that actually gets better upon repeated viewings whereas the laughs in most drunken teen comedy romps tend to evaporate more quickly than the collective confidence of the contestants of VH1's The Pickup Artist upon seeing a woman you don't have to inflate first.

I won't actually do a review because it's covered to death elsewhere, and I won't say anything they probably haven't already articulated better or more humorously, so I'll just say this. One thing that grabbed me was that upon walking out I knew I'd laughed the whole time, and that the scenes were funny, but I couldn't remember any "quotable lines". While I was initially dismayed by that thought, the more I thought about it the happier it made me. It seems that movies of the past few years that become adored by the public are usually made up of a selection of quirky characters and bizarre lines that unfunny frat boys and persons without any discernible sense of humor of their own toss out in conversation(yeah, I'm looking at you Napoleon Dynamite), and I think that one of the strengths of Superbad was that I was more caught up in how the characters said and did things than memorizing a slate of wacky one liners and filing them away for later use. That's not to say there aren't gems in there, but they weren't just a mannequin to hang a flimsy negligee of a plot upon.

However, as great as Superbad was(and it was), one of the funniest things I saw this weekend was something that Whitney from Pop Candy had been championing for a quite a while and I'm kicking myself in the balls for not watching them sooner. the entire ten episodes of Clark and Michael, which follows Clark Duke(Greek)and Michael Cera(Arrested Development, Superbad) in a lo-fi romp in which they try to write a television show and pitch it to networks. The pair are one of the damned funniest comedy duos I've seen in ages. Duke's smarmy hubris is nicely tempered by Cera's sweetly neurotic outbursts and impeccable sense of uncomfortable timing. Throw in some awesome cameos including AD's Tony Hale, Superbad's Jonah Hill, and Andy Richter and you've got some truly great stuff, and all ten episodes should only take you a little over an hour to watch.

Oops, there goes your morning. Sorry about that...

And you're welcome.

Hugs and Shit,

Kern

Watch!: Damages

2007-08-08T07:45:00.000-07:00

In the past decade it looked as though HBO was going to nearly singlehandedly change the face of thoughtful, provocative episodic television with a depth and gravity that would be more at home in serious films or novels. After the wrap of some of their most well-loved flagship shows, the streak of bringing the Next Big Thing to audiences may take a while as new management finds its footing. There is, however, a shining beacon of hope for those who are not afraid of intelligent, challenging programming.

FX has seemingly positioned themselves as the new HBO. With the exception of a couple of critical misfires(Lucky and Dirt), Fox's cable network has been one of the biggest risk-takers on basic cable, consistently pushing the envelope with shows such as Rescue Me, Nip/Tuck, The Riches, and especially The Shield. Never content to rest on their laurels, FX seems to have pulled another ace with its new dramatic series Damages, which chronicles the frightening and cutthroat world of high profile law through the eyes of a naive young associate.

The structure of Damages is a marvel in itself; framed within a slowly unfolding murder mystery which unspools slowly, yet cleanly, is a tale of sweet fresh out of law school associate Ellen Parsons, who turns her back on a sedate and comfortable job at a prestigious law office when she finds out she has a chance to work with Patty Hewes, a shrewd bigger than life attorney whose icy ways and killer instinct make her legendary. Ellen quickly realizes that she is going to have to learn to adapt or die trying as Hewes and Associates finds itself in the midst of waging a class action civil suit against sleazy corporate tyrant Arthur Frobisher, who became rich after essentially stealing his employees' futures in a shady stock sale. Flashing back and forth between the now stoic and hardened Ellen of the present are the shocking glimpses of her fateful dalliances with Hewes and the intriguing world which both fascinates and repulses the green young lady who doesn't seem to realize just how strong the undertow of these deceitful waters really are.

The supporting cast is remarkably strong here from Zeljko Ivanek's creepy turn as Patty's legal adversary Ray Fiske whose quiet Southern drawl and gaunt, overworked countenance make him seem almost human even when he's employing the most dastardly of tactics on Frobisher's behalf to Tate Donovan who executes the good natured, but seethingly resentful right hand man of Patty Hewes to exasperated perfection. Relative newcomer Rose Byrne slips effortlessly into Ellen both past and present, as easily believable in her doe eyed awe at her induction into the shadowy halls of Hewes and Assocates as she is as the burning human wreckage left in the wake of Hewes and Frobisher's clash of the titans.

But as amazing as these performances are, the real draw here is the struggle between Hewes and Frobisher, two adversaries whose dogged drive for success and more importantly winning for the sake of it makes them far closer than either would believe. Danson, after years of playing slightly roguish leading men is a revelation here, cutting back all but the trappings of inherent humanity. He's fashioned Frobisher as a cold, methodical son of a bitch who would seem to stop at nothing to remain the god of industry everyone belives him to be. What makes those aspects of his character's personality all the more unsettling are the quiet moments where he has a normal dinner with his family or tries to talk to one of the employees he's wronged in trying to get him to convince the others to drop the suit. His total mastery of deceit goes beyond a finely tuned attention to humanity and ventures into the disturbingly pathological. In a world filled with recycled cardboard villains, Ted Danson's Arthur Frobisher is one of the most memorable and truly frightening of the past five years.

It would stand to reason that a character as nuanced as Frobisher would need a strong counterpoint, and in picking the perfect Patty Hewes, no other actress is Close; in a long and illustrious film career, Glenn Close may have found one of her finest roles ever in Damages. Close's Hewes in intellectual, fearless, manipulative and ruthless, all things one would expect from a high powered attorney, especially a female in the spotlight who has likely built a thick armor casting off the slings and arrows of jealous male competition on the way to the top. The most fascinating aspect of Patty Hewes, however, is her inscrutability. We know that ultimately she's working for the client, but the amount of duplicitous behavior she engages to acheive the results she's after are astounding for a woman who is supposed to be "the good guy" in this situation. It's this constant ride over the waves of moral ambiguity and Close's frigid poker face that both repulse and endear us.

FX has brought us another taut, scorching hit whose thrilling examination of the pitch black ethical vortex we call the legal system is both engaging and wholly frightening. In the fictional high stakes world of Damages, it becomes clear that there are no victors, only the spoiled.

The Crotchety Bastard: Public Perfume? Piss off!

2007-07-31T07:17:00.001-07:00

Dear loud, obnoxious, overly scented, middle aged lady on my bus this morning:

They say that scent is perhaps the sense most tied to human emotions and memories. If this is at all true, I will likely remember you for the rest of my miserable fucking life. Please, don't misunderstand me; the alluring and mysterious subtlety of a lady's signature scent can be nigh irresistible in their grasp on a man's imagination and gonads if it's the right scent and applied in proper amounts.

I am all for the conservative application of these delightful liquids, which as I gathered today is something that you, madame, know nothing about. You went too far, seemingly steeping yourself in whatever vile concoction you poured a tubful of this morning like a loud, jowly teabag. I've always been amazed at the lack of respect people have when applying their fruity lotions and their vaginal washes that smell like the botanical garden at full bloom, but when upon entering a small, enclosed space my eyes begins to swell shut, I would say you have not only drawn the line at annoyance and inconsideration, but you've taken a squat over it, your foul steaming piss eroding that line of common decency completely.

My outrage at being forced to choke down the fumes of one's not-so-sexy wares is sometimes tempered to a degree if the scent itself is a good one, and the only crime is the hasty overuse of the product in question. What is more difficult for me to overlook is if the perfume is cheap, cloying, and whose eradication of all of the oxygen in my general vicinity makes me feel as though I'm trying to breathe through a crazy straw while running on a treadmill at Macchu Pichu. I must ask you, Miss, exactly what Designer Impostor Body Spray did you roll about in this morning? If they were trying to copy Poison, they did an excellent job. Unfortunately for you, but moreso for the rest of us, whatever noxious knockoff you chose doesn't smell like the Christian Dior version; no, when I say Poison I mean it smells as if Raid or D-Con came out with a special series and you spent all morning rubbing the samples all over yourself.

All of this still would not have been so bad except for the fact that you, madame, were sitting in the front of the bus, and even upon making my way all the way to the aft, I couldn't escape it. You were like the Enola Gay of awful scents, delivering a megaton payload of destructive floral stench to my sinuses. To be quite honest with you, for the first time in my life I prayed that a hobo just coming off an all night Thunderbird bender would hop on in the free ride zone and sit in my lap just so I could smell something slightly less abhorrent than you. Upon my exit, I must tell you, the waves of undulating pollution and assorted other lung and brain cell murdering elements floating in the Seattle air never tasted, nor smelled so sweet.

A rose, when artificially synthesized and slathered upon one's person like an odiferous barbecue sauce, still smells like a loud, disgusting, selfish little faux-garden scented shit.

Love,

The Crotchety Bastard

PS-Men, you can stop laughing any time now. It's no more charming when you stinking bastards imitate Flashdance by pulling a chain and showering yourself in a few hundred gallons of Axe Body Spray or Mennen Millionaire rather than bathing like human beings.

Ingmar Bergman 1918-2007

2007-07-30T11:25:00.001-07:00

As an amateur student of foreign film, I've come to appreciate films from a variety of directors from many, many countries. While my taste generally leans toward the French, I've found that every country has their own national treasures, whether well known or not at all. Growing up a generation apart, it's the misfortune of thousands of people my age who have only just been exposed to these great works to watch the men and women behind them pass away. Just as we lost the inimitable cinematographer Sven Nykvist last winter, his long time collaborator and friend Ingmar Bergman is now gone as well.

I am far from an authority on the body of work that Mr. Bergman left behind, but I have viewed more than a few of his films at least once. Somewhere beneath the seemingly dark and foreboding tones and themes that pervaded his films, the most important element among them can be easily overlooked by the casual observer, and that is a deep undercurrent of humanity. With a cold palette of blacks and greys, Ingmar Bergman's films played a vital role acting as regal cinematic ambassadors to the United States, quietly and unassumingly inviting Americans to the larger universe of world cinema in the 1950's, beginning with Smiles On A Summer Night and The Seventh Seal, opening our eyes and our hearts to a fantastic set of new possibilities and concepts.

Though The Seventh Seal in all of its dreamy, allegorical brilliance probably stands out in the minds of many as the seminal Bergman film, I would instead suggest the uninitiated to watch the Criterion released trilogy containing the films Winter Light, Through A Glass Darkly, and The Silence. Despite their austere minimalism, tragic circurmstances, and uneasy tension, these three films gave me the clearest glimpse into the seemingly opaque and complex soul of this artist.

On behalf of myself and the countless persons whose art you have inspired, Mr. Bergman, I bid you great thanks and safe passage.

The Crotchety Bastard: Seasonal Asshole Disorder

2007-07-26T07:24:00.000-07:00

Hello there. I wished this could be a more topical and less personal The Crotchety Bastard column, but I'm exhausted. Perhaps it is unfair to blame Summer as a culpable party in the awful night's sleep I tried to endure last night, but I'm a right cranky fuck this morning and I'll blame whomever I God Damn well please. I say this because Summer seems to encourage people to go outside and congregate, something I would dare say I don't see a shit load of when it's thirty degrees.

Now that I've addressed the season's role in my fitful and unsuccessful attempt to achieve somnambulistic bliss, let me turn my attention to the persons responsible.

Open Letter To My Filthy Swine Neighbors Who Just Couldn't Keep It The Fuck Down To Save Their Miserable Little Lives:

Good Morning!

Well, that's not exactly accurate, as I'm not having a good morning, since your little rooftop party seemed to to supersede the rights of anyone on the side of the apartment building I live on to actually get any rest.

After going several nights of being extremely tired, I decided I would take the proactive step of turning in early. My delicate peepers were starting to fall around 9:30, so I figured that I could get in at least several more hours that I usually do, which might go a fair distance toward correcting the sleep deficit I had so stupidly accrued.

Ah, but how wrong I was, neighbors! It was not to be as I seemed to be roused from my slumber every fifteen minutes or so to the sweet, acrid smell of your filthy generic cigarettes and your exuberant, yet unintelligible cries of "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" for no good reason. I don't know why I would expect anything else, as you've always been the model of class and good citizenship. The way you use the sidewalk as a reserved parking space. The interesting collection of beer related memorabilia[read: empty beer bottles/cans-Ed.] in front of your hovel. The menagerie of pets wandering around pawing at your rotting doors.

Your little Hee Haw shindig wouldn't have been so bad, save for the fact that this continued until four in the morning. Let me say this about that: you are without a doubt, a uncouth collective of some of the most inconsiderate, disgusting white trash neanderthals I've ever had the misfortune to live next to, and that's saying something as I once waited out a nine month lease in an awful crackerbox of a room next to one of the most obnoxious frathouses I've ever had the misfortune to be around. If I wanted to breathe your God damned carbon monoxide all night I would run a vacuum hose from the tailpipe of your burned out Pinto into a sleep mask and burrow snugly into my covers. Ironically, then I might actually get some sleep.

In the future, please do those of us who actually have jobs to go to and things to do in the morning a huge favor. Next time you have the urge to have a Natural Light fueled orgy of stupidity on your roof, pick your knuckles up off the ground and drag your mini coolers inside at a reasonable fucking hour so that the folks on my side of the building can actual catch some Z's.

Oh, and if you could shoot yourselves in the face, that would be awesome too.

Yours without caffeine yet,

The Crotchety Bastard

Here's Something So You Don't Have To Look At That Damn Cat Anymore

2007-07-09T08:14:00.000-07:00

Hello all. First of all, I would like to apologize profusely for the lack of posting. Several months after trumpeting the fact that Listen! Listen... was coming back in a big way, I have totally and utterly failed to deliver the goods, short of a funny diagram of McSteamy Math and a picture of a feline in repose. Not too compelling all things considered.

So, I will tell you what I'm going to do. I am not going to make false and empty promises I cannot probably keep and exclaim that there will be a barrage of awesome new material in the pipeline, because all that does is make me look like a bigger d-bag than I already do. So instead, I'm going to noncomittally state that hopefully I will be writing some reviews of some movies, and maybe telling you about some things you might want to consider reading, and if I'm really ambitious some new Crotchety Bastard material, as that's what I know most of you tune in to this car wreck of prose for anyway.

But in lieu of any of that today, as I have a lot of TMT writing to do and I'm way behind already, I want to tell you about a funny webcomic that some good folks turned me on to called Perry Bible Fellowship. [In case you're concerned, no, it has nothing to do with the Bible you f**ing heathen-Ed.] It reminds me of a less restricted Far Side with stranger art and a slightly more twisted sense of humor than Gary Larson's. I am including a link to one recent example that made me almost fall out of my chair with laughter, as many of them have.

So there you have it. I'll hopefully see you all quite soon brandishing some sharp prose in your direction. If not, don't say I didn't warn you. But if there's one thing we can all agree on, it's just nice to see something newer than that God damned cat.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

[The above statement should in no way imply that Kern does not actually love the cat. In point of fact, Kern needs to grow a pair of Sun Maids and realize that the kitten should not be running the household no matter how cute he is-Ed.]

Li'l Fucker

2007-06-01T07:42:00.000-07:00

Quiet= Cute. He's not usually quiet.

Over the years, the "pet name" has become a well integrated and highly obnoxious thread woven into our societal fabric. Such vomit inducing nicknames as Schnookums, Sweetie, and in rare cases, Hot Pants are thrown around as terms of affection for those we love. I have begrudginly accepted this fact and realized this week after having just gotten a cat last week, that I, too, had somehow slipped into perpetuating this awful habit.

While the most common names when referring to one's cat are usually things like "baby" or the generic, but workable classic, "kitty", the first week led me to begin using some slightly more unconventional choices, such as "Get Out of The Sink", "Don't Chew On My Gotdamn Jack Spade Messenger Bag", "no No NO NOO NOOOOO", and eventually to simplify things, "Li'l Fucker".

As I am sure is the case with any bachelor who has his carefree days and nights interrupted by a cute, yet screechy little poop machine, the first week was a bit of an adjustment. The good news, however, is that he seems to have mellowed out a bit, at least for now. He's still a bit whiny and can't stand when I get up to do anything that doesn't involve paying direct attention to him, but he's still young. I guess all things considered, despite all of his tiny flaws and gigantic howls, his miniature charms somehow managed to thaw even my icy demeanor(somewhat) and I'm pretty glad to have him around.

Watch!: Death Proof? Check. Critique Proof? Um...

2007-05-04T00:19:00.002-07:00

Ever since my first experience with the re-release of pseudo-schlock horror vet Lucio Fulci's The Beyond replete with actual grindhouse trailers, I have done a lot of research about the culture surrounding these films, which in many cases, has been more interesting than some of the films themselves. It surprised no one when I became excited about Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino teaming up to do a double feature of films that would bring back that sense of morbid wonder that captured my attention in the early twenties.

Granted, we know that the pair has pulled off this kind of material once in the love-it-or-despise it vampire/survival romp From Dusk 'Til Dawn. From a collaborative standpoint, Dusk works largely because of the combination of Quentin's snappy writing and Rodriguez's propensity toward stylistically capturing vivid, chaotic cartoony action. It seemed that both men picked subjects that were well suited to them: Rodriguez taking up another over the top Carpenter-esque free for all, while Tarantino would plumb the darker depths by reinventing the slasher film. With all of this in place, I have concluded that there are two schools of thought with a project like Grindhouse; both were employed, and could have worked if executed correctly.

First, one can decide to eschew complete accuracy in following the exact formulas of traditional grindhouse fare, and instead adhere to the "spirit" of these kinds of films instead. I think Rodriguez, who was less well versed in the formal study of such films had to choose the latter out of neccesity and as a happy surprise, his film turned out to be a lot of fun to watch, and one that was very accessible. Unfettered by a draconian dedication to the formulaic tenets of genre films, it is as though he decided the only place to go in his film, Planet Terror, was over the top. He wisely gambles on the psychology of the audience, keeping in mind that while there will invariably be those nostalgic for the traditional skew n' spew flicks of the actual grindhouse glory days, these people will make for an infinitesimal percentage of the potential ticket buyers.

While Planet Terror does offer up a bloody, gooey amalgam of genre fun, it can in no way be mistaken as trying to follow any one particular archetype. Rather than being hindered by this, Rodriguez has created a rather egalitarian viewing experience by using enough references and cheeky nods to Carpenter(especially the music), Romero, and even a dash of Cronenberg for those in the know, yet still allows the uninitiated to have a separate but equally rewarding experience on a purely visceral level. It's unclear as to whether this direction was meant to be a parody, a referential homage, or simply a redefining of what the term "grindhouse" means to the director personally, but he appears to have succeeded on a grand scale.

QT and his entry Death Proof, on the other hand, failed dramatically in his part of the exercise. In a way, his encyclopoedic knowledge of these films and the set formulas of their respective genres seemed to force his hand, painting his way into a corner, and there a few major problems here. First, it is obvious that he has such a puritanical view of those old films' production that he sacrifices his good sense and natural instincts as a director, instead becoming subservient to his nostalgic recreation of the worst parts of these films( i.e. long dialogue sequences, meandering plot). I understand that the "real" grindhouse movies didn't have much action because there was so little money for special effects. However, when someone like Tarantino has already committed himself to a making a movie which is going to be largely dependent on its script, it would seem prudent for him to take that opportunity to really bring us his highest caliber work in the writing department. If he's decided that we the audience are going to be treated to a strict reconstruction of his favorite style, wouldn't it make more sense to use it as on opportunity to at least use his natural gifts of stylized dialogue in this setting to elevate to something of more substantive quality?

One would think so, which is why it was quite shocking to see the audience subjected to all of the lame car talk, table talk, and porch talk that was foisted upon us. The diner scene was particularly awful; there is a difference between capturing the conversational nuances in human interaction, and then there is spinning the camera around while people have an insipid girly gabfest in which Quentin lifts everything wholesale from the opening sequence of Reservoir Dogs, only this time squeezing all of the fun and humor out the banter. A suggestion: if you're going to rip yourself off from one of your earliest movies, it would be best to make sure the dialogue is fresher and more urgent at the risk of your young QT making older QT look like he's lost that touch.

Also, the two act structure, while an interesting experiment, was an utter catastrophe. It is understandable that he would hate having to pick between two of his favorite old time styles of horror subgenres, the traditional slasher film and the female revenge film(I'm picturing copies of I Dismember Mama and Ms. 45 floating around QT's disembodied head while the tune, 'Did You Ever Have To Make Up Your Mind' plays cheerily in the background). Sadly, he could have had his carnage and eaten it, too. While he might not have been able to plausibly do both in their entirity, he could have somehow done a far better job building a narrative bridge between the two scenarios he loosely and absurdly posits. The problem with the structure as it stands, is that the two tones of these halves are so markedly different, that there is no way for the viewer to feel a satisfactory sense of cohesiveness between them, despite the obvious link of Kurt Russell's Stuntman Mike character, and frankly, that's a rather tenuous link at best.

The Mike of the first half is a mean spirited, downright scary mystery man, while the second Mike we see is only a sadist until he begins losing, instead turning into a whimpering sad sack, quivering and cowering in what was originally designed to be a menacing weapon. It is reasonable to a degree that this is an aspect of the plot that probably needs to be played up in an homage to women's revenge films, as the turning tides of feminist rage are meant to show how deeply flawed and inherently fake and flimsy this masculine guise really is when the misogynist killer begins to get a taste of his own medicine. What I cannot understand, however, is the choice to show him at polar extremes. The logic is flawed if the director believed that the audience would feel a greater catharsis seeing such a man at his most sinister and brutal turning into such a whiny, spineless manchild. Rather than taking that much more joy in the comeuppance, there was a greater sense that the audience felt that it was patently ridiculous to see the pendulum swing so far to the other direction.

Part of the inherent frustration here is that most slasher films contain, from a formulaic standpoint, a bit of the empowering female revenge aspect anyway. With a bit of better storytelling, or structuring, Death Proof would have been better off keeping with the dark, rugged pulp of the first half and leaving one of the original girls to live and seek vengeance for her dead friends; at least in that scenario there would have been an emotional component that would have made sense if the revenge aspect was truly that important. The idea of a slasher film done in this non-conventional manner was an exciting concept, as murdering a string of victims with a car instead of claws or a machete was a fun spin on the traditional concepts that Death Proof is trying to bow to, and for someone who is as intent on adhering this strictly to the tenets of genre movies, QT had to know that he could have covered the female empowerment angle when the ubiquitous "survivor girl" would have dispatched Mike anyway. In fact, this would have been an excellent place to really delve deeply into some of the gender discussions about horror movies that have been increasing so much in recent years, especially considering that many scholars almost uniformly agree that slasher films are extremely Freudian, with the killer's weapon being representative of the penis. How easy and fun would it have been to see that line of reasoning brought into a slightly subverted slasher film in which the weapon itself(the car) is already a phallic symbol?

This isn't to say that there weren't glimmers of hope within this entry; as usual Tarantino's approach to scoring the film was masterful, and the actual chase scenes in the second act are quite thrilling. The problem is that we don't get enough of any of the elements(bloody kills/sex/fatal comeuppance) that slasher/revenge fantasy fans have likely come to see, and when coupled with an abrupt and less than savage ending that will amuse some and infuriate others, the audience just doesn't have enough to get worked up into a bloodthirsty lather over, which is a key factor in the success of these kinds of films.

Due to financial concerns over the film(read: it tanked), there was talk from the studio that the two films should be split up and re-released separately. There are potential merits to such a strategy, but it would seem more likely that this particular tact would backfire miserably. As Quentin Tarantino is the marquee name in this equation, it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that Planet Terror would suffer, while in a stunning bit of irony, those daunted by the three hour running time of Grindhouse would be running toward the bland, anti-climactic Death Proof. Despite its flaws, viewing Death Proof alongside Planet Terror is still the optimal way to see this movie, as the contrasting natures of its two halves along with the genius packaging make for an experience that is simultaneously thrilling, frustrating, and ripe for good old fashioned geeky analysis.

Rendezvous With Rama

2007-04-30T01:15:00.000-07:00

Well, readers, the unthinkable has finally happened.

Your man Kern is going to be a daddy.

Now before you start clutching your chest in mock Fred Sanford fashion, breaking out the cigars and brandy, or making me have to climb a parapet to yell to the masses that rumors of my intercourse have been greatly exaggerated, let me explain.

I've always loved animals and have grown up with them in the household. So much in fact that I've come to think of all of them as members of the family rather than just pets. As most of the family I have up here are getting ready to return to our Midwestern roots, I thought this would be as good a time as any to start my own little "family" here. I'm crazy about cats and have done a lot of research over the years on different breeds and I'm happy to say I found the perfect one from a breeder in Oregon.

Baby Rama

Meet the soon to be newest addition to the Kern household, Rama. He's a Korat kitten who will be here in three weeks, and I am ecstatic to be getting him. For those unfamiliar with the breed, Korats are originally from Thailand, and were initially given to the one of the early kings of Siam(King Rama the IV or V, I think) as a gift, which is why they are also known in Thailand as "si-sawat" or "good luck cats". They're extremely smart, very loyal, and very sweet. I went to Oregon this weekend to pick him out from the three remaining kittens of a four boy litter, and as it turned out, the little bugger picked me as opposed to the one the breeder though might be a good match. He's an acrobatic little firecracker who seems both fearless and affectionate, which is good because that means he likely won't mind people coming to visit him.

In any case, prepare for more cat pics in the coming weeks. They grow up so fast and I would hate not to document it.

Feel free to send along those cigars and cognac now...

Hugs and shit,

Kern

An All Kern DeLorean This Week

2007-04-27T07:09:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers.

I know I don't make it around these parts as often as I used to, but I'm going to try to throw a few things out for your curious, ogling pleasure early next week, including my own take on the fascinating achievements and failures of the new movie Grindhouse, which, for all of its faults, is still very much worth seeing.

I'm about to catch a train to Oregon to visit my older sister, but I wanted to make mention of something special this morning. For those of you who aren't regular Tiny Mix Tapes readers(and shame the fuck on you!), you might want to look today as this week's installment of the DeLorean is completely dominated by my luscious prose.

That's right, it's a veritable Kern double feature in which I compare and contrast the two most contentious elements of the seminal group The Velvet Underground as they begin their early careers: Lou Reed's 1972 breakthrough Transformer, and John Cale's Paris 1919.

Both are fascinating records, and as diametrically opposed as one would likely imagine. If you're not busy check them out.

Actually, even if you are, drop what you're doing and read them anyway. It's good for my self-esteem.

Be back Monday with pictures and words.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Listen!!!: The Book Is Now Available For More People Not To Buy

2007-04-02T07:53:00.000-07:00

Good morning, Listen! faithful.

The last time I mentioned my book, I was lamenting the fact that it had been virtually ignored by an illustrious panel of judges. While I was not too sad or surprised by this turn of events, I must say that I've moved into the next phase of my diabolical plan to spray my vitrolic missives onto a unwilling and uncaring public like a tomcat in heat.

Imagine my surprise as I went to Amazon.com and searched for my book[Pfft...I'm not surprised. That vain f**er does that every day, and then he whines like a little girl when it's not up yet. Boo hoo hoo, Kern...go s**t me a doily, Nancypants...-Ed.] and imagine my overwhelming joy and surprise when I saw that it was finally up.

It's exciting to know that now I can sell my book on one of the world's largest online booksellers and I'll probably still sell the same amount of copies as before, and for lower royalties.

A wise man, many years ago said, "What a country!"

So true, Yakov Smirnoff, so true.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Kern Will Finally See Some Hot Fuzz

2007-03-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

Yes, readers it's true, but let me start at the beginning.

I don't know how many of you are Shaun of The Dead fans, but after seeing it in the theatre, I for one found myself to believe in the new holy comedic trinity of Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, and Edgar Wright. They nailed everything perfectly in Shaun of The Dead, balancing horror, romance, and comedy in one shiny thrill ride.

Oh dear God!

Luckily for likeminded fans, they are now trying their golden touch with another well worked staple, the buddy cop movie in the new release Hot Fuzz, which is supposed to reach theatres mid-April. I didn't think I could wait that long, but lo the film gods have smiled upon me, and I was able to finagle a pass to a very special screening on April 2nd.

Not impressed?

What if I were to tell you that after the film there will be a Q and A with Pegg, Frost, and Wright?

Still not impressed? Damn, you guys are a tough crowd...

In a move that makes me geek out possibly worse than the chance to see Hot Fuzz with the creators, this special screening will be preceded by a showing of one of the coolest and most iconic cop movies of all time, Bullitt!!!!

(Incoherent gurgling noises; inappropriate bodily functions)

Now, I cannot be sure, but I think that a few years ago Warner Bros. struck a number of new 35mm prints for a celebration in New York commerating their 75th anniversary, which may mean that my eyes may be in for a pristine print.

I...oh bother, I think I need to change my pants...

Anyway, I'll keep you up to date on how the whole experience was after April 2nd.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Blooked In The Ass

2007-03-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

It seems pretty ridiculous to get nervous over something that you're convinced you're going to fail at, but as I read through the Lulu.com Blooker Prize 2007's glorious finalists which were announced today, I realized that my book, Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!: Selected Essays From The Best Blog No One Is Reading, was not on there . While I generally found a good cross section of the non-fiction entries to sound a little bit too specialized, there are a few that look like they were custom made for this kind of contest. Mine, as it turns out, was not one of them. Why, you may be asking yourself? Your book was the absolute paragon of irreverant hilarity, and yet it teemed with thoughtful commentary. How could you miss with that winning combination?

I've been asking myself that very question, and as people seem to be crazy about the phenomenon of listing things in backwards chronological order, I thought that's what I would do.

5. People Like A Plucky Protagonist With A Heartwarming Story In Which They Overcome Great Odds, Or Have A Great Deal Of Human Interest That Touches The Hearts Of Readers. Something That Makes Them Feel All Warm And Fuzzy On The Inside And Uplifts Or Teaches Them Something: First of all, my book doesn't really have a narrative, which even in non-fiction, is probably more compelling than a bunch of random posts and therefore makes the reading much more interesting. Secondly, do I seem even the least bit plucky to you? Fuck no. Pluck is for female cub reporters fresh out of journalism school who perservere despite toiling under the thumbs of chauvanistic male editors who ogle them instead of taking their writing seriously. Or the Hardy Boys. I am neither. Also, there was nary a heartwarming moment in the entire book, except the acknowedgements at the beginning, and the anniversary post at the end, which is just not enough treacly arms around you garbage to win any award in any medium. Did anyone learn anything of value? I didn't think so. Moving on...

4. Where's The Love?: While romantic interests are one of the most important devices used throughout literature, people also love a good true life love story. Whereas several of the books seem like microwaved Sex and The City leftovers, in which the female bloggers try to perservere in the tough world of modern dating while toiling under the thumb of a hypocritical patriarchal notion as to the roles women are supposed to play in the absurdly antiquated mating rituals that still exist today, I have nothing like that. In fact, I am sure the only references to myself and sex in the book(if there are any) would either be me lamenting the lack of it, or trying to get some by soaking my hand in four martinis trying to get it drunk enough to put out. Either way, it's pathetic and not at all the sort of sassy, sexed up romp that people love to read about these days.

3. The "Alexander Brooks Kern!!!" Factor: I should have done a much better job of researching these judges. There were ladies on the panel, and unfortunately, I didn't think to check to see whether or not they are mothers. This could have been potentially disasterous to my chances, because much of my book is not what one would call "Mom Friendly". While I don't curse in front of my mother, I can't be responsible if she just happens to read some of the filthy, awful language that seems to be seeded amidst my prose like a sprinkling of Mamet-esque land mines. It seemed only the right thing to do to warn my poor mom as to what kinds of awful filth her son was publishing, so that she wouldn't have a near heart attack upon opening the book a random page and reading a quotation like this:

"I have to ask, did you start out with the intention of seeing this film, or was the line to be fucked in the mouth by an electrified barbed wire dildo too long?"

She tried in vain to convince me that the best way to circumvent this problem was to perhaps use a black marker to cover all of the potentially offending passages; however, as a good son and fair businessman, I could not in good conscience sell anyone a book whose only remaining phrases would consist of "Kern" and a random handful of adjectives, pronouns, conjunctions, and the occassional indefinite article.

Somehow I have a hard time imagining a world in which four out of five choosey mothers who normally lend their approval to sugar free gums and peanut butters are going to give a resounding thumbs up to a tome whose biggest claim to fame is an unashamed and unapologetic use of words and phrases such as, "gum flapping cockhole", "scumfuck", "dim penile fumbler", and "Bill O'Reilly."

Let's face it: Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!: The Book is like a Tourette's patient's brain exploding all over two hundred odd blank pages, while a handful of chimpanzees typing Shakespeare on a thousand typewriters simulataneously decided they all needed a bathroom break and smeared their feces on said pages in between the curse words in a twisted simian version of Mad Libs.

Sick and depraved fun?

I guess?

A mother's worst nightmare?

Hells yes.

2. Judging A Book By Its Cover: Back in the good old days, only models, film stars, and television personalities had to be hot. Musicians, it helps, but let's face it, if you so much as hold an instrument with any degree of competence people just seem to offer you their genitals for no good reason. Yes, there was a time when being an author was one of the last refuges for the ugly and creative. Did people used to honestly say things like, "Man, that J.D. Salinger is a hot piece of ass. I'm totally buying Catcher In The Rye!"?

Highly doubtful. Unfortunately, in a fast paced world in which the average persons' fascination with the image of creative beings in every field is seemingly insatiable, the use of your MySpaces, your Facebooks, Google Images, and what have you, mean that writers have become increasingly public figures who cannot hide behind their dust jackets anymore. This may sound rather ludicrous to most people, but just look at a recent backlash against breakout author Marisha Pessl's Special Topics In Calamity Physics. Despite crafting what many had initially lauded as a brilliant debut novel, the razor sharp pendulum of criticism has swung back the other way, and catty opiners and pundits possessed with jealousy have begun insinuating that it is not Pessl's writing ability that's garnered her such acclaim in the fickle world of literary fiction, but rather money and a pretty face. And let us not pretend that without using her relative attractiveness, Jessica Cutler's The Washingtonienne would stand out against any number of other thinly veiled memoirs about life in politics. The only difference between Cutler and her less comely competitions is that they can't claim to have launched the feverish wet dreams of a thousand horny politicos, causing them to soak through the starched crotches of their J. Press trousers.

Thankfully, my rugged handsomeness coupled with my boyish charm shields me from being one of the aformentioned authors who might have to worry about such petty, shallow concerns. In fact, I can't even remember why I brought it up.

[Kern In All Of His Rugged Handsomeness.(snicker)-Ed.]

It just goes to show that when one is really on top of one's game, people can see past the swoon inducing countenance, and just simply focus on the work, because it's really the work that's important. And speaking of that work, if you've not ordered a copy of my book, Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!: Selected Essays From The Best Blog No One Is Reading, you should really get one right now, even if it's only to stare longingly at the picture on the back.

[The Face That Launched Fourteen Book Sales...-Ed.]

1. To Swag Or Not To Swag: I would love to sit here and tell you all that the business of literature is literature, and that we're a pure artform and it's not about acclaim and being famous, and we all write for love of it, but I can't do it with a straight face. Like the movies, television, and music, literature is an industry, and my mistake here was that I was too naive not to think in those terms. If there is one thing that all of those other industries have in common, it doesn't matter how rich or successful you are, people the world over love some free shit.

If I had been paying more attention to how the game is being played these days, I would have taken this into account and acted accordingly, putting together a little "swag bag", as they're called by those of us in "the know", and sending it to the illustrious panel of 2007 Blooker judges.

But what exactly does one put in a goodie bag designed for the blogging/writing elite?

Well, I think a tasteful arrangement would include, but not be limited to the following:

A Bouquet of Red Bull, for those long days and nights staring into the deep abyss of an emotionless computer screen
Several freshly baked muffins(Flavors Vary; No Requests or Substitutions, Please!)
One Homemade Gift Certificate For "The World's Best Backrub"(No Substitutions, please!)
One Signed Copy of Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!: Selected Essays From The Best Blog No One Is Reading
One imitation crystal ball with a picture of my book in it, with yellow Post-It proclaiming, "I have seen the future of blog based books, and my friends, it is Kern!"
One inspirational poster whose graphic shows a cuddly Koala bear. The slogan would read, "Please vote for Kern's entry. Otherwise Fluffypants is going to get malignant cancer of the anus!"
Three vials containing my own perspiration, tears, and blood, accompanied by a note that says, "Put Kern on the shortlist for the 2007 Blooker Prize. He gave his blood, sweat, and tears! But not pee. Because that would be weird."
One Bottle Of Pepto-Bismol
One Bar Of Irish Spring

Take that deep pocketed corporate conglomerates! Because you know what's lacking in those other fancypants gift bags? Yeah, that's right. The personal touch!

Actually, the reason I didn't get shortlisted is quite simple. My book was asscapades compared to any number of books that come out on a daily basis. I accept full responsibility for my own mediocrity and I have to say that I've taken away a very valuable life lesson from all of this.

[Cue Heartwarming "We're about to take away a very valuable life lesson from all this" music]

Success is for other people...but keep trying! Your futile attempts at reaching your goals amuses people who are better than you, and if those people like you, you're golden!

Oh yeah, that and my editor can gargle my sack for putting up those pictures.

@My Editor-Listen, Snow White, you and me are gonna tangle one of these days.

Believe that.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Read!: The Gay Talese Reader-Portraits and Encounters

2007-03-05T07:34:00.000-08:00

As far back as memory serves, I've wanted to be a writer. In my formative years I used to dictate stories to my parents to transcribe until I had filled enough pages to fold over and lovingly staple into a tiny booklet. Eventually, I had to pick up my own pen, and later a word processor, but none of it truly came together until I was eleven years old and took a class at McNair Sixth Grade Center in journalism. From that moment journalism, which has not always stayed my most prominent interest, has always held me in thrall like that of any boyhood crush, and it was only a couple of years after that that I became aware of Gay Talese through a short article he published in the premiere edition of Cigar Afficianado entitled, "Walking My Cigar".

Unbeknownst to me, Talese was one of the early adopters of what is commonly labeled, "The New Journalism", a tweaked format of straight journalism, jettisoning such cornerstones of the trade as the inverted pyramid format and objectivity in favor of a far more literary approach. While Tom Wolfe may have been credited with making the crucial and innovative changes to the face of print reporting, Talese managed to carve his own niche.

In the Gay Talese Reader-Portraits and Encounters, Talese exhibits a mastery of the form, sliding himself between his subjects and the reader, and somehow managing to disappear into the ether leaving only the faint whispers of insightful and colorful prose to connect us. Perhaps one of the most intriguing things about Talese, however, is his desire to connect with figures of stature, not when they are stars at their zenith, shining so brightly that they are omnipresent figures basking in the world's adoration, but rather as that shine begins to fade and the twilights of these men's lives truly begin.

Following people as diverse as Frank Sinatra, fellow new journalist George Plimpton, Joe DiMaggio, Muhammed Ali, and even his own father, Talese's terse, incisive style cuts away all of the myth and pretenses, efficiently and surgically cutting away these layers to reach the true hearts of the men he chronicles.

In a world full of empty heroes, and disposible idol worship for any number of plastic heroes, Gay Talese's essays in Portraits and Encounters have achieved something incredibly rare and valuable: bringing a sense of honest humanity to the modern gods of our making.

"Black Acres, We Are There."

2007-02-14T11:38:00.000-08:00

Since it's Valentine's Day, I found myself thinking of writing a heartfelt and grandiose open letter about first love and its lasting effect on a person; for most, this would appear droll. For a guy who dates as frequently as people seem to see Salman Rushdie at the Cinnabon in the mall food court, I find myself rarely broaching the subject except for when I am good naturedly poking fun at my own foibles.

I have only really been in love once, with one girl, and she knows who she is and how many years ago that was. She was never my girlfriend, and we never even officially went on any dates, but we had a tighter bond than some people could have superficially in a handful of lifetimes. She can't read this now, but I know she also looks back and has the same acrid sting of regret that I harbor.

Since we met around this time ten years ago, I find myself thinking about her a lot lately. Ten years is a long time to be apart and worry and think of the people we might have been if the cruelty of circumstance didn't ravage the foundations of the tenuous shelter I tried to construct.

Sometimes despite patience you cannot wait long enough. Sometimes despite all your intelligence you are not wise enough.

Quite simply, sometimes love just isn't enough.

That said, there are some lyrics I wrote, partially inspired by what happened between her and I, and over time, I have found I can read it as though she and I were the basis entirely, which I am going to post below.

We'll likely never have the happy ending we could have, but this Valentine's Day I still want to thank her and tell her despite all of what we've gone through, there will always be a part of me that loves her as much today as I did when we sat in her idling Saturn deep into a frigid Saturday night in February.

Black Acres

I grew up with
the Janus next door
one face is mine
and the other's a whore's

The Crayola Judas portrait
on my refrigerator
looks so much like you, brother
the expatriate, the traitor

Turn the soil, turn the tide
exacerbate the dead divide

Tabula Rasa, little sister
the ticket's been bought
perish my thoughts
I'd rather avoid the ride
I'll survive without a benefactor
and I don't give a fuck
about a thousand dollar tractor

Yr sad corpse sobs on my phone
reminding me again of home
But I can't stay dysfunctional
So you won't have to walk alone

Our trysts in graveyard closets
We exhume the dead too late at nite
we can wear each other's skeletons
But we'll never make things right

Turn the tide, turn the plow
when I buried the past, I poisoned the ground

Tabula Rasa, little sister
The touch I should have asked for
the anguish I did not
A failed bargain savior
I still cherish the thought

But I'll survive without a benefactor
And never give a fuck about a thousand dollar tractor

Maybe now I need you more
Maybe now we'll never know

Black Acres, we are there

New Review At TMT

2007-02-13T07:49:00.000-08:00

Hello readers. Sorry for my absence, but I've been rather sick and by extension was not able to sit upright at the keyboard, let alone pull a coherent thought from my snot and fever infested brainpan.

Luckily(or unluckily), I have returned with a triumphant slice of focused critical finery, highlighted a particular David Bowie single as part of the Delorean's week long Delorean Singles Week in honor of those persons who substitute lonely, calculated analysis and dour jokes as a way to cover up our sad, singular lives. For all those interested in seeing the fruits of this labor, go here. Plus they used a pic of Bowie from the movie Labyrinth, so that's a winning combo if I ever heard one...

I'll try to have some other things up over the rest of the week. Have a good one and I'll see you soon.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Crotchety Bastard's (Knee) Jerk Reaction Theatre: Epic Movie

2007-02-01T10:14:00.000-08:00

A Promo For "Guess Who's Going To Be The Next E! True Hollywood Story?"

[As some of our longtime readers might recall, Kern was fond of doing Crotchety Bastard pieces regarding his dismay over the success of new movies or an irrascible lament in regard to new movies which were forthcoming, but managed to draw his passionate, yet completely irrational wrath. We have received several complaints from readers asking questions such as, "How can Kern get so upset about a movie if he's not seen it?" and "Without any basis for judgement, how valid are his criticisms of the films he's so childishly lashing out at?". As his editor, let me field those concerns in order: I'm not sure and they totally aren't. Basically I believe he does this because he's a stubborn, frustrated little s**t. In any case, we've taken these questions into account and I've somehow managed to get Kern to change his format a touch to indicate upfront that these are merely his cursory opinions gleaned from the marketing materials supplied to the public from the studios. Hence, the name (Knee) Jerk Reaction Theatre. Personally, I just love the fact that it emphasizes the fact that Kern is, in point of fact, a total f**ing jerk.-Ed.]

Dear Persons Responsible For Making The Film "Epic Movie" Number One At The Box Office This Weekend:

There are only two likely groups of people who are the root of this box office debacle: twelve year old boys and adults who should know better.

Let me begin with the adults who should know better. You...you lot are unclassifiably low and should be absolutely ashamed. What aspect of the overblown venereal diseased pan drippings that make up Epic Movie seemed to strike your fancy? Personally, I am at a loss to understand the appeal here. Let me begin by saying that I have nothing against the spoof as a general rule. In the right hands, spoofs can cut a wide swath of categorical destruction with a sharp, satirical scythe; Airplane is possibly the gold standard for such films, imbuing even the most absurd humor with split second comedic timing and genuinely funny characters. I have known Airplane since I was a child sir, and surely you realize that this is no Airplane.

Apparently, this isn't the case. And don't call me Shirley.

For one thing, from the way the movie portrays itself through its advertising, it initially parades around as though it's going to take well placed swipes at the fantasy and sci-fi genres, both of which are like bloated nerdy sacred cows, ripe for slaughter. Instead, the braintrust in charge of this cinematic nipple twisting seem to have eschewed the concept of cohesiveness, instead aiming for whatever seems to have momentarily floated through the public consciousness for ten seconds. In this case, it's unclear whether the Epic Movie team's reason for its title is that it means "Epic" as in "blockbuster" or if it meant "Epic" as in grandiose geek fare. Either way, it appears from the few visual gags they put into the trailer it should stand for "Epically Lazy". From all accounts, this appears to be a wafer thin excuse to parade a bunch of low rent celebrity impersonators in a charitible attempt to keep some of them from having to give lonely, self-loathing businessmen half-and-halfs in the middle of the day. And that's just the ones that work at Starbucks, not the other ones who blow and screw said businessmen on their second coffee break.

Also, as a courtesy note to the writers of Epic Movie, I'd like to give you a helpful note: making Jack Sparrow's goofy analogue the name "Jack Swallows" is just not that funny. We've had plenty of jokes in film's recent history about sperm drinking. It's the end of an era, my friends. I'm sure there's some newer, far more crass bodily/sexual function to be used. For example, when you do the inevitably obvious and soul razing "Christmas Movie" in 200-whenever, how about The Gunch Who Stole Christmas? Perhaps Felchy The Snowman? See how damned easy that was? Conversely, you could hire me, pay me thousands of dollars, and I could almost singlehandedly save the entire rubbish franchise from ridicule and give a new varnish of respectability to this rundown outhouse you call the "[Adjective] Movie" series. I don't need an answer right away. I'll give you time to quit sniffing the Easy-Off soaked underpants of some aspiring fresh off the bus Midwestern starlet that you dug out of the crevices of the "casting couch" before you make up your mind.

But enough of slagging the adults. They are a lost cause, and probably were too intellectually feeble to understand any of the words above that were over three letters long. Let's turn to the group who might have a chance. Like Whitney Houston, I also believe that children are our future, and sometimes that means that means the administration of bitter medicine for their own good.

If you are a twelve year old boy, let me say this: you have shit taste in movies and likely should not be allowed to leave the house without being on a leash. You may be a little young to understand this, but going to movies is like voting; you young sir, are voting not by ballot, but with your entertainment dollar. What this means in simple terms is that every time you and your pals buy a ticket for one of these diluted, lazy displays of shameful whoring you are voting to continue this embarrassing parade of mediocrity, and as that parade chugs slowly up "What In God's Name Were You Thinking?" Ave. and turns onto "Nutless Twit" Drive, you will likely be the jovial, yet dim penile fumbler who good naturedly waves to a glum crowd of onlookers. Hopefully, your parents love you and will exhibit a special brand of tough love by punishing you with an Ingmar Bergman film festival which will forever transform your world view on art and life. Even if it doesn't, at least you and the mentally deficient little skidmarks on the underpants of society you call friends aren't wandering the streets bellowing like a pack of Dickensian orphans after a Red Bull enema making hard working tax paying citizens nervous and uncomfortable, and that's a start at least. Sit the fuck down, and the next time you roll your eyes at me will be when they're skittering across the floor like a couple of bloodshot marbles.

In closing, I have a special message for all of you customers and execs alike who spent someone's hard earned money to make Epic Movie a number one film, thus ensuring that yet another one of these disasterous, unfunny pustules will appear on the ass of American cinema.

Stop it. Stop it right now you softheaded legion of soulless scumtwats! You people sicken me. You French kiss Barbaro's dead colon and likely piss on the elderly without their express permission. Thanks to you, we'll likely have to endure another ten of these asinine abominations so Studio Executive's son or daughter can put half of Bolivia up their privileged, upturned noses during breaks between tapings of Filthy Rich Cattle Drive and whatever poorly directed sex tape they made with an E-list celebrity, which incidentally is far more intellectually stimulating than almost the entire series of films put together. Please get yourself sterilized immediately so as not to pass your abhorrent lack of taste on to future generations, and on behalf of tens of like minded individuals, thank you so much for promoting the types of films that conspire to take a long, sharp shit in the eyes of good, honest moviegoers.

Sincerely,

The Crotchety Bastard

Wolcott Beats Me To Beating Up On Sunshine

2007-01-27T10:49:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like the lure of watching the misguided dunderheads of any artistic industry getting together to nominate their own. I have had more debates in the last week about the multiple nominations of Little Miss Sunshine than I ever thought would have come up. I might still write a piece about the Oscar noms and how ultimately crass and arbitrary it all seems the process is, but after reading James Wolcott's excellent and succinct take on my gripes with Little Miss Sunshine being nominated for Best Picture, I can probably just go back to napping or eating handfuls of Valhrona chocolate pearls for breakfast.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Soft Science For The Hard Up

2007-01-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

During one of my many moments of quiet reflection, a topic which frequently circles my belabored brain is that of my current dry spell with the ladies. It occurred to me that yes, I could go the traditional routes and do things such as leaving the house, making eye contact with women and smiling, or some other such touchy-feely new age foolishness, but I quickly realized how futile these methods would be, and quickly shoved them into a cerebral broom closet so that they wouldn't bother me again for a while.

No, I thought. I need something radical. Finding love is no place for frilly, fancy pants nonsense such as feelings and the like. This would require pressing my face into the cold, calculating bosom of empirical science and playing "windshield wiper." [Motorboat would have also be acceptable-Ed.] And what could be more scientific than sociological observation and good old fashioned new math?

From what little data I could gather on short notice, there seems to be a strange fascination among the female population these days with doctors. Specifically a pair of doctors on a television program called Grey's Anatomy only known to myself and many other males by the obtuse and arbitrary titles, one "Dr. McDreamy" and one "Dr. McSteamy". I, for one, would feel more than a little leary putting my health and well-being in the hands of someone with a name as disreputable and unprofessional as "Dr. McSteamy" or a man who used to unethically deliver pizzas as a ruse for romancing horny, lonely women like Kirstie Alley, but that is completely beside the point. What was it that these men have that drives women so damnably wild? After eliminating such ludicrous possibilities as doctors being rich or the pair of them being physically irresistible, it was all so bloody simple. It must be the nicknames!

Figure 1: "Dr. McDreamy" aka "Loverboy"

Figure 2: "Dr. McSteamy"[Pfft...I personally don't see it myself...-Ed.]

Well, upon this remarkable discovery, I realized that this was obviously the glaring error that had kept me from the joys of carnal bliss throughout my life, and I sat down and studiously worked out a surefire mathematical formula for calculating my Hot n' Sexy Grey's Anatomy Doctor Nickname, and I'm so excited about my recent discovery, that I am sharing it with you dear reader, so take some notes. School is in session, fellow future Lotharios!

Figure 3: Kern's Theory of Relative Desirability(Click To Enlarge)

First of all, let me say that one does not just jump right in with wild abandon with expectations of magically getting the aformentioned nickname. To do that we'll need to solve for a variable which is representative of one's Relative Desirability or in more crude terms, one's "Fuckability Index". For example:

Ex. 1: (Alexander Kern) (Average) - (Very High) = -mmm = eww

As you can see, after plugging in my constants, my FI or "Fuckability Index" is -mmm. As one might imagine, this is not promising, but I digress. For simplification's sake, I don't like to work with negative values, and as you can see, negative values of mmm can also be changed and written as the positive value, "eww", which I have done here. Now that that's out of the way, it's magic time.

Figure 4: Grey's Anatomy "Only Funny or Cute The First Time" Hot n' Sexy Nickname Formula(Click To Enlarge)

Now that we've solved for mmm, or in my case, eww, let's tackle what's inside the brackets first, shall we?

Ex. 2: {slothful, nerdy, stays away from natural light, sarcastic, shy, pessimistic, but good natured) + (0) + (8) + (4) + (0)/ 1}

Inside the brackets, I entered several specific characteristics about myself. It is important to be honest, or the results will be skewed, so no cheating! I then add those results with the number of ridiculous and far-fetched sexual situations I seem to find myself in(O! Yes, zero. Are you happy, you snickering bastards?), along with the value for quality of smile(I gave myself an eight because while my childhood orthodontia did a great job, there has been some shifting in my adult life) as well as quantity of abdominal definition squared(I said 2 squared. Technically speaking I can make out abs with enough sucking in of the chest and an electron microscope) and zero degrees of chiseled features, as I make the Pillsbury Doughboy look like an oiled down Mr. Universe in comparison. I've divided the numerator by my Bad Boy Charm, which I wrote down as a value of 1, which would have been lower, but I use filthy language fairly constantly, as well as drinking a lot of whiskey; I would have been frankly ashamed and dismayed to have to write down a zero, as women seem to like bad boys. For the last step, the abitrary prefix, "Mc" is distributed across the results to finally achieve my goal of attaining my Hot n' Sexy doctor nickname!

Due to a rather sizable margin of error, it is possible that one can yield multiple nicknames by only working the formula once. Without further ado, my results:

Hot N' Sexy Doctor Nicknames =

= "Dr. McDoughy"
= "Dr. McBitternuts"
= "Dr. McPasty"
= "Dr. McBuzzkill"
= "Dr. McVirgin"
= "Dr. McBigotpants"(Oops, that was when I plugged in Isaiah Washington!)
= "Dr. McPassedOutOnTheCouchFromDrinkingTooMuchBourbonToCopeWithHisLowSelfEsteemAgain"
= "Dr. McHermit"
= "Dr. McFailure"

Hmm...that's, uh...that's not really quite what I was hoping for. In truth, these are possibly the most decidedly unsexy doctor nicknames imaginable. What a fucking disappointment. I mean, honestly, this is just shit, quite frankly and I am...wait, wait a minute...

Aha! Forgot to carry the one.

The formula is rough not only in the literal sense, but its final unpleasant answers aren't really too pleasant, either.

Oh well. To paraphrase the kids these days: don't hate the scientist, hate the science.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Watch!: Jigoku

2007-01-24T07:04:00.000-08:00

Despite American audiences fascination with such films as Ringu and Ju-on, the pedigree of Japanese horror spans decades. Initially a genre known more for its cheap mass production by studios such as Shintoho(a splinter studio of Toho), these chilling treats were little more than frivolous time killing exercises designed to counteract the effects of summer's stifling heat.
Nobuo Nakagawa decided that one could exceed the low expectations and facile constraints that had previously handcuffed the genre, and after already bringing a decidedly Twentieth century sensibility to the traditional Japanese ghost story with 1959's The Ghost Story of Yotsya, he chose to tackle the sticky elements of the morality play. Jigoku, whose English translation is "hell" does reveal Nakagawa's vision of what such a place would look like, but only after illustrating to the audience that the concept stretches far further than a torturous tract of metaphysical real estate.

Shiro Shimizu seems to be an honorable young man with bright and prosperous future ahead of him; he is smart, handsome, and engaged to the woman of his dreams, the lovely Yakiko. All of this quickly spirals into jeopardy after he and Yakiko's ex-suitor Tamura are involved in a hit and run accident which leads down a path of dire and unexpected circumstances for everyone connected with the pair, eventually culminating in a climactic finale in which all of the characters' sins are realized and punished in an impressionistically designed model of Buddhist hell.

While it might be easy for modern audiences to dismiss both the mode and heavy handed message about the inescapable nature of evil in the human heart that Jigoku stresses due to its almost laughably simplistic production values and melodrama, it seems that closer examination reveals that Nakagawa may have had much more going on than one might initially believe.

The simplified reasoning for why these potential foibles work in Jigoku's favor is that Nakagawa's staging is extremely theatrical in the most literal sense of the word. The eight chambers of hell, and the earthly world to a lesser extent, are austere and unspectacular, little more than rudimentary backdrops shot with very stylized lighting and close ups, often shining brightly and harshly on specific persons and items, enshrouding much of the the rest of the frame in opaque shadow. This style serves two important functions: first, the isolation of subjects bathed in harsh light from high angles reinforces the thematic thread of judgement that runs through the film, and secondly, its claustrophobic, disorienting angles seem to bring the the viewer into uncomfortable proximity to the characters, seeming to loosen the surface tension of an already flimsy fourth wall; this deliberate blurring of lines between us and them serves to make us feel the raw sting of their evil deeds and blatant indifferences, imparting a level of complicity that makes our empathy for their damnation and subsequent punishment all the stronger. It is also notable that Nakagawa's bare bones theater company approach was eerily prescient, as this style was utilized in Masaki Kobayashi's well received 1965 ghost story anthology Kwaidan, and stretched to its logical extremes in the Lars Von Trier films Dogville(2003) and its follow-up Manderlay(2005). Nakagawa's mastery of foreboding mise en scene is duly complimented by the eclectic score of Michiaki Watanabe. Watanabe does an excellent job of alternating between portraying earthy decadence and sin through strains of sleazy jazz as well as chilling and bizarre atmospheric effects of Hell, utilizing a palette of sounds that reach far beyond the boundaries of the musical into the realm of unnerving noise to serve the story, echoing Ennio Morricone's work on Il Serpente or Goblin's score for the 1977 horror classic, Suspiria.

It would likely be a waste of time to decry the plot of Jigoku for being weak or obtuse, as this ultimately misses the point of Nakagawa's statement, which is perhaps, unintentionally, dual sided. The first and most obvious is the moral that hell is less a destination than it is a word used to illustrate the latent consequences primed to poison the hearts and lives of any fallible human being. But perhaps less obviously, just as we are urged by the film to rise above and transcend our base instincts to avoid a literal hell, Nakagawa's innovative use of creative cinematography and serious contemplation of moral issues, illustrates that he might hope to avoid the pitiful conventions of horror films of his era in an attempt to make a transcendent picture with which to avoid the eternal damnation of genre hell.

Read!: Double Lives, Second Chances-The Cinema Of Krysztof Kieslowski

2007-01-18T07:25:00.000-08:00

Humans have long been mystified by the gravity of destiny and chance; are we inextricably bound to fate by the delicate invisible shackles of inevitability, or is the universe far more capricious and free-spirited? While theologians, philosophers, and average persons alike have grappled with such concepts for centuries, as usual it is artists who seem to bring such questions into view, and while the world of film has had plenty of musings about these absolutes and the misty grey areas between them, the name Krysztof Kieslowski seems almost synonymous with the subject.

It seems fitting then, perhaps, that one of the greatest books written about the man and his work was written by a lifelong friend whom he met when she translated for him at the New York Film festival in 1980. Whether their meeting was chance or destiny is unknown, but what is for certain is that Annette Insdorf's insight into Kieslowski's personality allows us to see into his enigmatic work in a way that outsiders might only dare to acheive.

Double Lives, Second Chances is a comprehensive look at Kieslowski's career, broken into sections corresponding with the various periods of his working life. Beginning with his life as a jaded documentary filmmaker in the 1970's, we see the arc in which the intrusion upon real life eventually leads him to far more introspective choices in the early 1980's until 1989's massive undertaking for Polish television, the ambitious ten part Decalogue, a mini-series translating the ten commandments into modern morality plays. The twilight of his life is captured in separate sections covering 1991's The Double Life of Veronique and his swan song, The Three Colors trilogy.

Insdorf's coverage of Kieslowski's catalog is nothing short of magic. It is obvious that her love and respect inform her readings of the material, but without a trace of trite weepiness or contrived connections. Her writing style, while academic, is still buoyantly conversational, allowing her to interpret the material intelligently, but without crushing neophytes under the normal psychological and and semiotic touchstones that are ubiquitously present in most other forms of film criticism these days.

My only word of warning in regard to Double Lives, Second Chances is that one should likely attempt to see as much of the material as possible before reading the book, lest some of the plot points of his other films might be spoiled(as happened with me with Blind Chance), and since many of his earlier fictional features are now available on DVD, it's likely a good idea.

Utimately, Insdorf has crafted a very fitting tribute that any fan, new or old, is destined to love.

Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! Returns To Original Recipe

2007-01-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

Like New Coke, the "Lite n' Brite!" version of Listen! Listen... Was A Paltry, Saccharine Bastardization of A Good Thing

Dear readers, as you can plainly see, I decided that I would return the blog back to its original old school color scheme. While there were some who enjoyed the grey color scheme, it just never felt right to me, and if you'll notice, there were far less entries put in after the change occurred.

Coincidence? Perhaps.

You might be thinking, "Kern, do you honestly think that changing the color scheme really ruined the quality of the blog by distracting you and hindering your creativity?"

To which I reply: Do you remember how excited everyone was when there was a regime change in the mid-eighties, and our taste buds were liberated by the refreshing new flavor of New Coke?

You don't?

Ain't nothing like the real thing, folks. See you tomorrow with a book review.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

New Year, Old Business

2007-01-15T17:38:00.000-08:00

Before we begin with the new year with its hope and promise and all that other nauseating garbage, I thought I would just take a minute to give a little update on a few of the loose ends I began last year.

My book, Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!, is so far a runaway failure! I've sold eighteen copies thus far, almost 99 percent of which are to people I know. In some cases, those people bought two copies(bless you, dear patrons). What this means is that perhaps I have fallen down a bit on the promotional side of things, a problem that I cannot let stand. As of Friday, I finally unclenched my stingy ass and drop a Benjamin for my ISBN number and global distribution package. Hopefully, within six to eight weeks, you, dear readers, will be able to see the lusty goodness that is my book on such national websites as Amazon and Barnes and Noble.com just to name a couple. I'm hoping that I might be able to persuade(read:bribe) some of you to post some nice votes and/or comments about the book so that others might feel that it's a worthwhile purchase, at least until they get it home and have the opportunity to decide otherwise.

Speaking of whoring my book, I also nearly procrastinated my way out of entering the book into a very interesting and questionably prestigious contest known as the Blooker Prize, sponsored by Lulu.com. The Blooker is unique in that it is the only contest I am aware of that rewards persons whose books are based on or derived from blogs. I have about as much chance of winning this particular contest as Britney Spears has of successfully winning another rousing round of "Where's Vagina?", but what the hell...you only go around once. If nothing else, my book and blog will be posted on their site, where all of the other applicants can disparagingly snort with naked contempt as they roll their eyes and talk shit about me. This, of course, is exactly what I have been doing with all the other entries to date.

On the painting front, I have nearly completed a very large triptych. I don't really know how I feel about it yet. It's not bad, but it's not something I've decided I'm proud of, either. I have another round of Emerald Green to go over the third panel and perhaps another wash for the first panel. I may post some pics later, but as for now, you will have to be content to know that the piece is very large, and very green.

Tiny Mix Tapes is going to be a far greater priority for me this year, and I just wanted to warn everyone up front. My current goal coming back to the blog is that I want to try to do at least two updates a week, and more if I can. I nearly ran myself into the ground last year, and since I'm not a young man anymore it's getting harder to stay up in the wee hours articulating my insightful and humorous thoughts to the masses four nights a week.

That's the score. I'll likely have some book reviews up this week to start out with, and we'll ease back into some Crotchety Bastard from there. Sorry about the absence, and welcome back.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

2007: The Wrath of Kern

2007-01-12T07:21:00.000-08:00

Ugh. I hate coming back from hiatus. There's mail all over the place, the apartment smells like rotting lemons, and everyone's asleep at their computers for lack of my special brand of sparkling wit and snappy repartee.

Wake the fuck up and log back in, my friends. While 2006 ended with a paltry, depressing whimper, it's a new year. The Kern has returned to Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! to bang the living fuck out of 2007 until it can't walk straight the next morning. And I'm not making it breakfast or returning its phone calls, either.

That is all.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Robert Altman Was My Grandfather

2006-12-20T17:41:00.000-08:00

Fudge.

That's the first word that came to mind when I got the call this morning regarding my grandfather's death.

It wasn't the case that I was looking for a diluted version of the word "fuck", an understandable word in situations in which you're being told a family member is deceased, but no, I was thinking of the two kinds of fudge that he was nigh legendary for crafting and sending as holiday treats over the years. I wanted desperately to think of anything else...his military service, his devotion to his community, his time as a school principal, but all that kept materialising were fuzzy visions of that fudge, and his caramel corn, and perhaps most of all, the apple butter that he always sent extra of because he knew I liked it so much.

In all honesty, my grandfather and I didn't know each other very well, and while that's just how things turned out, I am still sorry that this was the way it was, and why our most common ground was preserved in the amber jelly in those Ball jars.

Robert Altman died about a month or so before James Kern. Altman was a brilliant director, so I'm told, loved by many, with a string of impressive hits spanning decades. As I began to gain more of a interest in serious film in my late teenage and young adult life, Altman was a director who I knew was revered, and whose influence was palpably felt by his peers as well as the next generation of filmmakers to come up under him. While I was aware of this, I never thought much about Robert Altman. I had other directors to study, and Altman's body of work was dauntingly extensive. I made a conscious decision that somehow Kubrick was probably going to be more to my liking. He seemed more calculated, more intriguing, and somehow more puzzling, and when I was done with those, I moved on to foreign directors. It wasn't as though I was consciously making a decision to pretend that Robert Altman's films didn't exist. I just knew that everyone said they were amazing, and that I would have plenty of time to enjoy the movies that he was going to make for years to come. As it turns out, the only Robert Altman films I ever actually saw in their entirety were his short bit in the very MTV-esque stylings of Aria, and Cookie's Fortune, both of which I enjoyed, but gave me the impression he must have been capable of more. Despite the tut tuttings of friends at my admissions of having never seen The Player, with its gorgeous seven or so minute tracking shot, or Nashville, or MASH, for God's sake, I was non plussed. He's a vibrant director, he'll keep making films, and I'll eventually watch them, I thought. He kept his end of the bargain, making films all the way up through the divisive Prairie Home Companion. I, however, did not.

The day Altman died, Jed of the Damfinoblog posted a note about Mr. Altman's passing. He implored of me to perhaps put my modest verbal skills to work and write a proper eulogy for the man, as he felt that my words would somehow do justice to a career that touched so many. I promised that I would, and finally came clean that it might take a while because I didn't know what to say, because while I knew plenty about Altman and his work, I had never seen any of the highlights of his career. I felt that if I were going to be talking about a man and his life's work I should at least take the time to educate myself on it so I had something to say. All the flowery prose and elegant metaphors mean nothing when they are mere cardboard props to hide one's lack of authority on a subject.

It's about a month later, and I have still not seen any more of Robert Altman's works than I had before, despite my promise to myself and others. I still only have a encyclopoedic connection to the materials; those minor things I can suss from essays and my synthesis of others' intepretation of his canon. I feel as though I know a great deal around Altman, but without a connection to that which he gave freely during his life, I missed a chance to know who he was while he was still here.

As far as I know, James Kern and Robert Altman never knew each other. They likely never met, and perhaps were never within a thousand miles of each other. But this much is true: it is very easy to hear stories about men and their lives, very easy to look at clippings and pictures and formulate a cursory concept of what these people are about based on only the scraps of information you bothered to take in. These men, about the same age, both succumbed to some degree to my unwillingness to believe that their films would ever reach a final reel, and to that end, my lack of motivation to do anything about it until the theatre finally went dark.

While this is an unfortunate circumstance to be sure, the Altman quandary has taught me a valuable lesson in the sense that living or dead, there will be a legacy for every man, woman, and child who ever stopped to take a breath here. While that legacy is immortal, it is also intangible; you cannot hear the anecdotes from an accomplishment, nor can you shake its hand or look it squarely in its eye.

Robert Altman was obviously not really my grandfather, at least in a literal sense. However, I feel like I will only ever know both of them in the most tangential of ways, but while I realize that I never got a sense of who either of them were during their lives, these men serve as a didactic illustration that has shown me that there are so many who are still here who deserve my attention, and the only mistake bigger than taking these good men and their lives' work for granted would be to repeat the same unfortunate tragedy with the living.

This post dedicated to James Kern, RIP.

Happy F**king Birthday, Kern!

2006-12-19T07:21:00.000-08:00

[Editor's Note-Kern didn't get much sleep last night, so he's a little on the ornery side, especially since he's now a year older. I can tell you from working with him that this quite obviously doesn't equate to wiser. Or more suave. Or handsome. In fact, is he...is he still sleeping at his desk? He is?

Ok, finally! You see, I'm sure this year his birthday post was going to be another one of these sappy, It's A Wonderful Life, "I-couldn't-have-done-it-without-my friends-and-family" kinds of posts with a lot of introspective nonsense that would make people think that Kern's a sensitive guy, but what a bunch of insincere pap! Between you and me, he's a total c**k. I've been working with this a**hole for well over a year, and do you think he acknowledges the poor bastard that goes through and corrects his typos and s**t like I'm the G*d damned grammar fairy? No. You think he comes up with all those funny ideas on his own?

S*****t. Reader, please! In fact, if you were to crack open Kern's head it'd likely be nothing but a big Trivial Pursuit game with a bunch of busty MILF porn on top of it. And junk food. That slovenly f**er just loves junk food.

Anyway, truth be told, I'm really the clever one. I mean, yeah, he's got a huge vocabulary, but who gives a Roget's a** about that? I'm the one who begins with the kernal of an idea and lovingly nurtures it until it germenates into the fully blossoming thoughts and ideas that our readers have laughed out loud at for the last year and a half. If it weren't for me, that silly bastard would still be writing those ten-cent music reviews in exchange for fellatio at rest stops! He's a filthy attention slut who basks in the limelight(what little of it is afforded to this whorehouse of a blog) and he hogs all the glory. Do you know what it's like to be his editor? It's like being the Bernie Taupin to his Elton John, which is to say it sucks! I want him to devote more time to the site, but nooo. Ever since he released that book of his he's been strutting around the place like he's Gore f**king Vidal or something. If you want the truth, he's really a persnickety, prissy little d**hole, if you ask me.

Earth to Kern, this is your Editor speaking: You sold fourteen copies of Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!. The Left Handed Communist Parties of Paducah, Kentucky are selling pamphlets at a higher rate than your book.

And being an author sure hasn't helped in the ladies department, that's for sure. If Kern's testicles took on any more of an azure hue, one could assume that he was smuggling Smurfs in a small pouch. Not to mention the date he went on at the Henry the other day...really f**ing smooth, Kern.

And you know something else about Kern, he's a total...uh, hold on a sec. S**t, I think he just woke up...um, good morning Kern. What? This? Well, it's a...um yeah, so this was just a...a roast! Like the Friar's Club! Ha ha ha. You didn't think I'd really insult the talent, would you? Right, Kern? Right?

Hey, Kern, um, why are you sliding your watch onto your knuckles like that? Come on, it was all in good fun! You remember fun don't...ow!!! Hey, that hurt, you filthy fighting scumf**k! Oh, that's right, of course you don't remember fun, you never knew what it was to begin with, you crotchety s**t! Jesus Christ, Kern, ok, not the face! Not the face!]

Good morning, Kern Army faithful! I just wanted to thank everyone for helping me make my 27th year my most productive and brilliant year to date. Your support has allowed me to really make some great strides this year. I'm hoping that 28 will yield even more amazing results. I'd even like to thank my editor who keeps my ego in check when I need it.

[Kern- Man, you're such a f**ing asskisser, but I guess you're still my asskisser. Wait, that didn't come out right at all! I didn't mean you kiss my ass, it was a figure of...please! Please don't hit me in the face again...ow!!!...son of a biscuit!!! Kern, for the record the crotch isn't so pleasant, either...-Ed.]

New Delorean Review

2006-12-08T07:36:00.000-08:00

Hello, readers. My sincerest apologies for leaving you stranded without new posts for such a long time, but a lot of my other projects, not to mention the brain melting, stomach churning stress of the holidays all seem to converge at the same time.

Speaking of one of my projects, I thought some of you might be interested to read a new TMT review from yr man Kern. And while you're there(if you decide to go, I'm not going to twist your arms), please check out the brand spanking new site design. Tres Kirby-esque, no?

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Crotchety Bastard: Open Letter To Everyone Involved With This Weekend's Success Of The Movie Happy Feet

2006-11-20T07:37:00.000-08:00

Warning: May Cause Genital Numbness and Loss of Cognitive Functions

Dear Persons Who Made Happy Feet Number One or Two(Depending on Who You Ask) At The Box Office This Weekend:

Let me begin by saying, a box office victory for Happy Feet is important in that in addition to merely acting as a barometer of the country's taste pre-holiday weekend, it also inadvertently revealed new trends in elective surgery. If you are curious as to what makes me think that this is the case, it seems fairly obvious to me that the only way that the movie Happy Feet should have been able to make over 40 million dollars in a weekend is if everyone who paid good money to see it had a voluntary lobotomy.

I, for one, find it appalling that the only way that we can get kids interested in anything these days, is to anthropomorphize things and give them celebrity voices. Culture? Who needs that? That's right, parents. Don't take your kids to see Savion Glover in concert, or introduce them to the magic of dance in a non-commercially exploitative setting. Let a fucking obnoxious cadre of penguins and Dancing With The Stars do it instead.

The trailer was exactly the kind of icy turdberg I would have expected, replete with the now ubiquitous "sassy, wisecracking ethnic stereotype animal analogues" that seem to pop up in every movie now. Whoever came up with that idea should frankly be ashamed of themselves, and should have a colony of wasps' pupae forcefully inserted into their underthings.

Also, has anyone else just completely given up on Robin Williams? This was the icicle that broke the penguin's back, pal. Your spastic schtick was funny for a while, and made sense when you were on cocaine. If you are to continue these kinds of ADD flavored antics, get snorting. Otherwise shut that newly sanitized, unfunny fucking face of yours. Despite what you may believe, acting like you are eight and squirming around like an epilectic walrus is not comedy.

As pennance, you should be forced to watch Bicentennial Man on a twenty four hour loop, as Patch Adams gives you an ungloved prostate exam after soaking his hands in ice cold Tabasco sauce. That, sir, is comedy.

All in all, everything about the very idea of this film makes me turn as cold as the arctic wonderland the film is supposed to portray, and the commericals make me almost want to take up smoking again, just so that I can put the smoldering remnants out in my eye to get the visuals out of my cortex as quickly as possible.

I sincerely hope that all the people who spent perfectly good money to tell the studios that we need more of these kinds of ignorant, wasteful spectacle are pleased with themselves. To those people I say this: you make America cry, you drink the blood of kittens, and I wouldn't be shocked to see a few of you unaccompanied adults pop up on Dateline NBC's To Catch A Predator in the near future.

Have a happy thanksgiving!

Love,

The Crotchety Bastard

Discerning Readers, I Need Your Opinions

2006-11-08T07:18:00.000-08:00

Hello readers. As you are all quite aware, my first book came out recently. While this is quite exciting in and of itself, and proud am I of all the work, but I think it would be quite a bit more exciting to sell some books.

This is where I need some help. For those of you who are longtime readers, or those of you who have read the book, I would love to know if there is a favorite essay. The reason I ask is because I have a couple of forums I'd like to start pimping the book, but I want to change my preview pages to an essay that would make a total stranger say to themselves, "Dammit, this preview is so amusing and so overwhelmingly entertaining, that I cannot help but reach for my credit card and compulsively order multiple copies of this hilarious tome!"

So I have ten pages to work with, which means either the better part of a long essay, or two shorter essays. So if you would like to help your man Kern out, please write the titles of the essays you think should be my new preview on my Lulu webpage.

As always, it's greatly appreciated.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

More TMT Surprises!

2006-11-03T08:24:00.000-08:00

As you saw earlier this week, I had several blurbs and a bit of a hand in crafting parts of the opening and the graphic for our Farewell to CBGB mixtape on TMT which I was proud of. While that was exciting, I am far more jazzed about this...

For those four of you who might not know me or my work with Tiny Mix Tapes, I write for a section of their site called the Delorean, which is dedicated to reviews of albums that are at least a year old, so as to emphasize reviewers' personal connection to music outside of the fact that we get free promos, or we're trying to stay current in an evershifting quicksand of hipness and relevance. To me, the Delorean is possibly one of the most pure forms of music review, a group of people who want to express their thoughts on the music they think matters, and providing a basis and musical context to readers who may be interested in gaining a broader understanding to trace the lineage of the bands they love so much today.

In any case, the point is that today we have begun what, to my knowledge, anyway, our first theme month. For our purposes, November is now No-Vember, a month long tribute to the short-lived but relatively fascinating genre of No Wave. I luckily ended up with a band I had at least a working knowledge of, but I was tasked with drawing it into the larger picture to describe how the band was not No Wave per se, but was one of No Wave's progenitors. So without further ado, I direct you to my review of Suicide's eponymous debut.

I'm very pleased with how this came out, considering my fear and trepidation at the project. I guess it goes to show that when one puts their mind to something, they can overcome all kinds of apprehension.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

PS-Even if you only go to read my piece, I strongly, strongly urge you to read Charles Ubaghs review of James Chance's album, Buy. It is absolutely brilliant, and illustrates what kind of amazing talent we've got concentrated not only at TMT, but in our section.

New Stuff At TMT

2006-11-01T07:43:00.000-08:00

Hello, dear readers.

As you may know, I have been remiss with my duties here at the blog as I've been devoting a lot of my time to finishing my book(buy a copy here), and my work at TMT. As far as TMT goes, I've really picked up my game and one of the two surprises that I may or may not have mentioned came out today.

The Delorean section sponsored an awesome "Farewell To CBGB" Mixtape article, and yours truly had a major hand in the project, right down to the graphic which accompanies the piece. I'm really proud of it, and I hope you'll go take a look whether you know anything about CBGB's or not.

Surprise number two is coming out tomorrow or Friday, and I'll talk a little about it when it comes out. Needless to say, I'm pretty proud of the work I did on it considering the circumstances. But more on that later...

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Bookwatch!: It's Out. Go Get It.

2006-10-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear readers.

After me constantly droning on endlessly about "my book" this, and "my book" that, it's finally come true. The book is officially up for sale at Lulu.com.

Thanks to everyone who has been a faithful follower of my wild and obtuse story arc. I couldn't have done it without you, your comments, and your brilliant support. I hope you don't mind, but I'll probably be using this blogspace for a fair amount of book pimping for a while right about now. So I hope that all of you will help put some jingle jangle in a starving(read: thirsty for attention. And beer) artist's coffers. Buy a copy of my book here.

Today, the internet. Tomorrow, the bargain bin!

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Shameless Plug Time!

2006-10-06T15:00:00.000-07:00

Hello. As I mentioned before I have a review up at Tiny Mix Tapes today, and since it's not half bad, please go over and take a look. I'll wait.

This way to goodness!

Have a good weekend, and I hope to have some new material for you sometime in the near future.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Kern's Bookwatch!: 2nd Proof

2006-10-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. Thought I'd update those of you who don't talk to me everyday and probably haven't heard about the status of my book a thousand times already, what's going on.

I received my first proof copy a week ago, which I began to go through with a fine toothed comb. This proved to be a terrible idea, as it began ripping the pages. Luckily for me, it was just the title and copyright pages, but I realized that the smart play would be switching to a pen instead.

To be honest with you, I was fairly confident in the job that I did editing the stuff that came directly off of the blog. I made a lot of changes, caught what I thought were a lot of mistakes, and really felt I had things in hand. This, of course, was not exactly the case.

I am not sure whether one catches more things that they think can be better when they actually hold the book in their hands, or what, but after making as many changes as I did in the proof copy, it's seriously making me wonder about the intelligence of doing most of my editing in a bar. Not enough to mean that I won't edit my next one at Brouwer's, but at least I gave the matter some semi-serious thought.

In any case, I'm getting proof number two, hopefully the one that should be completely right(including the correction of the offset cover. Damn you, margins!) and I can put it up for sale after I finish looking it over.

Other than that, I think I've got a review for TMT coming up in this Friday's Delorean column, so watch for that. I promise that one of these days soon, I will be making a sincere attempt to get back to the wild rantings of Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! that you all know and love.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Proof or More Stupid Book News

2006-09-25T07:42:00.000-07:00

Hello all. Just thought some of you who haven't already heard might be interested to hear that I got my first proof copy of my book on Friday. While I was initially excited, as I thumbed through it, I realized there were far more things that initially escaped my attention than I previously thought.

The good news is that I spent a sizeable portion of my day off on Friday combing over the bulk of it with pen in hand, so I will hopefully get these corrections done relatively quickly, so that I can have copies available for purchase by next week or so.

Now you know what I know.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Through A Lens Darkly

2006-09-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

Thanks.

People lamenting the deaths of famous people is nothing new. Everytime a Cary Grant, a George C. Scott, or Hattie McDaniel shuffle stage left off of this mortal coil, there is undoubtedly a wave of sadness that reverberates throughout cinema; not just those colleagues, but the people who love the medium and have grown attached to these people as if they know them.

What about those talents on the other side of the lens? Obviously, when a director dies it's considered a huge blow for film, but there are times where there are those unsung masters of their craft who get a small nod and a pat on the back on their way out the door. The reason I bring this up is that last night I was looking at the Internet Movie Database to double check some facts about Fellini's La Strada when my heart sank as I checked their news blurbs and saw that Sven Nykvist had passed away.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Sven Nykvist, he was a longtime collaborator with Ingmar Bergman, on such arresting films as Winter Light, Through A Glass Darkly, and The Silence(also known in some circles as The Trilogy) and the award winning Fanny and Alexander, as well as Bergman disciple Woody Allen.

While I don't consider myself an expert on Nykvist(or Bergman for that matter), his work in the aforementioned films were gripping enough to sear the emotional austerity of his stark shots in my mind permanently. The emotional weight rendered in Winter Light as we see Ingrid Thulin reading her letter against a white background to the camera is an image that I can never forget, and for something so seemingly small to most people, I am grateful to Sven Nykvist.

I hope that sometime in the near future my readers might feel the desire to rent some of his excellent work to pay tribute to a man who deserves much better than a one paragraph blurb which is quickly replaced by a pointless and insulting update on Marcia Cross' pregnancy.

With respect,

Kern

Fin

2006-09-18T08:10:00.000-07:00

Damn.

That's all I can think right now after sending my book to the publisher. I think this is probably the closest I will ever get to the feeling of watching one of my theoretical future offspring walk into Kindergarten for the first time(Note to my readers with kids: Obviously the joy and emotion of watching a kid move into the first major stage of their life is far more poignant. Please don't come after me with blunt and/or sharp objects).

The deal right now is that I don't have the book available for the public to buy, as I want to take a look at the proof copy to see if there are any glaring errors that need to be fixed. I think there might have been some formatting things, but ultimately, I couldn't figure a way to fix them, and I am not going to let a few indents wreck this for me. So I get my copy in about a week, I'll check it, and then shortly after that, the general public gets a crack at it.

As for the cover, you'll be happy to know that I went with neither and both at the same time. Ultimately, I loved that figure from the first one, but it seemed to haphazardly thrown underneath the title and author info. I loved the clean aesthetic of the second design, but missed that first graphic. So I tried to combine the best of both. Hopefully, you won't all hate it.

I want to take a minute to thank everyone who reads this blog, as it is quite obvious without you as a core, I would have given up on what seemed like a frivolous little experiment some time ago. I have said it before, but I'll say it again, I may not have the most readers, but I have the best readers. Now buy my book.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Miracle Mile

2006-09-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

I never thought this day would come. After deciding that I was going to abandon the supplemental materials, and tightening up some of the format, I am damn near done with the book. Shit.

In any case, since I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I thought I'd share the winning pull quote for the book, which is courtesy of everyone's favorite wit, Sheriff Officer Greg the Bunny, winning yet another Listen!... contest. Congrats, Sheriff for this winning gem:

"Listen, Listen, Listen, A Collection" proved to this reader that the mercurial author Alexander Kern has the power to transofrm a rambling filthladen 21 Century medium into an equally offensive and bitter 15th Century medium."

Gregory J. Kreitner, Esq.

Pure gold, folks. Pure gold. In addition to that, I'm most likely going to use some of the older quotes that have been contributed so that I can pad the pull quote section at the beginning of the book. After all, it's not that one has to be successful to be a success, they just need to be perceived as successful.

I have some last minute things to fix, like final formatting on the covers, and getting my ISBN number assigned for the copyright page, but other than that and getting my friend's final ok on the foreword he wrote, your man Kern will hopefully be a published author by the end of the month.

You hear that Kirkus Reviews? Hide the valuables and lock up your daughters! The Kern is coming to a bookshelf near you!

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Promotional Materials Are Exhausting

2006-09-11T00:26:00.000-07:00

As some of you well know, sometimes I get the slightest bit obsessed with my artwork, and I tend to try a million things despite the fact that people generally like it ok the first time. That being said, as much as people liked the first cover option, the one thing people weren't thrilled about was the typewritten font. Which sucks, because those were hand scanned from an antique Royal typewriter I bought. But, as I've been learning with my writing, just because you like something, doesn't mean it always fits. So here's a new font on it, so maybe this might make the first one a little better.

I kind of like this font a lot. It's pretty bold and seems to keep with the graphic that most people like. Good fit?

Also, I came up with an even better picture for option 2. I'm really warming up to the second cover, though I will probably still go with the first. However, I think that despite the fact it will likely not be the cover, it's perfect for the promotional stickers I'm going to make and distribute. I'm going to find out for myself if this new wave of underground viral marketing shit works or not.

Here's what the stickers(and maybe t-shirts!) will probably look like:

If I make shirts, it's most likely the case that there will just be the picture, but I'm not sure. Leaving the text is good advertising, but might take away from the iconic presence of the graphic.

Anyway, now that both the US Open(Nice job, R-Fed!) and the IRL season are over, I can concentrate on finishing this shit and putting it into your hands, so that you in turn can hand me royalty checks, which I appreciate as I find myself hanging around Brouwer's and drinking more and more expensive beer every week.

I'll keep you posted on all this madness.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Revisions!

2006-09-08T06:33:00.000-07:00

Hello.

As I was doing all of the new changes to the look of Listen!..., I realized that it would be really tacky for me to have a white blog after Labor Day, so I decided to look for other non-eye bleaching options. Grey seemed like a fair compromise; it's dark enough to evoke storm cloud covered hue of my personality, but not so dark that my readers are going to end up getting headaches like Max from the movie Pi. But enough of all of this ridiculous Trading Spaces bullshit. Let's get down to brass tacks.

I promised you revisions, so dammit, let's see some new covers.

Option 1: This may not look too different, but there are subtle changes. The head is now underneath the title text. Unfortunately, you can't see the margins where the bleed would cut the art off, so take my word that now everything will be covering the entire frame.

Option 2: I know everyone hated this the first time. However, the execution was poor. I personally find there's a lot to like about the minimalist design of this. I have other instances of my picture in that circle if this one doesn't do it for you.

Back Cover: As you can see when you click to zoom in, I took everyone's advice and just stayed in character for the joke. Ever since I knew that I was going to do a back cover, this is exactly how I saw it in my mind, which is probably the greatest victory for any artist. The joke about being a "man of leisure; a playboy" is a long running joke between one of my best friends, Dan Mastrofski and myself. So thanks, my good man.

So there you have it. The US Open finishes up this weekend, which means that I'll finally be free of overwhelming distraction so that I can focus on finishing this bloody thing out.

Opinions on the new covers or the new look of the site are encouraged.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Cosmetic Surgery

2006-09-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

Good morning, dear readers.

At the insistence of my old friend Brian Gongol, I've decided to give the blog a little face lift. I've reversed the color scheme which apparently will cause less eyestrain for you, which is good, because it's hard to read when you can't see.

Don't worry, though. I promise that the commentary and mood will still be dark as the pitch colored background of old.

Now pardon me while I get my sunglasses. This bright shit is going to take some getting used to...

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Cover Stories Addendum

2006-09-06T07:25:00.000-07:00

Hello all. I have been making careful note of your comments and I appreciate all the feedback. I've been thinking that I subconsciously torpedoed option number two by putting up a halfassed version of it. The detail lines in the picture of me were off and I just sort of slapped the same heading on the top, so I am thinking it wasn't really a fair fight.

To rectify this, I am working on fixing option 2 so that people can make a decision with a product that hews closer to what the end product would be. In certain respects, I feel that done correctly, option two may be more visually striking and iconic in certain respects. Plus it would look good on a t-shirt(Read: $$$).

So as soon as my internet decides not to crawl like a dead slug dipped in sorghum crawling uphill in January, I'll post the newer improved versions of both.

But out of curiosity, why did so many of you love option one? Was it the design, or was it simply that it was better than that version of number two? I am just curious to see what it is in a cover design that resonates with readers.

Thanks again.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Cover Stories

2006-09-04T14:09:00.000-07:00

I was too excited to wait, so I decided I had to post the mockups of my two cover options thus far. While choosing the cover to the book isn't a democracy, I definitely value the opinions of you, the reader. So without further ado, let's see some drawerings, shall we?

Option 1

and

Option 2

And my favorite thing, the back cover. I thought I would take the piss out of those idiotic covers with some jerkoff's picture and all of his special acheivements.

Back Cover[Click To Enlarge]

Well, I'm open to feedback. Let 'er rip.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Weekly Snorefest. I Mean Update!

2006-09-01T07:59:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. As you probably saw the other day I have a new contest up. Well, after I heard from the Sheriff, I kind of realized that it might be a little skewed and labor intensive and such. Then I realized the other thing a book needs is something we've already tackled for the blog once before and and that's[insert ominous music here]...

Pull Quotes!!!

Yep. Need some pull quotes. All the books published by famous authors have pull quotes written on the inside cover so that people can feel good about purchasing something based solely on the subjective opinions of other people. So I want them too! The only rule is that these have to be about me as an author of the book or said from the perspective of someone who has actually read the book. Feel free to make up funny fake personae for your quotes. One quote per persona, please.

You know the drill. We'll keep the same deadline for this one, same prize. Thursday Sept. 7 by 11:59 PM.

This isn't to say that anyone who still wants to participate in the other contest can't, but this one's way less labor intensive, and probably more fun. Plus, you guys are masterful quippers and I love you for that.

In other news, I finally got my hair cut, which means my dad will stop asking if I'm trying to impersonate Ringo Starr, but more importantly it means I can now take pictures for the book covers and get those rolling along.

Finally, I just had yet another review posted for Tiny Mixtapes today, which you can check out here.

That's all I've got for now. There's some exciting stuff ahead.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Contest!: This May Sound A Bit Foreward...(Updated!)

2006-08-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers. I know it's been awhile, but this book thing is far more labor intensive than I imagined it would be and I am still not finished.

In any case, I was thinking that it's been a very long time since we've had a contest around here, and damned if that didn't make me nostalgic. So this time, I've come up with a contest that will allow you not only to get some free shit from Amazon, but also be immortalized in my very first book!

The task is simple. Many great books of essays have other famous authors writing things about the author or the book which lends a certain credibility to the proceedings. Since I don't know any famous authors, I must rely on you, my rabid fanbase. Since you know me and the material better than anyone, I want you to write a foreward to my book. I'm not going to cap the length or anything, but I'm hoping for at least a good page(Approximately 500 words. I'm not going to nitpick, but aim for that)

Be funny, serious, poignant, ass kissing...it's your call. Just make it good!

All entries must be in by 11:59 PM(Pacific Time) on Thursday September 7th. As usual, the prize is an Amazon.com gift certificate worth fifteen smackers. Send all entries to thediscerningkern@gmail.com.

Anyway, sorry about the lack of posts. I swear I'll be back on top of things in a few weeks or so when I get the book submitted for publishing.

Make me proud.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Actually Working Pays Off!

2006-08-18T07:16:00.000-07:00

As I have mentioned in the last couple of posts, I've been spending a lot of time lately concentrating on other non-blog projects, including my freelance gig at Tiny Mix Tapes which I've have downplayed and undervalued for far too long. In any case, please take a minute to go there in the near future and catch my review of one of my favorite David Axelrod records ever.

There you have it, my friends. I'll be working my ass off on the book and such this weekend. As always, when I know something new, you will too.

Hugs and Shit,

Kern

Nose, I'd Like You To Meet Mr. Grindstone

2006-08-17T06:30:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers. I'm still around, and quite sorry I've not had any lively thought provoking articles of mention lately, but I've actually gotten motivated to work on some of my outside projects. This means that I've been putting in a lot of hours on things such as editing, rewriting, and obsessing over ideas for the cover of my new book. It's a bit of a rough go at the moment, and I'm really tired, but I am more motivated and excited than I've been in quite awhile.

In the course of dealing with Lulu, the company I'll be self-publishing my book through, I discovered that the jump from blogged material to books is far more common than I imagined. So much so, that there is apparently a new contraction for it. Blooks. While I hate the way that sounds, I do not hate the fact that they have a contest in which the winner of the best book developed from blog source material can win ten thousand dollars. Yeah, I'm seriously entering.

If there is one thing I've learned over the last year, it's this: I should believe in myself a lot more than I do. If my hiring by Tiny Mix Tapes taught me one thing, it's that pessimism can totally overtake common sense. I have since let that be a lesson to me that I have as much of a shot at a prize as anyone else in any given contest.

Don't worry, readers, your old friend the Kern has not forsaken you. I'll be back with some mean spirited and histrionic rhetoric. Just like Mom used to make. Well, I mean, not my Mom, but a mean spirited and histrionic mom. Like a stage mom or something.

Anyway, I'll be back soon to bitch and moan about shit, ok? Until then, readers...

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Hiatus

2006-08-08T06:06:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. Sometimes even the most prolific of writers needs a break, and since I have got so many irons in the fire writing wise, something has to give. That's why I may or may not be posting any new articles for the rest of the month while I concentrate on getting this first book done and ready for sale and trying to get some reviews done for Tiny Mix Tapes. Try not to miss me too much.

Be assured, however, that if some brilliant idea strikes me, I'll be all over it like a derelict on a bottle of Thunderbird. Stay tuned.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

PS-Just thought I would add a little shout out for my friend Lara who is having a birthday today.

Have a good one!

Editor To Kern: Where Are My Articles?

2006-07-28T07:33:00.000-07:00

[Editor's Note: Hello. Sometimes it's quite difficult to keep up with eccentrics like Kern. His writing, while generally quite passable, has lately been wildly inconsistent in the sense that one never knows when he's going to post anymore. He assured me last night that he's got a lot of irons in the fire at the moment and that, "You'll see articles when you f**ing see them!". I pled with him to at least give me something so that the readers would have something to read this week. He offered me some notes he took while trying to write an article he has been working at for a month while at a local bar last night. I agreed to publish them raw as a good faith gesture, and he has assured me that he's got some great new stuff for next week. So until then please enjoy his notes. I didn't.-Ed.]

Note to Self: Lagunitas Sirius is far stronger brew than I thought. Should have had the Okacim Pale again.

Note to Self 2: Writing in pubs? Bad idea. Too many self-absorbed, loud jerkoff wankers endlessly bloviating. Soulless cocks, the lot of them. Hey Junior Executive! You're over 25, put your collar back down and please, for the love of sweet baby Christ, just shut your fucking ball gargler. I think this has Crotchety Bastard written all over it.

Note to Self 3: Make a run for it. They are apparently calling for reinforcements on very thin cell phones. They only refer to each other by their last names. This may seem hypocritical to some as many people refer to me as Kern, but in my circles many people still go by their first names. They seem very partial to using the words "man" and "fuck" in every sentence. Interestingly, none of the conversations have to do with intercourse.

Note to Self 4: Their behavior is simply fascinating in a really obnoxious, abhorrent kind of way. Two "fucks" in one short declarative sentence. I'm half expecting to eventually hear a sentence which is nothing but the word "fuck" occassionally punctuated by conjunctions.

Note to Self 5: If I ever sit in a pub with my friends discussing nannies in any way that does not also use the word "boinking" or "naughty", please castrate me and give my testicles to a more deserving candidate.

Note to Self 6: First use of the word "dude" tonight. Color me surprised.

Notes to Self 7: Three "fucks" in one sentence. We're getting there.

Notes to Self 8: Next time get the small frites. Anything else is too big for one person.

Notes to Self 9: More idiots wandering around with cell phones, practically yelling in my ear. Civility surrenders.

Notes to Self 10: This is starting to suck baboon sack.

Notes to Self 11: Go home and try to write something worth a shit. My brain does not function in this thick haze of testosterone and stupidity.

[Editor's Note: Well, that was...words, ladies and gentlemen. Hopefully Kern will stay away from the bar long enough to turn in some of the pieces he's promised me. He does have jury duty next week, so hopefully you'll see something from him by Wednesday. Have a nice weekend.-Ed.]

Author, Author!

2006-07-24T07:01:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear readers. I don't have anything fun today, but I did want to give you all a little update on the state of my literary endeavors.

As I mentioned before, I will be trying to self-publish some of the better entries from the Listen, Listen!!! archives as a book, which I hope will be available for intense bathroom readership by Fall 2006.

More importantly, what some of you may not know is that I also write fiction. I've been working on a generally interconnected group of characters and stories since I was seventeen. Sometimes I have found with my writing that at certain points I subconsciously leave a bit of a breadcrumb trail for myself which I don't see or follow until years later when things begin to fall into place. I've specifically been chipping away at the stories for a book of short fiction connected to my little "universe" since 2000, but just this weekend I've been having a lot of creative breakthroughs in terms of seeing the bigger picture. Writing an ambitious group of interconnected works is daunting, and while on the one hand I'm a little bummed that I'm not further along in the actual writing, I have to tell you that after just now working out a great new angle, I'm pretty excited about what this means in terms of the overall structure of the stories and the world that these characters inhabit. I guess sometimes patience is indeed a virtue.

I'll keep you up to date as anything else new or interesting happens.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

This Explains A Lot...

2006-07-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

Kern's Tip Of The Day: If you ever want to touch a girl in your lifetime, don't admit to buying these. Unless of course, you are one. In which case, feel free to go nuts.

Since I stayed up until 2:30 last night playing Texas Hold 'em online, I am ill prepared to bring you any new original material. Ah, but grab a tissue and dab those eyes, reader! It doesn't stop me from sharing a fun little tidbit that I'm (perhaps too) excited about.

Yesterday the USPS debuted the new sheets of commerative DC Comics stamps at the San Diego Comic Convention. This is great news to me because despite the fact that I love comics from many different companies, deep down I'm DC's bitch. Each sheet apparently has twenty stamps, half of which are portraits of such iconic figures as Batman, Superman, Supergirl, Green Arrow, Green Lantern, Hawkman, the Flash, Wonder Woman, Aquaman and Plastic Man. The other half features some of the finest covers from those heroes' individual books. I'm especially excited to see the inclusion of one of the coolest Green Lantern covers which I think is from an issue in 1963. I do kind of wish there had been more of an effort to put at least one more female hero in as opposed to Plastic Man who is pretty obscure to the general public anyhow. I would have voted for Zatanna or Black Canary, or even Catwoman(meow!) but that's just me. I'm going to order some right now!

By adding stamp collecting to the already maligned pasttime of comic book collecting, the answer as to whether or not this means that I'll now be twice as undesirable to women has yet to be determined.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The New Face Of Avant Garde?

2006-07-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

Gunther: Savior Of Modern Music?

Last week, I was talking to my friend Dan late at night, which is typical for two night owls like us and he sent me a video clip over Messenger.

"Man, you seriously have to put this on your blog." he said.

After watching the inscrutable clip multiple times, I didn't know what to think. It was truly one of those intellectual impasses in which one's undeniable urge to throw your hands up in resignation is somehow supplanted by an unyielding curiosity. I sat dumbfounded as he sent clip after clip with what seemed to be essentially newer, more outlandish permutations of the same premise.

"Um..." I began. "I'll see what I can do, but I seriously have no idea how to frame this."

Difficulty notwithstanding, I am nothing if not a man of my word. I thought about it, and frankly the video is so...well, you'll see...that it deserves its own post. So here you go, Daniel, my friend. Your wish has come true.

Women want him...men want to be him.... Without further ado, please enjoy the avant garde stylings of Gunther. (Depending on your comfort level, the video might be Not Safe For Work.) Please make sure to come back after viewing the clip and you can get my thoughts.

You've finished the video? Excellent. Let's discuss shall we?

Opening with a band of leather clad individuals screaming across the lonely desert asphalt, the director attempts to evoke memories of immortal classics such as Easy Rider, The Wild One and Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man. As it turns out, however, underneath all of that intimidating gear were a trio of bikini clad women yearning to be free. Free of clothing apparently.

From here, things take a decidedly artistic turn. In what can only be described as a dadaist masterpiece, Gunther's director playfully juxtaposes the near nude male and female form with trampolines, masterful retro editing techniques such as the "soft fade" and the "circular wipe", with shadowed glimpses of his studly countenance and the occassional melon or bunch of bananas being randomly thrown with wild abandon into the frame. As this short film(to merely call it a video would be a grave insult) starts to evolve, the deeper layers of unusual symbols become more and more prevalent. Shots of a half naked male in white hot pants duplicated on both halves of the screen are interspersed with brief flashes of gyrating women bouncing on trampolines sometimes kissing various fruit. The first set of images can only be overt symbolism illustrating the duality of man, while the second set gives us a clever and subtle statement about women casting off the shackles of repressed sexuality(clothing) and puritanical male expectations(the bananas); finally relieved of their heavy burden, these women soar weightlessly into the throes of newfound ecstasy. I don't believe that I have witnessed such a mastery of fascinating symbolism since the works of Fellini.

As daring and dare I say, titillating, as these visuals would be if shown singularly, it is Gunther's music that lends the depth and emotional resonance to this sumptous marriage of cinema and sound. The song opens with a flourish of flamenco guitar, while two unknown female vocalists began layering their sensual cries that "It's a crazy, crazy night" and "You make me feel so alive" while an insistent beat begins to percolate to the surface. As this sexy stew begins to come to a boil, Gunther's breathy vocals come in to pull the song back just enough to keep it from peaking too quickly. Lyrically, Gunther can only be hailed as the Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen of our generation. One can feel the palpable frustration in Gunther's monotonal delivery of the line "Honey, you're so cute/in the land of forbidden fruit" in the first verse. Who among us cannot identify with Gunther's struggle in loving a woman he obviously shouldn't?

He frequently makes cryptic references to fruit throughout the four minute running time of "Tutti Frutti Summer Love", specifically saying the words, "Bananas/melonas/yeah" multiple times. This puzzling line could mean any number of things, and is one of the few phrases in the song that is so obtuse that it could be almost completely open to interpretation.

Gunther continues to express a rather foreboding tone about this ill-fated tryst, wagging his finger and almost chastising the object of his affection with, "It's a no-no, but you like it." Clearly, we the listener can hear a certain savvy awareness on Gunther's part. Not only is he cognizant of his own role in this dysfunctional relationship, but he lets the lady/gentleman know that he's aware that they also realize this fact. Unfortunately, instead of succumbing to logic, the inherent danger of the situation makes it all the more tantalizing for Gunther's lover, apparently. It should be noted that it he is rather vague as to what the "no-no" is in reference to. Is it the relationship in general? Or is this "no-no" something more specific, perhaps sexual in nature? Does Gunther enjoy [Censored-Ed.]? Perhaps he likes it when a girl takes his [Censored-Ed.], and puts it in her [Censored-Ed.] along with a piece of Big Red chewing gum, while she reaches behind him and tries to stimulate his [Censored. Oh, and Kern? You're one filthy bastard.-Ed.] with an electric [Censored-Ed.] as he pours Purple Saurus Rex Kool Aid across her [Censored-Ed.] and then [Censored-Ed.] it off of them. This is followed by an sexy exclamation of "Tutti Frutti Summer Love".

Verse two sees Gunther getting slightly more bold. Whatever reservations he might be feeling about this illicit coupling are beginning to quickly erode. He almost arrogantly implores his lover to "Come and take a chance/and do the naked dance". Rarely has a songwriter so succinctly and imaginatively been able to capture the nervous passion and beauty of the sexual intimacy of two human beings as Gunther has been able to do here. After a few more breathy exclamations of "Tutti Frutti Summer Love" and "Yeah", Gunther reiterates his feelings repeatedly that whatever it is that he considers a"no-no", apparently he likes it, implying that his lover does as well, over a well orchestrated twinkling synth breakdown. After one final chorus from the ladies, Gunther authoritatively has the last word, and that word is "Tutti Frutti Summer Love". Actually, that's technically four words, but I'm overlooking that for argument's sake. Perhaps the song is too subtle in its messages, but I believe that this only encourages the individual listener to dig deep and search for their own meanings within the confines of the textual information.

While I realize this kind of close scrutiny might frustrate some, the fact is that too often we, as consumers of art, are far too willing to have artists spoon feed us our ideas like bananas or melonas, and it is exactly this kind of lackadaisical attitude that keeps us from finding rewarding interpretations in so much of our art today. Thank God we are fortunate enough to occassionally have a song like "Tutti Frutti Summer Love" cross our desks to remind us of that sad fact.

[Editor's Note: Kern-You have proved that you obviously have had some background in explicating poems and perhaps had some experience with schools of literary criticism. This is a commendable skill which you have fully utilized in regard to Gunther's "Tutti Frutti Summer Love" .This piece, however, is one of the dumbest f**ing things you've ever written. -Ed.]

The Crotchety Bastard: Open Letter To Everyone Involved In The Success Of The Film "Little Man"

2006-07-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Everyone Who Was Involved With Making The Movie Little Man Number 2 At The Box Office This Weekend:

Hello. As a film devotee from an early age, I have grown to love the medium as though it were one of my children(since I don't have any), and I've become an amateur scholar, studying as many classic and unusual films as I possibly have time for. There is much to love about the cinema, and as a cinephile I have a few questions for you.

Let's start with the general public buying the tickets to Little Man. I have to ask, did you start out with the intention of seeing this film, or was the line to be fucked in the mouth by an electrified barbed wire dildo too long?

Seriously, what's wrong with you? Apparently there must have been another special trailer floating around somewhere in the ether that all of these people saw that made the idea of going to see a film with premise flimsier than a wet loose leaf notebook paper thong seem compelling to you. Whoa, I'm sure some of you are saying. Easy, man, it's just a movie. You sir/madame would be missing the point.

Let me tell you what I saw through Crotchety colored glasses as I had the misfortune to accidentally sit through the brilliant marketing for this hideous looking cockrot of cinema. I see a premise which has been lifted wholesale from cartoons, most notably a Bugs Bunny short in which a criminal named "Baby Face" Fenster who actually literally looks like a baby, tries to duck his impending capture by pretending to be an orphaned infant, only to be adopted by Bugs. This is a fine premise for a seven minute short, especially when Bugs Bunny is involved. I'm all for the reinterpretation of old concepts, but stretching one out to absurd lengths while likely stoned theatre goers and children approaches a near record drop in my faith that anyone can manufacture an original idea anymore.

Secondly, let's just talk about the CGI of Marlon Wayans head on a toddler's body for a moment. Setting aside for a second, the fact that Marlon's head already looks vaguely otherworldly and cheaply produced, the person hired to do their CGI must have been an intern who hasn't quite finished his stint at DeVry, because it looks atrocious. My question is whether this was done intentionally(for comedic effect) or whether it was just another instance of the kind of shoddy workmanship that pervades the assembly line style diarrhea that studios squirt out without even the pretense of integrity and the hope to turn quicker money than a six dollar hooker during fleet week. Damn it, how is it that George Lucas can entice people into making entire believable worlds out of 0's and 1's, yet the Wayans cannot make Marlon's head look like it's not just a shitty mask haphazardly taped to the front of a two year old?

If we were even to somehow forget the first two items on the list, and God how I would love to, one cannot ignore the main staple of a comedy, and that is the jokes. In the case of Little Man, it appears that if it doesn't involve a body part, it's not worth putting in the trailer. The diminutive adult robber wants to suckle at the breast of an attractive big bosomed nanny?

Ha ha ha! High-fucking-larious!

Little Man thinks he's going to take a bath with "Mommy" but gets a nude Shawn Wayans instead?

Side Splitting!

Little Man apparently is revealed to have a big wang when his diaper gets changed?

Stop it, you're killing me! No, seriously, you're fucking killing me.

As if this bountiful harvest of body related gags isn't enough to satiate even the most functionally brain-dead of viewers, they go for the classics, such as hitting people with frying pans. All in all, I have to say that the clever, insightful humor as displayed in the trailer for Little Man almost serves to make White Chicks look like a thoughtful treatise on race relations by comparison.

The most disappointing aspect of all this is that at one time, the name Wayans stood for the very edgiest and groundbreaking comedy, whether it was Keenan Ivory Wayans' classic I'm Gonna Git You Sucka which was a pitch perfect lampooning of the blaxploitation genre, or In Living Color which set the gold standard for irreverent variety shows back in the early 1990's. It seems quite clear to me that perhaps Shawn and Marlon just didn't quite get the same comedic genes as some of the other members of the Wayans clan. It's sad to think that after a decade and a half, this lackadaisical, unchallenging drivel is what a family of innovators has left as a legacy. Then again, I saw a couple of episodes of My Wife and Kids, so I may want to spread a little bit of that vitriol around.

Ultimately, I have probably devoted far more words to this horsecock sundae than it deserves, so let me just convey one more thing to the people that support this ongoing crock of unentertaining crap.

Ahem...

You filthy fucking swine! You are the reason for the decline in intellectual humor in this country, and are doing nothing more than contributing perfectly good money to reinforce the idea that American audiences don't appreciate anything more than seeing someone scream when they're sodomized by a rectal thermometer, which admittedly, can be funny in very small doses in the right context. There are deeper concepts and ideas out there to be had, people. Would it kill you to go to a film with subtitles every once in a while?

Thank you, viewers of Little Man, for essentially telling the world that the average American's grasp of cinema exceeds no further than the prostate or mammory glands. If you love that style of humor, have I got a funny for you!

Next time you think about seeing a Wayans Brothers film, kindly take the lobotomy spoon you've been using out of your frontal lobe, and shove it up your ass.

Get it? It's an object, see? And it's being shoved in someone's ass! Ha!

What do you mean you don't get it? Oh, right...it's because there's no picture.

Nevermind.

Love,

The Crotchety Bastard

Happy Birthday, Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!

2006-07-14T01:00:00.000-07:00

It was this or me popping naked from a cake. Yeah, you're welcome.

Happy day, dear reader! This humble little experiment called Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! began one year ago on this very date. Unlike those stupid reminders I used to toss up for every thousand unique hits, this is a milestone that actually means something.

Before I get to all the saccharine, heart melting, touchy feely crap, I have an announcement to make. For those of you who have loved Listen!...Listen!!! for the last year and would love to relive some of the more exciting and ribald essays without being chained to your computer, falling asleep at your desk in the middle, or getting carpal tunnel or eyestrain, today is your lucky day! Within the next few months, I will be self publishing a book through Lulu.com's print on demand program which will put all of the intellectually stimulating and irreverent good times right in your hands. The title is not known as of yet, but I will definitely keep you abreast of the developments as they happen. If you're lucky, you'll get into the acknowledgements page. Come on, you know you want to. Alright, onto the treacle...

First, I'd like to say that I appreciate all of the readers who have been around since my days of writing on the Damfinoblog up through today. You've been the backbone of the site and you have my many thanks for tuning in everyday to read the strange rantings and ravings that litter this overcrowded skull of mine. And to the new readers who have just joined us more recently, welcome to you, and I am glad the filthy language and vicious rhetoric hasn't scared you off yet. You are indeed made of heartier stock than most.

Most of all, I have one very special person to thank in particular, because if it wasn't for this person, many of the dominoes that have fallen for me over the last year would never have even been taken out of the box. So a humble and hearty thank you goes out to Damfino aka Jed Findlay.

You see, it was Jed who gave me access to write on his blog and after a seven year absence of writing, I was skeptical I would ever write anything of value again. One day I asked if maybe I could write some music reviews, and he enthusiastically agreed that I should. And did I ever...

I finally wrote so much, I had inadvertently began clogging the Damfinoblog with my prolificacy, and I decided shortly thereafter that the polite thing to do would be to go to newer pastures and set up my own shop. But this blog was not enough to hold the sudden surge of writing that had been building up for so many years. The dam of writer's block had sprung holes and finally exploded. Soon I had written a piece of short fiction, and by October, Jed and my many other supporters encouraged me to apply for a freelance position with Tiny Mix Tapes. Against all odds, and my own horrid self-doubt I got the gig. He opens his doors to me every summer for The Kern Returns parties I love so much. Some might say that all of these wonderful things are a matter of mere coincidence, to which I would have to counter with "Bullshit."

No, readers, this was not a coincidence. This is about an old friend believing in another old friend and opening a door wide enough for him to walk through. Jed Findlay is not just one of the good guys. He is one of the best guys.

On another note, I've made jokes and comments about lack of readership and worried about validation multiple times, but when it comes down to it, the number of readers is never going to be as important as the quality of readers I have, because almost all of the readers I get are readers I know personally. This blog has not just been a creative outlet, but a social one as well, where I've connected with excellent people and made some great friends. I hope that in the coming year I will continue to reach out and touch others. Lives.

Touch others' lives, you fucking perverts.

So here's to another year full of more tenacious writing, more friendships, less sleep, and more debauchery...

Cheers, you glorious bastards.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

PS-I am thinking about doing an anniversary contest, but I'll only do it if I get a fair amount of interest in the comments section indicating a desire for particpation. Otherwise I'll scrap it. But as the Sheriff and Flop know, I give great contest. Let me know if you're interested.

I Don't Care If She's Driving Naked...

2006-07-13T07:06:00.000-07:00

I've come to the conclusion that my father is either prescient, or has a better handle on the business of auto racing than I imagined.

Several weeks ago I was visiting him at his house, and as we sat outside talking about racing as we often find ourselves doing, the conversation turned to current battle in the IRL between Marlboro Team Penske and Chip Ganassi Racing. My dad is not a much of a Penske fan as he contends that he doesn't have a lot of respect for team owners who just throw money around until they win, positing that he respected Ganassi much more for being more of a self-made man.

"Maybe," I said. "But I hate his attitude. He's always the first guy trying to call Brian Barnhart or Race Control to snitch on someone if he thinks he sees something, but he's pretty loathe to take responsibility for the mistakes of his own drivers. Plus, he's made a few dismissive comments about Danica..."

Before I could finish, I saw him tilt his head back and guffaw.

"Now, now the truth comes out!"

Let me clarify something right now. While I am a straight male who realizes that she is indeed a beautiful woman, I, unlike many of her male fans, actually give a shit about her driving and about what it means to see more women involved in motorsports. I've been watching since she was driving in Toyota Atlantics(back when it was still called that), and watched her make a confident and promising leap into the higher levels of open wheel racing.

My futile protestations that this was not the sole reason for my dislike of Ganassi's personality were of no use at all. Then he came out with the big guns.

"You're so in love with Danica, you'd watch anything she did. Shit, you wait, if she ever jumps to NASCAR, you're going to be the first one out there yelling 'Boogity Boogity Boogity, let's go racin', boys!" he laughed.

I turned red, and wasn't sure if I was more offended that he was suggesting that a pretty face was all it would take to turn a devoted open wheel fan like me, or the fact that he was implying I would start mimicing that blathering wanker Darrell Waltrip.

"Bullshit, I would!" I yelled.

He just laughed and shook his head, occassionally uttering, "Sure, sure. Just wait..."

Well, the unthinkable scenario I just described might be coming true. This week it is as though NASCAR has some sort of bizarre tractor beam which aims to slowly pulls drivers from their open wheel cars over to the dark side of racing. First, Juan Pablo Montoya decided to announce that he's leaving the respected confines of Formula One to drive a Dodge for Chip Ganassi next season. As though this news isn't weird enough, there were reports this week that Danica's father T.J. hung out at the NASCAR race last weekend in Chicago as a special guest of Roush Racing. Whether this means anything serious or not is yet to be seen, but her contract with Rahal/Letterman is up at the end of this season. As much as I dislike NASCAR as a series, they are without question some of the smartest marketers and promoters in the world of sports today, if not the most savvy. It appears that they may be slowly chiseling away at one of major points of contention for the general public, and that is an overwhelming lack of diversity in the Nextel Cup Series. By pulling an international Brazillian superstar as well as the most well known female driver in motorsports, this could be a huge coup for NASCAR if it happens, as tens of thousands of horny American males will defect from watching the IRL if and when Danica defects. Oh, and Montoya's nationality brings a touch of the exotic to what currently looks like the Blue Collar Comedy Tour on Wheels.

Let me say this: I will be quite disappointed if Danica does decide to leave open wheel racing for the slick, gaudy marketing machine that is NASCAR. It would be a shame to see her leave after her sophomore season wasn't as great as her first, as that might give her detractors yet more ammunition with which to assault her place in motorsports. Anyone who watches the sport knows that Rahal has just now made the decision to switch from the Panoz G Force to the more popular Dallara chassis, and that despite the switch, she and her teammates are struggling to come to terms with a brand new setup in the middle of the season. One can only hope that she doesn't let the frustration of this adjustment period influence her decision too much. It's been nice having a competitive lady in the IRL to shake things up(sorry Sarah Fisher) and I would hate to see that dramatic spark, as well as renewed interest in the series diminish with her departure.

Dad, if you're reading this I have one thing to say: I have loved watching Danica Patrick since her first stirrings in the Atlantics. I watched her rack up several poles in the course of her first year in the IRL and capture Rookie of The Year. She has a lot of potential and I think if she stays focused she could be a great driver. That being said, I still wouldn't watch NASCAR even if a scantily clad Danica Patrick started writhing around like Tawny Kitaen on the hood of her stock car after the race asking me if I'd like shotgun.

Oh yeah, and I hope Darrell Waltrip get laryngitis. Boogity, boogity my ass.

A Matter Of Perspective

2006-07-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

I recently came to the realization that writing an unpopular blog(read: Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen,Listen, Listen!!!) that no one reads is a lot like masturbation. You put a lot of time and energy into it, and sure, it's a lot of fun and you really enjoy yourself while you're doing it, but afterwards you feel pretty stupid and embarrassed when you realize that no one else is enjoying it but you.

Sometimes it's hard to keep one's perspective when it comes to something that means a lot to them. It's difficult sometimes not to compare oneself to other people doing the exact same type of work that one does. Some days it's really easy for me to somehow feel as though I am not much of a writer because my humble little site isn't among the bookmarks on some hipster's computer or the fact I'm not on the blogrolls of any of the cool kids.

I've been told I'm just jealous. My response to that is "Hell yes, I'm jealous."

Come on, who wouldn't be jealous of a group of people who didn't have to work a day job and got to lounge around in their bathrobes all day splitting their time between "writing" and watching the daily exploits of Victor Newman while eating bon-bons all day?

Since I can't, I have to remember why I write this blog in the first place. I didn't start it to get famous, I just wanted someplace to open my big fucking mouth and say all the obnoxious things that I think people should know about, and that's the way it's going to stay. I want to thank Dan M. and my Mom for reminding me of that this weekend. For pointing out that if I'm only writing for page views or a popularity contest, I should really reexamine what writing actually means to me.

So if I ever get to a point where I begin to resort to these kinds of gimmicks and shenanigans to be written up as a favorite site in Entertainment Weekly...

Jealous? Moi???

...please give me the swift kick in the privates I will oh so richly deserve.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

PS-This does not mean, of course, that I will quit making jokes about trying to increase readership. Come on, I've got to have some running joke to fall back on...

Listen!: Neko Case At The Moore Theatre 7/1/06

2006-07-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

[Editor's Note: For the well being of everyone involved, I tried to convince Kern to change the format of this concert review, but given that he's "the talent" here at Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!, sometimes we have to play ball. I did so, however, with the stipulation that the folllowing would contain my notes in italicized brackets to illustrate my feelings on this particular piece.-Ed.]

The Girl Of Kern's Dreams

Dear Neko,

Thank you for the phenomenal performance you gave us last Saturday night at The Moore. It was quite a special occasion for me personally, as I've been trying to catch your live show with absolutely no success for the last four years. As it turns out, the tired old chestnut about good things and waiting, blah blah blah, are absolutely true.

Ah, but where should I begin, Miss Case? The fact that your voice is a thing of magic, that every note coming from your honeyed pipes is like a pair of warm,soulful hands capable of reaching into the depths of every human being in an audience thawing and defibrilating all but the iciest or dead of hearts? The witty effortlessness with which you deflect idiotic and nonsensical comments from your fascinatingly diverse audience? The heart meltingly cute way you banter onstage about Miller High Life and peanut butter cups on your skirt?

Musically, the seamless connection you have with your band was amazing. When I closed my eyes occassionally, I felt as though I was in the front seat of a large convertible being propelled through a dusty wasteland as ethereal tendrils of a David Lynchian orchestra wrapped themselves around that car unyielding, following the slight twang of your siren songs.

And what songs they were! Your rendition of "Deep Red Bells" was slightly quicker and more aggressive than I've ever heard, but the tenacious lap steel riffing was exciting and added a dimension to the tune I'd never felt. "Star Witness" was all the more dramatic for having seen you delve deep and really wring your soul out onto that stage. How could one ignore the icy tension and collectively held breath of the audience as you reached the final ghostly a capella notes on "Of Sparrows". And the encore of encores where you finished with a rollicking version of "John Saw That Number"? Brava, brava!

I must admit, in addition to your magnificent talents, you were every bit as ravishing in person as you are in the press photos and such as I was able to surmise from my lonely seat in Center Section, Row C, Seat 3.

[Kern-Not a bad review. Not good either. Try to salvage it with a strong summation.]

I am more than a little embarrassed to say that I may have been a little overzealous when I yelled, "Yeah!" or somesuch thing when you announced, "This song is about desperation!" before launching into "I'll Be Around", with your cool, sultry croon over a sparse, smoldering arrangement.

[Kern-Reign it in. Great performance, good time, the end. Alright?]

Oh dear Neko, you are without question, the most ideal woman I've ever seen.

[Kern-Dammit, Kern! Quit horsing around and finish the f**king piece!]

I know, I know. When one is a fire tressed goddess such as yourself, there are probably thousands,(nay, millions!) of men vying for your affections. I would like to say two things: Number one, you looked absolutely divine in those strappy heels.

[Kern-Honestly, this is getting embarrassing...stop it, for God's sake. Now you're just making an ass of yourself.]

Secondly, I was thinking maybe I could, you know, take you out or something? Maybe for some whiskey or...? I mean, it doesn't have to be whiskey, it could be pancakes or something, I suppose...

[Stunned silence.]

Now, you don't have to answer right away. It's an open invitation, since I know you have to finish the tour and everything. I've been having a really dry dating spell recently. And by recently, I mean pretty much ever. So as it turns out, my calendar's pretty clear.

[Kern-You're a f**ing idiot. Seriously. F**ing pancakes? You suck at life, Kern. No wonder you can't get a second date...]

Anyhow, I hope the rest of the tour dates turn out as brilliantly as the perfect and magical evening that you graced the Seattle audience with last Saturday night.

Sincerely,

Kern

[ *While Kern does indeed find Neko to be both a gorgeous woman and an monumental talent, the above, if seen by Ms. Case, should be viewed as little more than Kern's not- as- clever as he thinks it is, tongue-in-cheek jab at overzealous fandom.

The truth of the matter is that if Kern ever did happen to find himself face to face with Ms. Case, he would most likely have a panic attack and fall on the floor. He does, however, enjoy whiskey and pancakes, but not usually at the same time.-Ed.]

Sketches of Des Moines 6/22/06

2006-06-29T07:00:00.000-07:00

I raised my glass to meet his through the blue blanket of smoke caustically chasing out any of the usuable oxygen in the room.

"Well, Mr. Tunstall, you're home, " he said, rolling another Drum cigarette of his own, sliding it gently into pursed smile.

Iowa. Des Moines, Iowa was once my home many years ago, a place that witnessed my failures and successes, my darkest days and sweetest triumphs. The only place I have ever been in love, and the only place that can break my heart. Visits such as this one are often surreal to me. I recognize major landmarks, and I see all of the people from a life past who mean so much to me, but it always seems like I've somehow managed to fall into some ethereal pocket outside of my normal reality. It's as though I have My Own Private Brigadoon minus the ninety nine year wait and the horrible showtunes.

We sat, my best friend of eleven years and I, at a table near the back of Blues on Grand. We arrived at midnight or so, right in the midst of their Thursday Open Jam. Looking around at the decor, which consisted of blue walls, a tall bar meticulously beat to shit over the years by regulars and a clientele mostly made up of haggard boozehounds and middle aged blue collar workers, I quickly put two and two together that if this weren't a dive, then it was doing a really great impersonation of one.

The JD was starting to work its inebriating magic, and with every new group that got on stage I found myself bellowing and yelling things like "Amen!" and "Right on!" with a loosened tongue and an unfurling enthusiasm. This was until a wanker with dirty blonde hair which let itself languish right about his shoulders got on stage. As others around us cheered, Dan and I looked at each other bewilderdly. The opening riffs were your standard white boy boogie blues bar band tripe.

"This shit's terrible!" Dan exclaimed, going to the bar to get me a beer.

I nodded and shook my head laughing. With any luck, I hoped, this jackass would get booed off the stage. When Dan sat down, I leaned over.

"If you like authentic blues, you'd really love Blueshammer!" I whispered.

The blonde mop finally spoke, announcing that his name was Devon Allman, and this was his band Honeytribe.

A girl Dan knew came up behind us, yelling, "Oh wow, it's Duane Allman's son!".

This mattered very little to me for several reasons:

1. They sucked.

2. I don't think that having famous musical genes means that you are necessarily inherently talented.

3. I never liked The Allman Brothers in the first place.

4. The name Honeytribe sounds like either a brand of granola or a marital aid

5. They sucked.

The most intriguing part of this however, was the WASP nest on the other side of the bar, a small contingent of polo and khaki shorted caucasian couples off to one side of the club, who were obviously quite drunk and dancing in an uncoordinated mass, writhing awkwardly against the beat. These daring thrill seeking suburbanites seemed to relish in the fact that they were listening to such soulful tunes while taking a walk on the wild side, in this case, downtown. It was quite a pathetic display indeed.

Allman, being the consumate showman and ladies' man that he is, left the stage after his one song and began to prowl. He settled on a craggy, middle aged groupie who was content to embarrassingly soul kiss him at the bar for long periods of time before disappearing for ten minutes and coming back with a triumphant look on her face.

Around two, we were promptly and politely thrown out. I tried to talk Dan into going to get some pancakes, but couldn't. We settled on going to Hy-Vee and buying a bag of chips and queso dip and eating them in Jed's driveway.

Amidst the loud crunching of Tostitos and my chugging a Gatorade in the sincere hopes of staving off a hangover, Dan rolled another cigarette and asked, "You glad to be back?"

I stared at the house as a cool breeze blew through the window and the early morning crickets began to chirp.

"Yeah," I said, staring groggily through the windshield, "it's good to be home."

The Kern Returns...From Kern Returns

2006-06-28T00:09:00.000-07:00

This about says it all...

Hello, my faithful. It would probably be a ridiculous and rhetorical question to ask whether I was missed in my absence, so I'll skip that part of the pleasantries and get to what everyone really wants to know. How was it?

It was fantastic as usual. Though we were missing some of our regulars, I had the opportunity to finally meet some old friends in person and they were even more fun than I ever could have imagined from my blogging experiences with them. I reunited with some of my classmates, saw the DM Art Festival downtown, drank a lot of decent beer and basically crammed nearly every minute with activity, leaving me with very little downtime to sleep.

I will continue with the travelogue tomorrow, but I couldn't wait to share the pics that were snapped with my camera with you all. There were also many pictures taken from The Sheriff's camera as well, and I suspect those photos will be making their way to the Damfinoblog in slideshow form.

Anyway, it may take me a little bit to get back up to speed in the next week, so don't be too hard on me. Until then, enjoy these pretty pictures.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Kern Returns: Day 1

2006-06-22T01:52:00.000-07:00

Hello all. I thought that I would keep a travelogue of my trip and I'll post whatever I can as I can so those of you not lucky enough to really be there with us at Kern Returns 2006 in West Des Moines, Iowa will feel like you too were there for all of the giggles and debauchery.

Before I begin that, there is one other small order of business that I have to address and that's the winners of our tagline contest. Several tried but only one could be victorious. And the winnah is...

Flop The Nuts with his brilliant eleventh hour salvo, just barely nudging the Sheriff out of his second win. The winning quote:

"2006 Winner-Best Looking Altar Boy - Seattle League of Urban Recovering-Pedophile Priests (SLURPP)"

The runner up is Sheriff Office Greg The Bunny with this near inappropriate gem:

"The Kern Returns 2006: Girls....1/2 off admission with Junior High School ID!"

Other Notable Entries:

Sheriff:

a. Kern and the Tea Bag Posse

reunited in West Des Moines, Iowa June 2006

b. Kern Reutrns 2006 productions, in association with TBP, LLC presents a one man show starring Alex Kern entitled:

"Don Knott's: From Barney to Three's Company"

Come experience the wonder that is ....KERN!

c. Kern Returns 2006

"Come for the 'Roasters', stay for the 'steamers'"

d. The Kern Returns 2006

Girls....1/2 off admission with Junior High School ID

e. Kern Returns 2006

"Booze, Babes and Bum Fights"

Damfino:

The Kern Returns Again; This time it's venereal.

Like a pesky batch of genital herpes - the Kern returns.

Congrats Flop and Sheriff, yr gift certs are should be arriving via e-mail soon.

It's fucking late...I always say I am going to get more than three hours of sleep the night before, but I'll be damned if that ever happens. Since I'm here I am going to make the first tiny entry in my travelogue. Hope you enjoy it.

June 21st/22 2006:

It's amazing how fast a year comes and goes. I remember thinking at the end of Kern Returns last year just how bad I wish it were time for the next year's installment, feeling like it would never get here. I suppose anticipation is good in that regard. Without things to look forward to we'd all just sit around blankly staring at screens and getting pastier by the minute. Hmm, perhaps that's a bad example.

I find as much as I love going places, it's the actual preparation and traveling that are an insistent pain in my taint. The last couple of years packing for my trip to DM has been the only joykiller in an otherwise kickass time. Between trying to do the laundry and burning a million CD's and talking on the phone, it gets so late I might as well not even go to bed at all. Unfortunately, I can't sleep on planes without drooling all over my front like a lobotomy patient who's getting to fly alone. So I suppose I will take what precious few hours I can get.

This year, I got smart. Kind of. Rather than having to wash a whole bunch of underwear and socks, I figured I would buy some new and just take them out of the package when I get to Jed's place. By happy coincidence, the Gap was having a sale and I got several pair of boxers and socks. While this may sound like the height of manchild laziness, I assure you sirs and madames, that this is not the case.

You see, there comes a time in every man's life where he must put away childish things. And this means dropping the novelty boxers, which incidentally I urge people do to in the privacy of their own homes, as the local authorties seem to be a little uptight when it happens anywhere else. Goodbye Beer Mug Tesselations! Sayonara raining Labradors! So long Shuttlecocks, I'll miss you most of all...

As sad as it is to discard such a large part of ones past, it's also very liberating to take that final step into adulthood and gird your loins with something that doesn't resemble Underroos for strange college guys. It's been a while since I have bought all new underwear, and frankly I say it is high time I did something nice for my junk, since no one else is stepping up to the plate.

But that's ok. Tomorrow I'll be surrounded by some of the finest people in the world and I will smile with a new found confidence; a secret swagger that will have everyone guessing.

Hot damn, they'll say. Just what is Kern's Secret?

One Day And A Wakeup

2006-06-21T07:57:00.000-07:00

Well, my friends it is almost upon us. The day you(read: me)have been lusting after for months now. Tomorrow, at 5:55 PM Central Time The Kern Returns. I want to thank Jed, Josh, and Devin for letting me crash with them for the next few days as the the tornado of debauchery blows through my old town cutting a swath of heartbroken ladies and filthy utterances across the Midwest. Well, filthy utterances, anyway.

Also, just a note, it is not too late to send in a tagline for Kern Returns 2006 and get yourself a prize. I believe I made an unfortunate typo a while ago, but the true value of the prizes are Amazon G.C.'s in the denominations of $15 for first place and $10 for second. Please try to have any last minute entries in to me by 10 PM Pacific Time, or Midnight for those currently in the Central Time Zones.

Winnahs to be announced tomorrow...will the Bunny pull off a repeat performance, or will another usurp his crown?

Stop by tomorrow and find out.

Hugs and Shit,

Kern

The Crotchety Bastard: Coulter? Why, I Damn Near...

2006-06-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you can believe this, but I got harassed a lot as a child by my peers as I was not yet the suave, handsome shut in that I've become as an adult. My mother could sense my discouragement in my dealings with my pint sized nemeses, so she offered some advice she felt might help me.

"If you just ignore them, they'll get bored and quit doing it. If you give them a reaction that's exactly what they want. You're just playing into their hands."

While a six year old may have some trouble fully comprehending the subtle nuances of non-violent conflict resolution tactics, as an adult I have come to embrace it fully as possibly the best advice on any subject I've ever received in my life. It's like some crazy Art of War shit. Thank you, Mom Tzu.

What do motherly advice and ancient Asian philosophy have to do with today's column one might inquire? Well, they both apply to the current Adam's apple of the public's eye, Ann Coulter, who seems to hover like an egregiously foul blanket of vocal pollution burning eyes and ears and disorienting all who are unlucky enough to be caught unaware. Though Ann has obviously become a self fashioned pundit whose Power Player understanding of Washington renders her a mere pubic hair or two higher on the credibility scale than say, Jessica Cutler, it is the release of her new tome which accounts for the inescapable media blitzkrieg we've been subjected to as of late.

The Best Damn Lisa Kudrow Impersonator Money Can Buy

I have had discussions with fellow blogger D.A. about this, and we agree about Ann and her hyper-inflammatory rhetoric, shaking our heads and tut tutting at each new quotable gem that falls out of her mouth. Where he and I differ, however, is that he feels that he should read the book so that he can adequately refute her claims. In general, I agree with my colleague; there is nothing worse than some megalomaniacal jackass sarcastically bloviating for page after page over a laundry list of cheap, hand picked targets. But back to the topic at hand; after all, this has nothing to do with me or Listen! Listen...!!!. This is about Attention Whorephan Annie.

Time for some hard facts, people. Fuck "Hearts and Minds". Ann Coulter has the American public's gonads in her pale little talons, and we're letting her squeeze 'em like a antique citrus juicer.

Neo-Cons eat this horseshit up with a silver spoon. After essentially brainwashing themselves into believing a self-propagating myth that the media is owned by a cabal of filthy liberals, they are overjoyed to finally see an acid blooded champion breaking free from the weighty bonds of vile leftist propaganda. Oh, and you can quit that self-righteous snickering, my liberal friends; your indignant, red faced stammering and calculated outrage only serves to encourage this obnoxious, insignificant little wannabe and exacerbate the situation for anyone trying to have a serious discussion on the matter of politics.

Yes that's right. Coulter is a parasitic monster, a mosquito in heels who relishes eating her dessert first; in this particular instance, dessert being the self-righteously angry left wing responses which she is savvy enough to have served to her on a gilded plate every time she opens that toxic gob of hers. The real dinner sustaining this otherwise benign and unlovable dilletante is attention. As long as she's able to build yet another house containing a giant room filled with golden coins for her to do a Scrooge McDuck style breaststroke in, she could give less that half a shit where the dough comes from.

Readers: If you've ever found yourself repeating one of her quotes, whether you believe they are gospel or blasphemy, so that you could praise or denounce it, you are a victim of her sly trickery. If you've ever found yourself mad and even remotely entertaining the notion that any of what she says is anything more than an enticing bit of political catnip to draw you into her trap, you've been had. If Ann Coulter has any power in the world of media right now, it is because love her or hate her, you've given it to her, and she is running and shrilly giggling all the way to bank.

Worst. Glamour Shots Photo. Ever.

Look, I'm as guilty as all of you, and in fact, probably moreso. If we were to disregard the content of her ridiculous comments which are carefully hand prepared by Ann like a Hardee's Rise and Shine Biscuit(which incidentally will give one the same kind of indigestion as said Rise and Shine Biscuit), each comment is thoughtfully designed to deliver a maximum payload of outrage to the average citizen's sensibilities. She is extremely dangerous because she is fully cognizant of what she is doing, whether her intended targets are or not. She is both con artist and carnival barker, tricking every last one of us into taking a peek at what horror lies behind that curtain shrouding that venomous little brain of hers at one time or another. It is logical to conclude that she can only be the reincarnation of P.T. Barnum. With a vagina.

The biggest problem with Ann is this: she is perfectly content to use the limited scope of research done for her books in a futile attempt to berate and bully her opponents, and to point a blazing spotlight on her smug countenance, but she won't stand for being forced to shoot at a moving target. On The Tonight Show the other night, Jay merely stuck to asking about the comments about 9/11 widows, which I won't repeat here. Not for decorum's sake, mind you, but because everyone already knows what I am talking about, and the last thing I want to do is perpetuate this ridiculous "news" item for fear of her expediting the swelling of her heaving bank account. Instead of engaging in any kind of unscripted discourse, she made flirty quips and executed coquetteish flips of her blond mane in Jay's direction as a pack of Freepers catcalled and cheered from the audience to give the illusion that there is popular support for this choreogaphed little farce. I suppose if she can't carry a conversation that isn't from a can, she must eventually resort to selling herself as though she were trying out to be the first Miss June centerfold for The American Spectator.

There are those who do not bow to Coulter's ridiculous and inexplicable whims, however. Take the case of McGraw Milhaven's radio show in St. Louis. After making baseless claims about the how the Left's unsavory tactics are contradictory and underhanded, Mr. Milhaven makes the mistake of bringing up an example of a potentially contradictory policy held by the Right Wing. Does she put her Ivy League education to the test? Does she use logic and her deep background in political issues as well as the debating skills she's honed as an attorney to swiftly give Mr. McGraw Milhaven a swift verbal disemboweling?

Nope, not our Ann! When faced with using one's actual values and feelings to debate a topic, Coulter's fight or flight response kicked in, becoming defensive about how ludicrous it she felt it was for Milhaven to stray from the pre-packaged sound bites in her book. She likely spent hours talking into her hairbrush in front of a mirror, practicing so as to catch all the subtle nuances of her snarky snarl the previous night, before she realizing that her grasp of the political world is limited to the pinhole narrow scope of relegated solely to the research for her last book. McGraw's surprise question, which for most politicos would have been no problem, caught her with her proverbial pants down and she hung up. This is clear evidence to me that when people are unwilling to toss her slow pitches to knock out of the park with her preprogrammed bullet points, she loses her mind and melts down like a Hershey chocolate bra on the equator.

There are times, however, where even her pertinacious jerkassery is not enough to deflect attention from the fact that she has no bloody idea what she's talking about. A good example of this is an interview she did with a reporter from the Canadian television in which she was attempting to villify the rest of the world for its lack of cooperation with the United States in its almost sandtastic Ishtar-esque debacle in Iraq right now. At one point she adamently and incorrectly stated that Canada was an US ally in Vietnam. When the reporter attempted to correct her, her response was to continue to vehemently protest this helpful and civil rectification of her error. To argue with this man would be ridiculous since

a) He is a Canadian

b) He would have been of draft age during the time of the Vietnam conflict

c) One of Conservatives' favorite images to peddle regarding middle aged Liberals is that of the draft dodging hippie who burns his draft card and runs away to Canada, which I think would be a pretty clear indicator that if a conscentious objector won't fight for his own country, he's sure as hell not going to run to another country that wants him to do the same thing.

So into keeping her frigid and tenuous grasp on a false reality which she had constructed was she, that rather than let it go with a simple and graceful, "My mistake" or even, "Oops", she informed the reporter she would get back to him.

Big tip of the day: Don't tell people you'll get back to them if you don't plan on doing so, as the person challenging may just use it as a wooden stake through the heart of your flimsy ass argument.

I am making an exception to my mother's rule just this once, so as to illuminate this scenario for the dim: If you ignore her, she won't be a bestselling author. If she's not a bestselling author, she can't be on TV and radio. And if she's not on TV and radio, what's left? It wouldn't be long before she takes that last tumble down from grace where she will become a discredited partisan shill, a mundane, vitriolic little tart whoring her hyperbolic nutbar opinions to anyone who will read her.

In other words, she'll become a blogger.

And we know what some of those people are like...

Technical Difficulties

2006-06-15T07:29:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. I wanted to clue everyone in on the lack of posts recently. For some inexplicable reason, the onboard NIC on my motherboard has been quite flaky for the last few months, but never so terrible as to not come on all evening.

In general, my internet connection has decided raise my hopes by having the activity light come on when the machine is off, only to completely cut off once I turn the machine off. It's equal parts abrupt, random, and just plain frustrating. It's the technological equivalent to getting a lap dance from the most beautiful woman you've ever seen, only to have her reach across and breathily whisper in your ear that she's actually Bill O'Reilly in drag. The initial promise of the situation is quickly replaced by anger and overwhelming nausea.

In any case, I'm going to attempt to find a new standalone network card to install sooner than later. It's my hope that I'll be back to a more regular posting schedule before I go on my trip, but that may not happen.

Anyway, it is now only seven short days until The Kern Returns 2006 and six until I announce the winner of the Kern Returns tagline contest, so if you have been holding onto some witty gem, now is the time, my friends. Go for the gold. Well, the Amazon gift certificate. You know what I mean.

Speaking of Kern Returns, I am going to try to do a little travelogue which I will publish here on Listen! Listen...!!! More detail about how I travel and interact with my peers than you ever wanted or cared to know about!

Alright, gotta drink this sugar free Red Bull and get to work.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Read!: The Works of Brian Wood

2006-06-14T01:27:00.000-07:00

Every industry has its rock stars; one sees the marquee names shining brightly, ensconced in neon and fireworks in their crowded fields which are otherwise populated by individuals trying to break in or hang on. As it turns out, the comic book industry is no different in that regard. There are indeed certain authors of our geeky passion who get a relatively high amount of ink(and deservedly so) in the mainstream press, such as Grant Morrison and Alan Moore.

Lost beneath the media din about books like Seven Soldiers and V For Vendetta, one of America's most determined and talented authors is quietly turning out some of the best stories in any medium, and that author is Brian Wood.

Wood, whose proficiency at writing is only perhaps eclipsed by a dark, unique signature art style which he has honed for several years, has released three separate breakthrough projects within the last year, not including some original graphic novels thrown in for good measure. 2005 and 2006 have turned me into a drooling advocate for the man's work, and I would feel quite remiss in my duties both as a comic fan and as a fan of good storytelling in general if I didn't tell you about three different, but very unique books that you should be reading as of say, yesterday.

Demo
Writer:Brian Wood
Art: Becky Cloonan

Admittedly, up until two years ago, the most indie comic book company whose books I was reading was Dark Horse, and though they still have a fiercely independent spirit, the company has grown large enough to become the Sub Pop of the comic world. Last year, I began reading reviews touting this allegedly amazing maxi-series called Demo, and I am ashamed to say that I was initially so put off by the fact that I wasn't familiar with its publisher, AIT/Planet Lar, that I willfully ignored the reviews despite the overwhelming praise being heaped onto it by critics. It wasn't until I finally let go of my stubborness and read the review for Demo's sixth issue, which I picked up on a whim at Zanadu Comics one Wednesday afternoon. My package hurt for a week afterwards, because after reading this amazing issue I gave myself a well deserved kick in the balls for missing issues 1-5.

At its root, Demo would seem to traverse territory which has been covered to the point of cliche: regular people with superpowers. While this may sound inert and unimpressive on its face, what propels Demo to transcend the established archetypes of reconciling powers with average people is the utter lack of the fantastic around these people. The world of Demo has no heroes or villains, only utterly realistic and fallible human beings.

Artist Becky Cloonan is a perfect collaborative partner for this material. Cloonan's ability to capture the greyest shades of emotional confusion or ambivalence in the characters' expressions is priceless, and this truly demonstrates that it's sometimes the things we say non verbally that are the most powerful.

Somewhere toward the last third of the series, it would seem that there is a slight modification to the theme, and the stories tend to drift further away from the initial premise and more toward the study of the quiet interpersonal dynamics of people's relationships. Interestingly enough, what Wood may have cleverly done is shown us that the "powers" angle while fascinating and well played, is really only a peripheral aspect of this series which is used as a method to draw the reader in so as to examine the most truly awesome of powers inherent in all of us, the power of the human heart.

Local
Writer: Brian Wood
Art: Ryan Kelly

Demo proved to readers and critics that when done correctly, conceptual pieces utilizing self-contained tales yielded some of the most interesting and unique storytelling in any medium. Almost one year later, Wood brings this same big picture approach to a new project which focuses less on the "who", and more on the "where".

Local follows a young, aimless runaway named Megan who finds herself bouncing from town to town in a vain attempt to escape from her life and ultimately, herself. Local's hook is that every issue is set in a different place, an interesting mosaic of various and sundry far flung locations which are so lovingly researched and rendered, they are almost characters in and of themselves.

Ryan Kelly, perhaps best known for his inking work on the Sandman spinoff, Lucifer, is as inspired a choice for this series as Cloonan was for Demo. One can tell instantly that Kelly has put a lot of time and effort into doing visual justice to these unsung towns. This painstaking attention to detail is incredible, as are his characters, who seem to bear at least a passing resemblance to Becky Cloonan's art, with just a touch of Paul Pope for good measure.

Local is amazing in the sense that it consistently layers not only the continuing story of Megan in her quixotic quest to figure out who she is, but we again get such true glimpses of human beings in all of their naked complexity. Wood's decision to bring a recurring character to the world of Local is genius in that it allows him the to tell the kind of incisive personal stories as he did in Demo, Megan is a flexible constant in the self-contained universe of the book, sometimes a main focus of the story as in issue five where her own internal struggle about her identity manifests itself in a very clever and literal way. Sometimes she is merely peripheral, as in issue three where she has a minimal appearance in a story which centers on a popular indie rock group whose members' personal struggles in and out of the band are told in their own words, like the most bittersweet four part harmony you've ever heard.

Ultimately, Megan's presence always gives us a sense of continuity which not only seems important to us in the sense that there is arc of character development for us to follow, but it also drives home one of the main themes of Wood's recent work, which is the underlying and inescapable bonds between human beings, no matter how obvious or invisible they may be.

DMZ
Writer: Brian Wood
Artist: Ricardo Burchielli and Wood

Ever since the first time I read the first trade of The Sandman, I was forever in debt to DC's Vertigo imprint. It's very difficult for a jaded reader to completely recapture the wonder and joy of their maiden voyage into the strange, beautiful world of graphic literature, but by the time I finished the first issue of DMZ, I knew that I may well be holding Vertigo's next flagship title in my hands.

The premise of DMZ is a simple, yet frightening one. A small faction of the US calling themselves "The Free Armies" has broken away from rest of the country, going to ground in New Jersey, with only the island of Manhattan separating them from the rest of America. A young, very green photo tech intern named Matty Roth is chosen to ride along with renowned journalist Viktor Ferguson to do a series of live remotes showing the harsh reality for those people living in the the hellish no man's land between both fronts. Matty's education begins quickly when the helicopter he arrives in is attacked and blown up. Alone and forced to grapple with this savage world with its own strange codes and customs, Matty becomes the reluctant media celebrity, the sole eyes, ears, and voice of the DMZ.

Ricardo Burchielli's artwork does an excellent job of balancing the dark, violent areas of Matty's environment with capturing the confusion, grief and anguish of Matty and the fascinating and sometimes frightening cast of characters who become the subject of his writing. Wood also contributes the odd interior panels, such as the amazing work he did in issue four in which Matty follows a group patrolling what's left of a local park in the dead of winter, which is so starkly and beautifully rendered, one can almost reach in and touch the palpable still on the page.

In DMZ, Wood brings forth a chilling vision of a possible future which is enshrouded in moral ambiguity and the savage desire to cling to a normal life during a morally ambiguous war. Much as he does with the Megan McKeenan character in Local, Wood uses the naive and confused Matty as the perfect set of eyes with which to view the book's conflict. And just like Matty, we have essentially been dropped into a strange new world where nothing makes sense, and everything that would seem to be logically correct is moot, and this raises the emotional stakes of the book exponentially. In a world where most stories have the lines for good and evil practically drawn for us in crayon, DMZ does no such thing, instead forcing us to pay closer attention to grey areas, throw out our preconceived notions of good and evil, and to be brave enough to draw our own conclusions.

Whether you're interested in comics, or merely seeking something outside of the canon of your normal everyday novels, these works by Brian Wood should engage even the most jaded of readers, and I urge you to go to your local comic book store and pick them up as soon as you possibly can.

The Bite Sized Bastard: 6/6/06: Number Of The Numbskull

2006-06-06T07:23:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure what it is with people and superstition, but the general public seems awfully big on it. As though we don't have enough problems in our everyday life, it seems that some individuals aren't happy unless they are fabricating a series of ridiculous events as a way to ascribe evil and bad luck to things.

As I was watching the morning news before leaving for work this morning, the phenomena surrounding today's date, 6/6/06 was so great, that they felt they should devote six or seven minutes to reporting on it, only to determine after talking to a white suburban guy in a kimono(read: bathrobe), that today was not a date of evil, but a day of positivity and unity.

To The Superstitious: That's Right! They're Just Fucking Numbers!

I'm only going to say this once. It's not 6-6-6. There is a zero in there. As much as it's a cute trick to cause a big ruckus about it in an bland attempt to make the shitty looking and most likely superfluous remake of The Omen have a more frightening context, that's about it. If you are the type of person that either gets excited or worried about this shit, find a hobby.

Oh, and speaking of that ungodly looking turd, the only things that looked remotely frightening in the commercials for the "new and improved" Omen film, were Julia Stiles' fake ass crying and some of her hairstyles.

Have a hell of a day!

The Kern Returns Taglines: Kern Edition

2006-06-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. For those of you making your way to the epicenter of debauched fun(read: Jed's place) on the 23rd of this month, I'm excited to see you and/or meet you for the first time. I've started to collect some great taglines from you all, and since I'm not eligible for the contest, I thought I might throw out a couple of my own just for fun. Let the filth commence!

Updated Lines Are In Blue!

"The Kern Returns-Now 23% more housebroken!"

"The Kern Returns...and he isn't above taking pity sex!"

"The Kern: Getting more teabag than an English grandmother since 2004!"

"The Kern Returns: This year, pants optional."

"The Kern Returns 2006: The Enchantment Over Uranus Dance"

"The Kern Returns: Dude, Where's Your Hand?"

"Advances Are Spurned When The Kern Returns!"

"So Nice, We Had To Do It Thrice!"

"Come For The Forking, Stay For The Spooning"

"2 Live Kern: Crotchety As He Wants To Be"

"Food, Folks, and Fucked!"(Apologies To McDonald's)

"The Kern Returns 3: The Magic Is Back Again!"

"The Kern Returns: Taste The Happy!"

"Kern in The Thunder From Down Under...Canada"

"The Kern Returns: Farmers Lock Up Your Daughters. And Your Milking Machines."

"The Kern Returns 2006: Out of the Library, Into Your Living Room!"

"The Kern Returns 2006: The Wrath of Kern"

"Kern: The Return of Vanilla Thunder"

"This summer Kern puts the adage, "I can't get arrested in this town" to the test in The Kern Returns 2006"

"2006: A Kern Odyssey-A Jed Findlay Film"

I'm sure there will be more forthcoming, but I thought this would be a nice start and hopefully spur you glorious and creative bastards on to more great taglines.

Hugs and Shit,

Kern

The Crotchety Bastard: AFA Wars: The Kern Strikes Back

2006-06-01T01:09:00.000-07:00

In Monday's column, I did a small follow up regarding the AFA's seemingly losing battle against the new, with more mortal evil Ford Motor Company, who they contend is sullying America's delicate values and sensibilities with support for a "homosexual agenda". As I said before, this argument is enshrouded in little more than horseshit and mirrors, with a heaping helping of moral relativism to boot.

If there is one thing that the AFA is good at, it's telling people what to be offended about. As an outside observer watching this lumbering beast seemingly pick random targets to decimate with their Godzilla like subtlety and grace, I was always curious as to how each of the particular items made their Billboard Top 100 of Sin. What exactly does it take to get nominated to as one of the AFA's Most Wanted?

Well, I did a little research deep with in the distasteful bowels of the AFA's website, and as it turns out, it appears that it's not all decided by a cabal of top AFA officials as I had incorrectly suspected. It was far more sinister. It turns out that it's a democratic process.

During my time delving into the AFA's electronic den of self congratulatory verbal wanking and misguided religious and political bile, I ran across a disturbing group of subsites, all hawking the same shallow and embarrassing call to arms, each decorated with their own cheap, stock photography backgrounds, and HTML that looked like it was done by the smug little 15 year old bastard on your block who thinks he is far more intelligent than he actually is. They are the following:

One Million Moms
One Million Dads
One Million Youth

I don't know about anyone else, but does it feel weird to anyone else that there isn't just a One Million Citizens? It's interesting that they have chosen this particular approach in an attempt to pick up impressionable youth who are still in the midst of deciding what values they believe in and attempting to start the process of inundating them with an irresponsible and mean spirited belief system before they have had a chance to take in the unfiltered world and make a well thought out decision on their own. While I am sure there are people arguing that it is the job of a parent to instill a code of ethics in their children, they are only half right. There is a difference between parental guidance and the wholesale installation of hate, and teaching the lesson that if one doesn't see the world behaving the way they want, they only have to use intimidation and extortion to get what they want. Here's something I learned as a kid: when a group uses these kinds of cheap and underhanded tactics to recruit children like fucking chickenhawks we call that an

God Bless The Electric Company

It's not coincidental that I use this word, as it is a favorite of the AFA. In their narrow context it means, "people doing things we don't like or agree with". And it's also no coincidence that this word they so frequently flaunt and toss around carries a very dirty stigma; the connotation of the word "agenda" is very unsavory, as though it's something being peddled in a back alley or foisted on an unsuspecting public who doesn't want it.

Interestingly, the website for OMY(possibly the most ridiculous sounding acronym I've ever heard, by the way) operates a little differently than its parentally named sister sites. According to OMY!'s website the standard operating procedure is as follows:

* We contact you, via e-mail, with information about a particular target (TV network, sponsor, or station), giving you a link to a "take action" page on the website.

*Following instructions on the page, you e-mail the responsible party voicing your concern.

* Through a "tell-a-friend" feature on the page you forward the take action information to your friends and family members encouraging them to join the OneMillionYouth.com campaign and voice their concerns as well.

What the hell...? Who is this mysterious "We"? A "particular target" for you to "take action" against? For crying out loud, the language makes this sound less like teen activism, and more like Don's Junior Hit Squad. And did anyone catch the little nugget where after being e-mailed about the "target" the teen in question is supposed to "e-mail the responsible party voicing your concern"?

This sounds less like OMY and more like The Manchurian Candidate. The only thing missing from this particular transaction is Frank Sinatra having weird dreams and the kids being handed decks of cards as they wait by their computers. The fact of the matter is that these kids don't know what "their" concerns are. As far as it goes, the only concerns they likely have are going to the mall, wearing lip gloss, or riding their bikes. If members of the AFA want to teach someone to mindlessly spit back their ridiculous beliefs back to them for their own sense of self vindication, they should buy a parrot.

A word for AFA parents: Children should not be used as little ventriloquist dummies in your spiteful little flights of fancy. If they grow up to be as ignorant as you on their own, its one thing, but at least give them a chance to have an open mind before you wall it shut for good and they are forever doomed to a life miserably fighting a culture war that you made up to justify a lifetime of narrow minded views and half baked ideological pablum.

The most amusing thing to note about the differences between the sites for One Million Moms and One Million Dads is this: there aren't any.

Ok, this is a slight overstatement of the facts, but only slight. Upon close examination of both, the differences between the two are actually little more than cosmetic. Whereas One Million Dads has a masculine red color scheme, things are a little more dainty and sedate over at One Million Moms, who have chosen a calming purple hue and pictures of a mom with a daughter over a father and son. The actual content in the call to arms for both sexes is relatively unchanged. Here's an amusing example from their current campaign against Mitchum deodorant.

From the One Million Moms site:

Revlon is portraying women as little more than sex objects in their latest ad for Mitchum anti-perspirant. Here's a description of the ad we received:

The commercial showed the back of a topless woman in bed being photographed by the man in her bed. The voice-over says, "If you convince her the pictures are only for your personal collection, you're a Mitchum man."

This is one of the most offensive commercials I've seen on many levels. When I went to their website, http://www.mitchumman.com/, I was treated to an opening ad that had three scantily clad women pictured with the headline, "If menage a trios (three-way sex) is the only French phrase you know, you're a Mitchum man." The Revlon Corporation was listed as the parent company on the site.

From my perspective as a woman, I will gladly stop buying any Revlon products if this demeaning, exploitative and filthy approach is their way of selling products!

Let Revlon know their Mitchum ads are very disrespectful towards women.

Uh-huh. Ok, now how about from One Million Dads?

The commercial showed the back of a topless woman in bed being photographed by the man in her bed. The voice-over says, "If you convince her the pictures are only for your personal collection, you're a Mitchum man."

This is one of the most offensive commercials I've seen on many levels. When I went to their website, http://www.mitchumman.com/, I was treated to an opening ad that had three scantily clad women pictured with the headline, "If menage a trios (three-way sex) is the only French phrase you know, you're a Mitchum man." The Revlon Corporation was listed as the parent company on the site.

From my perspective as a woman, I will gladly stop buying any Revlon products if this demeaning, exploitative and filthy approach is their way of selling products!

Let Revlon know their Mitchum ads are very disrespectful towards women.

I for one find it commendable that the legion of upstanding males that make up One Million Dads are so in touch with their feminine sides that they are able to be quoted as saying something like, "From my perspective as a woman...". It shows a lot of sensitivity.

Of course, according to Occam's Razor, which states that the most obvious solution is also most likely the correct one, would lead anyone whose head is not currently lying face down in their own sick or a lobotomy patient to realize that the mastermind behind both of these sites isn't even bothering to take the time to adjust the content for each individual site. How's that for attention to detail?

My feeling on the matter is that this is an illustration of the laziest, peabrained attempt at cultural activism I have seen in a long while, and further proves the point that none of the people who actually subscribe to this monument of golden horseshit actually care that they're being told what to believe, what to fear and what to hate. Why waste precious brain cells when one can just join the damned website and have their marching orders sent to them on a weekly basis so that they can do their part in a completely fabricated war for what they deem to be good, clean American values?

The most disturbing feature I ran across on both the One Million Moms and One Million Dads page was a note imploring the reader to help bring purveyors of filth to justice. See the following:

NOTE: If you see a commercial or program which is offensive, email us the information.Many of you have done this, and it is very helpful.

You know I'm quite glad they brought that up, because I don't know about the rest of you, but there have been a few things on television that have been offending my delicate sensibilities as of late. Thanks to the encouragement of One Million Dads, I decided that I would not be silent any longer and let these swine pollute my recreational television experience.I would also like to point out some of the horrendous trash being foisted upon me when I switch on the set. So I sent them the following e-mail...

First Name: Alexander
Last Name: Kern
Type of Complaint: Program
Name of Complaint: Abomination
Network: ABC, WB, CBN

Description:

I was very moved by your personal testimonies regarding offensive shows on television. I for one believe that when fine, upstanding people are forced to sit through a morass of disturbing garbage that is completely antithetical to their belief systems, it is time to take action. While I know I could turn off the television set, I just feel like I would just be turning my back on the problem, and if we just go read a book or ignore it, then evil will surely triumph, and as a fine upstanding member of my community I just cannot in good conscience let that happen. So I would like to tell you about several programs that I feel have absolutely no business poisoning the hearts and mind of not only impressionable youth, but adults who just don't know what is best for them. Thank goodness that One Million Dads is on the job!

The first show is called 7th Heaven(The WB, Mondays at 8/7 Central). I don't know if you've ever seen this show, but I was personally appalled. First of all, the premise is disgusting. For an entire hour we are treated to the treacly adventures of a minister and his family and their unrealistic and candy coated worldview. The way they depict sex out of wedlock as a "sin" is absolutely unacceptable. As a champion of whores and good times*, I feel that this "family oriented" show unfairly represents a large segment of the population that shares my viewpoint, and to be honest with you, there are a lot of us out there. The show is nothing but warm hugs, sincere life lessons, and rainbows, and I find this patently offensive. As you may or may not have heard, the sickos who enjoy this perverse form of "entertainment" have managed to circumvent the will of the general public and have gotten the show a stay of execution after it was nearly down for the count. It is for this reason that I think we should start a campaign calling for the boycott of 7th Heaven and all of its advertisers. I have a distinct feeling that this alone is not going to work, unfortunately, as these people seem to want to have a say in what they watch. If it comes down to it, we need to threaten to boycott the local WB affiliates in our towns to make sure that this fluffy abomination doesn't warp otherwise decent folks.

Secondly, there is indeed another show which has been weighing heavily on my soul lately. You may have heard of it, it's on ABC Sunday nights at 8/7 Central and it's called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. It's a show where some "deserving" family has their old residence demolished so that a team of experts headed up by a despicable do-gooder named Ty Pennington and his merry band of contractors and builders bring some light to the families lives after suffering through a battery of hardships. Well, I say no more! These displays of blatant generosity are like a flaming dagger to my nether regions every time I see their smiling faces. Something must be done about this. I, for one, cannot sit idly by while people are having a gay old time helping the needy. This show sets an awful precedent that people deserve compassion rather than judgement. This will unravel the very fabric of an upright society, correct? How can you be expected to win the culture war armed with flowers and feelings like a bunch of "hippies"?

I suggest that we send a clear message to ABC. We need to threaten to boycott their sponsors if they are not willing to sit down and say to these people, "Look, I don't care if you've taken in 17 foster children. If you want to flaunt your "alternative family", then that's your problem."

Oh, but the most egregiously offensive show on television by far is called The 700 Club. There's a loathsome little toad of a man who hosts the show, and he has slathered himself in self righteousness like a body builder in baby oil. I think his name is Pat Robertson. Anyhow, the show has a decidedly religious bent, and that makes me rather uncomfortable. You know, I'm not a bigot; I am a very live and let live kind of guy. But this... this...lifestyle of his is undoubtedly a choice. And you know, frankly I don't mind what these people do in their homes behind closed doors, but when they start running around and flaunting it in people's faces, that's when I have to draw the line. Next thing you know they're going to want to have parades or something. And do I even need to mention his senile blatherings about Chavez and the blatant lies regarding his physical fitness? He is a false and shallow human being, and a terrible role model. The continuation of The 700 Club is an irresponsible and depraved act on the part of the channels which show it, and we should mobilize post haste to have it removed.

Let me just say, that I am ever so grateful for a site like One Million Dads. Without this outlet, average people like me would never get the chance to get the word out about some of the most vile of poisons currently choking the life out of a land of otherwise fine upstanding citizens.

Sincerely,

Alexander Kern

On the surface, those who know The Crotchety Bastard are getting a moist towelette at this point as some of the dripping sarcasm from my poison pen letter managed to dribble onto their desktops. Strange as it may sound, however, there is a little bit of truth to what I said in the last paragraph. I am glad that I now know that these particularly twisted branches of the diseased tree of the AFA, with its hateful roots bearing poisoned fruit exists, because the eagerness of the organization to let its members form their own overbearing posses to police the rest of us illustrates the inherent dangers of having these Minutemen patrolling the behavioral boundaries of what is deemed acceptable.

These foot soldiers of the AFA would love to believe that they are on the front lines of a battle for common decency, policing the guilty and winning a fabricated culture war, but the truth is that they are ultimately the losers in this high stakes game of cops and robbers; for all of their shiny homemade badges and citizens' arrests, they are ultimately and ironically prisoners of their own all consuming self-righteousness, handcuffed to each other with shackles of faulty, ubstantiated rhetoric, and blinded by the intensity of the overwhelmingly bright and truthful spotlight of moral relativism as it is shining directly in their smirking faces when confronted during interrogation.

Book 'em, Kern-o...

[* Please note that in real life, Kern is actually quite ambivalent about both whores and good times.-Ed.]

The Crotchety Bastard: AFA Wars: A New Dope

2006-05-29T00:55:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that the inherent problem with having an arch-enemy is that it's difficult to frame new stories about them. I don't know how comic writers do it to be quite honest. It's amazing that after all this time, someone out there is able to tell yet another story about Batman versus The Joker without the collective comic reading audience rolling their eyes and passing out from boredom. You see, I feel like I have the same problem when writing about the AFA. Yes, for my purposes Donald E. Wildmon is The Joker; a grinning, malevolent force with warped beliefs that he seems to have somehow foisted on an unsuspecting public. The question is, have I exhausted all the possible storylines?

Well, I thought so. But as it turns out, I never took myself off of the AFA's mailing list after the entire Book Of Daniel Debacle. I'm used to getting a MartyrMail from them once a week or so, decrying the same old shit, the spiteful mobius strip of their agenda over and over again. For some reason though, they've been sending out AFA ActionAlerts(snappy title!) like crazy lately which means that this is going to be Part One of a two part AFA story. Just like the Batman tv show!

One of the funniest things to come out of this barrage of lunacy lately is a follow up to a story I addressed in March, regarding the outrage of the AFA for having their secret backroom deal thwarted by (gasp!) The Gay Agenda[insert ominous music here]. In their attempt to garner support, they've recently stooped to some pretty surprising, although admittedly ironic and hilarious tactics. Take this recent AFA ActionAlert for example:

Dear Alexander,

It's me, Margaret...

When Ford responds to those who write concerning their promotion of homosexual marriage, the response they get from Ford's Customer Relationship Center says their support "is a strong commitment we intend to carry forward with no exception.

Those bastards! How dare they take a stand against being bullied and extorted by the religious second cousins of the mutant family of The Hills Have Eyes!

For Ford, that support also includes homosexual polygamy.

I see. I'm sure you have some hard evidence to back up this claim...?

To show those supporting traditional marriage they mean business, Ford sponsored the June 6 issue of the homosexual publication The Advocate. The cover reads: "Polygamy & Gay Men. Dirty laundry or sexual freedom? How gay men handle multiple partners." The article promotes homosexual polygamy.

Ooh, touche, Wildmon! This must be the case, because as everyone with half a brain knows, that if there is an article about a subject it must be endorsing it. Does this then mean that you support the weekly party Runt, simply because you were talking about it in your e-mail?

Well, come on Donny, you can't have it both ways! Either The Advocate was most likely taking an objective look at gay polygamy(none of whose practitioners are currently on the FBI's most wanted list at the moment last time I checked), or it means that anytime someone uses a subject as a point of discussion it means that they are advocating it. If that's the case, Don, how long have you been into "a weekly party for bite-size gay guys and the men who love them?"

Ford sponsored the publication with a full page back cover advertising Ford Motor company product Volvo and a full page ad for all Ford brands with the line: "Ford Motor Company. Standing strong with America's families and communities."

Ford's support for the magazine's promotion of homosexual polygamy leaves no doubt that Ford means to continue pushing the homosexual agenda, even including homosexual polygamy.

I am beginning to wonder if Rev. Wildmon really grasps what an agenda is. I thought I would ask my old friend Webster. No, it's not Emmanuel Lewis, in case you were wondering.

Main Entry: agen·da
Pronunciation: &amp;-'jen-d&
Function: noun
Etymology: Latin, neuter plural of agendum, gerundive of agere
1 : a list or outline of things to be considered or done
2 : an underlying often ideological plan or program

Hmm...so perhaps our man Don can enlighten us on what exactly the homosexual agenda is. Because as far as I can figure, I've never seen anything remotely resembling either of these things. I've never seen a mission statement per se. Though, if there were a list, I imagine it might look something like this:

Homosexual Agenda(Beta):

1. Be Oneself
2. Deal With Heaps of Baseless Bigotry and Unfounded Disgust On A Regular Basis
3. Constantly Fight For Respect
4. Rinse and Repeat

Of course, it's not like the AFA would know anything about agendas.

Let's put it this way: I can't remember ever seeing any newsletters going out in which the gay community was going to boycott a company for advertising in Better Homes and Gardens or sponsoring Doc on PAX.

To see the front cover, the contents page and the ads for Ford and Volvo, click here. I must warn you, it will be offensive to many. The pages show the contents of the magazine which Ford helped sponsor with two full-page ads, but I felt we must include the proof. If you don't want to see it, please don't click the link.

Well, not to ruin the suspense but the most provocative thing on there are three half naked dudes sitting on each other's laps, which for my money is no more risque than a Calvin Klein ad. But more importantly, the ad which they are are tripping over themselves about looks like this:

Standing strong with America's families and communities? What an abomination! Family and community are by far one of the biggest things wrong with America today. Why, if we didn't have these stupid "families" there would be no domestic abuse! And community! Don't get me started...by God, things were so much better back when no one cared about their fellow man and no one had any sense of civic responsibility or helping one another.

But in all seriousness, when one reads his outrage about the ad and then one is able to see it for themselves, it's ludicrous. Honestly, I for one was expecting far worse from his description. You would have thought that it was depicting someone shoving their wang through a glory hole in the armrest or someone's nutsack was hanging off the rearview like a pair of fuzzy dice.

The big irony to me is that someone from the AFA has to go through these gay publications which they allegdly abhor to find these articles, which apparently make them ill, so that they can post them for all the other members of the flock to look at in order to get angry. Who gets that job? Does Don "take one for the team" and sit in a dark room alone paging through Out and The Advocate? Or do they draw straws?

The first time I saw they were doing this, I admittedly had to laugh out loud because my first thought was some old lady drinking Swiss Miss with little marshmallows in it and a bunch of pictures of her precious grandchildren on her desk staring at her as she was forced to flip through articles with subtitles such as, "Rockin' and raunchy queer clubs are making a comeback, and we tell you where the three hottest places to play are." and "...porn stars cook up their favorite meals for your pleasure..." Then again, there is a chance it's actually good for her. Builds character, as most older people like to say.

At their stockholders meeting on May 11, Ford voted 95% of the ballots cast to continue their support of the homosexual agenda rather than be neutral in the cultural battle.

The boycott is working. The value of Ford stock has gone down 13% since the boycott began, while sales continue to drop.

I find this to be interesting. So, what you're saying is that they are going to vote for something despite the fact that your little pantywaist stunt is hurting their business. This tells me one of two things. Either you are actually cutting into their bottom line, but they actually believe in a principle far more than money, which is in and of itself one of the more admirable things I've heard of a corporation doing as of late, or you are completely full of shit, and are again trying to pin the coincidental timing of your latest hissyfit on an already declining market for automobiles which has been on the decline for a far longer time than your precious boycott began. Unless you have any proof that there is a direct corallary between the drop in stock and the boycott, you should likely shut the holy fuck up.

Take Action

* Forward this email to a Ford dealer near you. Click here (then click on the logo) to find email addresses of Ford dealers near you. It is very important that Ford know of your participation in the boycott.

* Sign the Boycott Ford Pledge if you haven't already done so.

* Print out and distribute the Boycott Ford Petition. Click here.

* Finally, forward this to your friends and family so they can be aware of Ford's support of homosexual marriage.

Click Here to Sign the Ford Boycott Pledge Now!

No, no, no, and no.

If you think our efforts are worthy, would you please support us with a small gift? Thank you for caring enough to get involved.

I'd love to send a small gift. Say a gift subscription to Out Magazine, perhaps. I think that would provide him with hours of material to be enraged about, and it would give him 43% of the current newstand price that he's currently paying. Thoughts?

Sincerely,

Donald E. Wildmon, Founder and Chairman
American Family Association

P.S. Please forward this e-mail message to your family and friends!

P.S. Ahfuckyou!

I don't know about you, but I'm quite sick of the one sidedness of these assaults on people's rights, and having these cowards hide behind shields made of fiscal threats and religious rhetoric. Which is why I am going to take the fight to them.

Will our intrepid hero make it out of this laboriously constructed trap of self righteous blather?

Stay tuned, dear reader.

Same Crotchety Time, Same Crotchety channel!

Delays And Postponements

2006-05-24T06:17:00.000-07:00

Hello all. I just wanted to let you know that updates here at Listen! Listen...may be sporadic for the next couple of weeks, as I am going to be a lot busier at work, hence, I will be needing to get to bed quite a bit earlier. As some of you probably know, I generally do my best writing in the middle of the night or thereabouts, so rather than throw a bunch of lackluster crap down your gullets, I'm going to go for quality over quantity. So here's hoping I can churn out at least a few good pieces in the next week and a half.

Hopefully this isn't a crushing disappointment to all twenty-six of you who might be reading on a given day, and thanks for your understanding in advance.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Kern Returns Countdown

2006-05-23T00:01:00.000-07:00

Hello readers. I don't know about you, but I can barely contain my excitement for my return to DM. It looks like it's now about one month from Kern Returns 2006, and finally the Taglines for the contest have started to roll in. The Sheriff, on top of his game as usual, has fired a brilliant opening salvo.

However, there is plenty of time to get in on the action and win an Amazon gift certificate! Remember to send all entries to thediscerningkern@gmail.com and cross your fingers.

You can't win if you don't play, so send me something today!

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Watch!/The Crotchety Bastard Special: Upfronts And Backhands or How I Quit Worrying And Learned To Hate Network TV

2006-05-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

Today is a first for Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!!, as we do a crossover, just like in comic books! Technically, since it's about TV it should be a Watch! item. However, because the subject pissed me off so much, it was also kind of under Crotchety Bastard jurisdiction. So taking a cue from the genius of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I am combining the two today.

This post is dedicated to Fred Goss, who has been screwed over twice: First on Significant Others(I should have watched the first time. I'm so sorry!) and now with Sons and Daughters. Everyone should go over to his blog and show him some support. If Sons and Daughters doesn't manage to make it to a new network, everyone should check out his next project, whatever it may be.

Fred Goss: Comedic Genius

Good luck, Fred.

It's one thing to lose a television show you really enjoy to a draconian group like the AFA who has made a mission to get it cancelled to fulfill some bizarro moral crusade or to watch it suffer collapse under the weight of its own glorious precedents(cough*Gilmore Girls*cough), but it's nearly impossible to express the abject frustration one feels when watching smart shows being toed out under the heavy boot of whoever has the final say about what programs they forsee going the distance the next season.

Yes, you guessed it. It's that time of year again, where the network representatives stand together for a few days in a high stakes game of Russian roulette with their Fall schedules. They call them Upfronts. I call it a bloody farce. In this particular instance, I am speaking specifically of this crop of clueless prognosticators who use their Ivy League educations and their uncanny sense of taste to envision the next crop of serialized entertainment which will make the American public opt against leaving the couch or talking to one another. Given how many well written intelligent shows are getting the walk of shame out of the network's bedrooms these days, I can only suggest that someone give this crop of wunderkind a swift kick in their cloudy crystal balls.

The impetus for this column is the news that one of my favorite new shows this year, Fred Goss and Nick Holly's astoundingly funny Sons and Daughters got the axe. And so it goes: another well conceived show with more potential than any of the half baked comedies that ABC has unleashed on an unwitting and unwilling public in the last five years has unceremoniously been dumped like a pimple faced teen without the comfort of so much as a good bye handjob. Crying out loud, ABC, you could've at least given them their season finale instead of shoving back to back blocks of Hope and Faith up our asses like a jagged Kelly Ripa shaped suppository.

Don't get me wrong. I've gotten relatively used to a steady diet of disappointment in this arena. I've seen countless shows that were designed for people who appreciate an unconventional approach to entertainment. After the crushing blow of watching deserving shows such as Eyes and Arrested Development get tossed out with nary a thought by their respective networks, I now assume that no decent show that dares to be different is safe. So what is it with the continued decimation of all of the smart shows that don't feel the need to pander to and insult an audience's intelligence that bothers me most of all?

Simply put, my anger springs from watching networks filling perfectly worthy and valid spots with God awful shows whose advocates are either making Faustian bargains with Satan or presumably have some very incriminating polaroids of the one of the heads of programming stirring the punch with his cock at the Christmas party when he thought no one was looking. These seem to be the only plausible reasons to me why some of the absolute creme de la crap seems to stick around like roaches after a nuclear holocaust. Let's take a look at the aftermath that the upfronts hath wrought shall we?

NBC: Honestly there isn't a whole lot to complain about here. Color me shocked, but it seems that NBC has done a good job of disposing of the fossilized turds(Surface, Four Kings, E-Ring) that littered the schedule and are looking to add some seemingly decent new shows such as Heroes, which I think will be awesome, despite the fact that it bears an almost uncomfortable similarity to the premise of The 4400.

[Insert King & I Joke Here]

The only thing that still puzzles the bejeezus out of me is the continued popularity of Deal or No Deal. My feeling is that the target audience for Deal or No Deal is made up of polar opposites. It's either a giant porn for behavioral economists to wank to or its a game show crazy bunch of lunatics who need a game show whose rules are so basic, they make The Price Is Right look like the Jeopardy! Tournament of Champions. Add in the fact that the "now with 100 percent more bald!" Howie Mandel is creepier than a lecherous uncle at the kids' table during Thanksgiving dinner, and you have an odd cultural phenomenon that won't end fast enough for me.

Fox and CW: As I write this, Fox and the CW have not given their firm announcements as to what's staying and what's going, but I am saddened by a couple of things: the complete black hole that Gilmore Girls seems to have been sucked into and will likely never escape from, and CW's refusal to renew Everwood, which was a genuinely good show about family that didn't pander like the ass kissing schmaltzfest known as Seventh Heaven, which has been resurrected.

I admit, on occassion, I have seen Seventh Heaven, which is why I know that it sucks. Not in that guilty trash TV, ashamed to tell your friends you watch it kind of way, either. That's why I watch One Tree Hill. No, it sucks because I find it appalling that in this day and age that they are still trying to soft pedal around issues like teen sex and drug use. From the gloom and doom approach they take to pre-marital sex, one gets the impression that in the Camden household, one's penis would likely explode like a sin filled lust pinata upon penetration. And not in a good way.

In WTF?? news, The War At Home has been renewed. Yes! One more season of unfunny jokes, stiff acting, and those brilliant "asides" they do. How interesting! Now to be serious: Michael Rappaport is so wooden, he may as well have someone's hand up his ass moving his mouth when it's time for his oh-so-witty dialogue. This show is as about as funny as a rectal ulcer, yet somehow manages to be more painful. I can only hope that someone up there at Fox has enough intelligence to yank this shitcom before mid-season, but given their track record, it will probably become their next flagship show.

On the upside, Fox is going to definitely renew the best new science geek crime show of last year, Bones. If you've not seen Bones, the adventures of a noted forensic anthropologist and her FBI partner, you're doing yourself a great disservice as the writing and characterization in the show are top notch. It's humorous, thought provoking, and you can cut the sexual tension between David Boreanaz and Emily Deschanel(yes, Zoe's sister) with a large indiginous cutting tool.

Bones and Booth = Hot.

Speaking of Fox, I haven't heard the official word yet, but I have seen mumblings that The Loop has also been renewed, which pleases me greatly. The absurd tales of a junior executive who tries to balance his young, fun life with that of the high stakes world of international airlines was possibly one of the biggest and funniest surprises from last season. Phillip Baker Hall and Mimi Rogers especially steal the show, especially Rogers, whose vampy Mrs. Robinson routine has me rolling on the floor every episode. Cross your fingers, people. And if you've not seen it, shame on you. I'm sending over a pack of sexually frustrated wolverines to your home or place of business to do violent and unspeakable things to your leg until you do, since these petitions I keep signing for shows to stay on seem to be doing sweet fuck all.

ABC: Ah, ABC. I have saved the worst for last.

First of all, I would like to thank ABC for Lost. Because frankly without it, I would actually forget that you even exist. I think your removal of Sons And Daughters from your schedule after pitting it against some of the stiffest competition all week including a David and Goliath sized dogfight with an American Idol lead-in to House no less, is a surefire sign that you guys are five shades of chickenshit. You realized that without a laugh track and an easy, comfortable pigeonhole to shove it into you might actually have to nurture a good show. Your solution? Hell, I know! We'll order more episodes of that bland, mindless schlub with hot wife, paint by numbers sitcom According To Jim! High fives for everyone!

Side Effects May Include Drowsiness, Irratibility, and Nausea

You pathetic bastards...the only high five you'll get from me is in the form of a closed fist upside your fucking head so I can hear the three braincells that helped you make such a brilliant decision rattle around like gumballs in a tupperware bowl. Are you fucking serious right now? According To Jim?

Well, According To Kern, that show is as appetizing as yak testicle brulee. I liked it better the first time when it was called Yes, Dear. No, wait...I liked it better when it was called Still Standing. Actually, no, I liked it better when it was called any formulaic shit pile with a clueless, but benign and big hearted father with a wife who is so far out of his league, it stretches the boundaries of the show from situation comedy to science fiction; only in some alternate universe would women like these not only look at one of these bloated dolts, but would allow their gentials anywhere near them. Finally, toss in a wacky neighbor/shifty in laws and just add viewers who have given up on quality plots and writing and presto! Instant modern sitcom!

Open notice to show creators and networks: If I wanted formulaic entertainment, I'd sit around and do quadratic equations during prime time.

Not Even Girl On Girl Action Could Save Hope & Faith

Oh, and as far as Hope and Faith, I had Hope and Faith that you'd put viewers out of their misery by wiping this dingleberry off of the ass of Friday night television after the first season, but it's become pretty obvious that you've got a problem getting rid of excess crap. Did I mention Ted McGinley aka The Show Killer was a co-star? I rest my case, your honor.

This fall it appears that you've got at least one offbeat show called Let's Rob... It's too bad it sounds as though a crack team of lemurs with attention deficit disorder and drinking problems cobbled it together. The premise, a bunch of schmoes plotting to rob Mick Jagger's house, seems like it would be kind of amusing if it were perhaps a feature length film that lasted no more than ninety minutes or so. But a series? I can see the pitch now..."Yeah, see it's like Thief, except without any of discernible talent, drama, or internal conflict. But it's got Mick Jagger, dude!(Starts singing Start Me Up, much to the chagrin of everyone in the room)" Mick, you're a legend. We pretended to forget about Freejack. You owe us, Mick. For the love of God, man, walk away. Please.

Have you learned nothing ABC? Your hamfisted bungling of Sons And Daughters proves that you have a lot to learn when it comes to handling comedic properties. Instead of ordering yet another season of lame half assed jokes, you had a shot to be edgy and perhaps enjoy some of the same success that unconventional shows like My Name Is Earl and The Office have brought to NBC, but your fear of skewing anywhere but the inane, vanilla stylings of TGIF(which in my mind means Thank God It's Fucking[Over]) is going to hold you back. It's a brave new world, and some of the better comedies today reflect that. You've hit the point of no return, ABC, and wanking over the memory of Steve Urkel pulling in big numbers on Fridays is not going to save your ass.

Yes, you had a stellar year last year, but that's no reason to get smug and complacent. You may may be closing in on the dramatic market with Lost, Grey's Anatomy, and Desperate Housewives, but let me just say, you're so hopelessly behind in the comedy department it's not even funny.

By the time this week is over, all of the mysteries will be laid bare, and we will see winners and the losers. The victors and and victims. I'm not in television, and I imagine the programming and counter-programming is a difficult gig, but as a fan, I know that there is a small part of every viewer that hates to watch several shows they love circle the drain without any fanfare, while other seemingly more mediocre shows will live on, and it is that part that screams in frustration every time a new Fall schedule comes out. It is this part of me who looks at how some really great shows have been buried alive the last couple of years which makes me think that the only thing upfront about the Upfronts is the lack of regard that the networks seem to have for intelligent programming and the overwheming contempt they hold for the viewing audience they're programming for.

Updates, Schmupdates

2006-05-16T07:38:00.000-07:00

Hey all. Just a reminder that I haven't seen any entries in The Kern Returns tagline contest as of yet, and that there is indeed a 25 and 10 dollar prize for Amazon.com at stake, so if you think of anything funny send it along to thediscerningkern@gmail.com.

I was also thinking recently that I would love it if there were any particular world or pop cultural issues that anyone would like to see handled in The Crotchety Bastard column. If you see any sort of lame events that you would love to see lambasted and ripped to shreds, send those concepts to the address above.

Have a decent day and I'll see you tomorrow with some scathing bile about Network TV.

Kern: Poster Boy For The Shut In Set

2006-05-15T07:36:00.000-07:00

A More Constructive Way For Kern To Use His Hands

Growing up, I used to be on top of video games, much like schoolyard bullies were on top of me. I could almost always sense when there was going to be a shift in the climate of video games, as though I could sniff out the wave of antiquity that was going to wash another system out to its doom, or until retro gamers started drooling like Pavolvian dogs and snapping them up on eBay. A nerdly sixth sense, if you will. My practically useless(but fun) intuition stayed with me all the way through the birth of Sony's first Playstation. Those were good times, but somewhere after that I pretty much gave up on console gaming.

I'm not quite sure if it was the case that I cared more about building a better gaming computer or if it was just that the next step up was a little too steep for a 21 year old trying to move out of the house, but by the time Playstation 2 rolled out, at the time I just didn't get excited. Several years later was I enthralled by the odd aesthetics and the hardcore hardware of the XBox? Not particularly.

Nostalgia, as we well know, generally has a way of catching up to us and making us answer questions about our past habits. It didn't occur to me until the other day that it had been almost an entire decade since I'd felt the childhood thrill of hooking up a exorbitantly expensive hunk of plastic and mindlessly indulging my inner eight year old, and that prices on PS2's and Xbox's have dropped dramatically. Besides that, as someone who has been increasingly sucked into the thrilling high speed world of racing, I realized that I must own Gran Turismo 4, which I hear is arguably the best racing game available. I couldn't help it. That inner eight year old shares my debit card now and he made the order on Friday.

When I mentioned this to a couple of my friends at work, the funniest response came from Sarah, who quickly replied, "Well great. Now he'll never go outside!"

Ah ha ha...ah...it's funny 'cause it's true! And that's ok with me. I mean, come on, didn't you hear?

If Pasty Is The New Tan, just call me George Hamilton.

The Crotchety Bastard: Lightning Round Edition

2006-05-12T02:30:00.000-07:00

Hello children, guess who's back?

No, it's not some reputable writer who is going to write a thoughtful and heartfelt personal narrative about some random warm and touching subject. It is your old friend, the Crotchety Bastard.

Since it's been a while, I thought we'd give another shot to the Lightning Round format of The Crotchety Bastard, which condenses all of the unbridled and misdirected bile of one of my usual six page horse pill manifestos and slices it up into fun bite sized pieces for easier indigestion. I'm a little rusty, so please, be gentle...

1. Fall Out Fallout

Approximated Artist Sketch of Disgruntled Mother

Let's just get this out of the way: I don't like Fallout Boy. They seem to be part of some odd permutation of the once legitimate emo genre whose highlights now include insipid thumbsucking lyrics, wearing polo shirts with ties, and killer riffs that are almost hardcore enough for your Grandma. That being said, it's with a great sense of confusion that I have to offer props to Fallout Boy member Pete Wentz for not backing down while under pressure from a disgruntled and out of touch mother who drove a garbage truck filled with equal parts stupid and hyperbole and dumped it into the willing mouths of an otherwise bored media.

Apparently, some yay-hoo in the Charlotte, North Carolina area became enraged after an evening playing chaperone to her two young daughters at their May 2 concert. It just so happens that her letter was published for open consumption, and I'm going to put it up so we're all on the same page before I give her the kick in the box she's so righteously earned.

I took my daughters to your concert in Charlotte, NC last night and was very dissappointed in the show.

She's disappointed with the show and I get that. I would be pissed off if I had to sit through their music too, but it sounds like her daughters are too young to escort themselves to the show, so as a parent you either go and do it for the kids or you send them with a older friend of the family who doesn't have a stick lodged squarely in the rectal cavity.

The ticket said "ALL AGES". F & L and your band was very foul mouthed and anti-morals.

And you are obviously very anti-grammar.

Who do you think finances the sale of CDs and Tickets, Hello - Parents...Charlotte is not the demoralized city that liberal San Fransico and other cities across the North and West are.

Well, at least she's not prone to making baseless, categorical statements about entire segments of the population who might actually have cultural events that don't involve Skoal, husband calling contests, and bedsheets.

I am going to contact the local andnational news media, and the arenas that you are touring in the future anddo my best to be a thorn in your side. I had looked forward to this concert with my girls for months.

One of the inherent problems I see when dealing with people like this disgruntled individual is that by feeling a unquenchable desire to discredit their lunacy, there is almost a sense of creedence lent to their inane babblings. As you can well see, an email from a pathetic, inflexible hag has made its way into the national spotlight, thus giving her the forum she so desperately wanted in the first place. This is a lamentable result to be sure, but not as lamentable as her strange compulsion to complain about the band's lack of moral fiber after saying she was looking forward to this concert with her girls for months.

This may be a stupid question, but if she was so into taking the girls to the show, wouldn't she have done a little research about the band before taking them? I would imagine song titles like "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More Touch Me" would have raised a red flag for a woman of such unyielding integrity as our poison pen yielding mother of the year. A little cultural awareness would have also illustrated that it's not out of the realm of possibility that her daughters may have stumbled on a picture of Pete Wentz's peter after his Sidekick was hacked and the pictures made their way to the internet. The point is, there are plenty of indicators as to where the band is coming from, so I find it ludicrous that a person who prides herself on policing values would not only be so oblivious to the nature of the band before the show, but then to also claim that they were "looking forward to" the show.

I didnt spend over $200.00 for tickets,gas, food, and unforturnately shirts that I purchased for them before theconcerts, for you to give your own personal political testimony, cursing anyone who disagreed. This was a concert, not some liberal homosexual rally. I predict that you have lost a lot of financial support in the last 24 hours. I am not the only parent with morals that had children at this concert.

In the final analysis, whether you liked it or not, you did in fact spend over 200 dollars for your experience. Interestingly enough, the "personal politcal testimony" she is getting so bent over was this quote from Wentz, "You can leave this show and say I think this guy is an arrogant jerk. Or think this band is better than this one, because these are your opinions. I understand that. The only thing we consider unacceptable is for you to engage in sexist, racist or homophobic behavior. If you do and want to continue to we don't want you as a fan. Return our merch and leave"

That bastard! How dare he insinuate that he and his band don't think people should dehumanize others? This is typical of your average AFA style do gooder, taking a statement in which a band member says homophobia is unacceptable to him, and within a sentence she's already turned the entire concert into a "liberal homosexual rally". When one really examines the amount of exaggeration and incredulity in her tone, you would think that rather than selling soda and candy in concessions, they were handing out complimentary handjobs or they had set up a bathhouse orgy in the Gents room. People who share this woman's mentality seem to be unable to say or do anything by halves. It's either all or nothing. You either agree with them and are a decent person, and if you don't, then you're a sick agent of some agenda to somehow grab any loose moral threads we can until their imaginary security blanket of ignorance and conjecture is completely unravelled until all that's left is an orgy of bad language and debauchery.

The best part, though, is how she just assumes that the audience was filled with enough other people whose heads are so firmly up their asses that they can play peek a boo with their colons, and that it is this merry band of peabrains who will singlehandedly team up and bring financial ruin to the Fall Out Boy tour. She proclaims that she was not the only parent with morals at the show. I imagine that's very true. There were probably plenty of other decent, caring parents in that audience whose values don't include teaching blanket hatred and whose moral compasses don't point with accusatory fingers.

That is what is so upsetting - your band's biggest audience is CHILDREN 10 and up. Your responsibility was to sing your songs. The music wasnt that bad, but when you opened your mouth to talk, you blew it. Here's to your band being just another "Spice Girls" looking back and remembering the good times and 15 minutes of fame, because you underated who pays your bills. By the way, my children will not be a part of your sick idea of family.

So she's admitting that the content of their songs wasn't offensive. So then what the hell does the target audience of the band have to do with anything? If we get down to brass tacks, the sad truth of the matter is that she's upset that a band doesn't support bigotry. She is a bigot. She doesn't like being called a bigot, so she now thinks the concert was a disgusting affront to all things moral. I wasn't at this show, so I don't know whether or not it was the case that he made any comments regarding what constitutes a family, but apparently she seems to think so.

If their sick idea of family involves people of any gender or orientation in a loving, monogamous relationship who teach their children to have respect for themselves and the human race as a whole, then I sincerely hope that someone else with those "sick ideas" adopts this woman's kids before she's allowed to do any more damage to them.

2. Kevin Federline's Penis Buys Him Another Fifteen Minutes

The Six Million Dollar Womb

It looks like congratulations are in order: It's a boy toy!

Whoever said lightning doesn't strike Britney's nether regions twice is oh so wrong! It appears that the otherwise worthless Kevin Federline did not manage to popozao out of her in time, and so our Beverly Hillbillies: The Next Generation duo are with child once again. This opens up a couple of avenues of discussion.

For his part, I think Kevin started panicking after he realized that the pregnancy was probably one of the only reasons he didn't find himself in a homeless shelter for C-List celebrities where he'd be bunking with Jaleel White and Pat Huntington Jr.

Kevin, who is probably almost as dumb as he looks and sounds, is still smart enough to know that as long as she's pregnant, he's got a good thing going, and so he figures he'll just stick another quarter in the arcade game, and play as long as he can. Nice work, Stuntcock.

But for crying out loud, what the hell is going on with Britney? Wasn't she going to go back to work? When was the last time that Britney actually used her mouth for singing? She's used it as an escape hatch for a cornucopia of Frito-Lay and Hostess products, a Pall Mall holder, and for exuding the worst fake Southern accent ever adopted by a Southerner you've ever seen in her Will and Grace appearance. It seems she has now passed that point where anyone really remembers or cares why she's famous. We have just accepted that she is, and that this makes her part of a pantheon of lazy, space wasting dipshits. It's bad enough that we somehow elevate our celebrities to the status of American royalty, but at for crying out loud, at least most of them are actually working. It's unfortunate that people still line up for salacious gossip regarding a relatively talentless strumpet who has essentially decided to become a professional womb.

While I appreciate the miracle of pregnancy and all, this biological function doesn't really set her apart from any other woman who deserves every bit as much respect for doing the same thing while balancing a job and a life without millions of dollars and and army of personal assistants. These are the women who I think deserve legions of fans and I would like to take this opportunity to wish all the moms out there a Happy Mother's Day. You ladies are the real celebrities to me.

3. Hookergate: PG-1

"Poker? I damn near...uh, look at that bus!"

While I try to keep up with the political happenings the best I can, there are a lot of things that sneak past my radar while I'm too busy napping or stuffing myself with donuts. Admittedly, I have only caught a little bit about the Porter Goss fiasco, so I will limit my comments on this one.

A word of advice for Porter Goss: If you're going to throw a filthy party for you and your friends and you're going to invite prostitutes, you might consider doing it at a hotel that was not related to another Republican scandal. I mean, seriously, you couldn't have gotten your swerve on at a chain motel? Sure, it's probably a little less sexy than the Watergate, but it's also a touch more discreet.

Also, for the record "playing poker" is a very ill-advised euphemism for "corrupt congressman hooker party". Poker sounds waaaay too suggestive. Next time use code words like, "volunteer work" or "bible study".

I mean, I'm no expert on particpating in disturbing activities that may lead to indictments of my friends and which will likely leave me in professional ruin, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night...

PS-Hey Porter, did my invitation get lost in the mail or something? Thanks for nothing, you ass.

4. The Unlikely Girls of Live Links

Earth To Gullible Jerkasses: Girls Like This Don't Use Chatlines

Anyone who's ever had insomnia or watched Cheaters has almost inevitably seen the commercials for Live Links. I don't know about anyone else, but I have a very difficult time believing that a woman who looks like Evangeline Lilly(now of Lost fame) is at home on a Saturday night listening to a bunch of drunk, horny mouthbreathers drooling into their receivers while trying to seduce them with their masculine wiles. While I have not had the privilege of calling Live Links myself, I can only imagine that a cadre of supervixens would likely never have to stoop so low as to use an anonymous phone system to meet members of the opposite sex. Based on the commercials alone, with their sleazy quasi-sultry saxophone riffs, and slow suggestive shots of the girls, it strikes me that this is really just a giant money pit preying on the socially inept, insecure, and downright pathetic who have abandoned all hope elsewhere, and it really disgusts me.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make.

Well, there you go. Another Crotchety Bastard in the books and I'm spent. Have a good weekend, and I'll try to do better than this abbreviated and glaringly sad effort when I come back next week.

4 Grand

2006-05-09T00:42:00.000-07:00

Well, in just a little over a month, dear readers, we have together managed to move up to the next milestone, four thousand unique hits. What does this mean for you and I?

Admittedly, very little. But I like to note it every time we get another 1000 unique hits here at Listen! Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen, Listen!!! just to acknowledge the fact that I have a solid group of readers who tune in often enough to make me feel like what I have to say is worthwhile. So again, as usual, I thank you for that.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately, I'm in a bit of a slump. I think I may have a few good things lined up, but I really need to get some sleep, and that's been cutting into my writing time, unfortunately. Hopefully I'll get my ass back on track sometime in the near future. Until then, get busy on the Kern Returns Tagline Contest. There's prizes, for crying out loud. How many cheapskate blogs give out prizes?

Anyhow, thanks again for reading and being supportive. It's duly noted and greatly appreciated.

Hugs and shit,

Kern

Requiem For The Summer Film

2006-05-08T07:48:00.000-07:00

I have lamented the death of intelligent film in these pages probably more times than I can count, but sometimes I am so wrapped up in hating specific targets, that I forget the larger, more all encompassing issues.

So thank God for guys like Devin Faraci at CHUD. While Devin F. is one of the more opinionated and potentially embittered of the movie reviewing set, I have a lot of respect for him for having the balls to be cranky and say unpopular things. He just wrote something that I've been thinking for a long time, but just couldn't articulate, and he does it probably a thousand times better than I could have hoped to.

So without further ado, please read this excellent article by Devin, and count how many times you find yourself nodding silently, or in extreme cases muttering "Testify! Testify!" under your breath. I'm thinking it will be a lot.

Happy Trails, Mr. Kern

2006-05-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Dad, what exactly do you do?"

I remember asking my father this question when I was a kid, and despite my best efforts I never really understood what it is that he did or where it was he went all day. While I always knew he worked in law and he was in a relatively important position, this rather superficial grasp of his life's work was as deep as my understanding went for the better part of my life.

My dad moved up here in 1999 and took a job with a law firm. I came along, and went back to school to finish up my Associates Degree and everything was pretty good, except for the fact that I was having a terrible time finding a job, and the pittance I had managed to squirrel away before leaving Iowa was quickly being pissed away after whiling away many a Friday evening imbibing at any number of local watering holes. In the summer of 2000, it just so happened that my dad mentioned that there was an opening to do a stint as summer help at his firm. It was going to be a lot of hard work, and it was a literal day job in a corporate setting, quite unlike the quasi-leisurely pace of the movie theatre and the dry cleaners where I had been previously employed in the years prior to my relocation.

This was, quite obviously, some serious shit. The last thing I wanted to do while working in the same office as my father was to pull a Roger Clinton, or come off as some sort of shiftless, lazy paycheck hoarding boob, sucking on a swollen nepotistic tit. And though it was not explicitly pointed out to me by my father, I could tell that he was thinking the exact same thing. I worked my ass off that summer; I worked twice as hard as I probably would have normally, just to show that not only was I not a spoiled, gutless little jerkass, but that I could be an asset. I guess I may have done that a little too well, because when my friend Tony moved down to bookkeeping, there was a gaping hole in the file room that had to be filled and I was the only one left who knew anything about the file system as it was. I hadn't expected to stay, but I told my bosses I'd stick around through the semester. Which I did. And then that semester leaked into another and another, until finally I've found myself working in the same firm as my dad for the past six years.

During that time, you learn to adapt to working with a parent in a position of extreme authority. Strangely, it's sometimes some of the most mundane aspects of the day to day working relationship which seem to be the most puzzling. Case in point: What does one call their dad when he's also the boss? I felt that "Dad" might be a little too colloquial, but calling him "Mr. Kern" seemed rather ludicrous at the same time. Finally, I settled on calling him "The Man", as I felt it struck a fine balance between acknowledging his authority, but also lending a sense of irreverence to the proceedings.

As it turns out, this is a big weekend for my dad on two counts. First, his birthday is Sunday, but secondly, he's leaving the firm where he and I have worked together all this time. It's funny, but the question I've been most frequently asked during my stint at the firm is, "Doesn't it kind of suck to work with your parent?"

The answer is easy: No. It really doesn't.

When you're young, maybe you get along with your parents, and maybe you don't. But the one commonality is that as young people we're all too ignorant to really appreciate how little time you really get with the people in your life, and as adults we're often too preoccupied to care. I feel that I've been very lucky in so many ways. I'll miss being able to stop by his office to talk about the races over the weekend, or to tell him some risque joke I heard, or just to say hi. There's no doubt I can always call him on the phone, but it just won't be the same as seeing him around everyday.

The seeds sown in these past few years will ultimately bear the most bittersweet fruit someday when I am an old man telling anyone who will listen about how every week my father took me to lunch and how we would sit outside in the scant Seattle sunshine watching the talent go by, or how I felt privileged when I was finally able to answer the question I asked as a boy, realizing that sometimes unless you see a man in his element you will never truly understand what he's about. To that end, I would like to think that he's gotten something out of it as well. I hope he's enjoyed watching me essentially grow up almost literally right in front of him. I hope that I've made him proud in front of his colleagues, and I hope he knows I would likely not be the same person if he hadn't been looking over my shoulder all this time.

After twenty-seven years in this industry, he's earned a lot of respect from a great many people in his field, and for good reason. One of the most fair minded, intelligent, and intuitive individuals I've ever known, I can honestly say that not only was I proud to work under him as an employee, I am also proud as hell to be his kid.

Even if he's no longer boss of my life, or boss at my job, that's ok; because in my eyes, my father, L.C. Kern, will always be The Man.

Cheers, Dad.

-Kern(The Younger)

Not Tonight, Dear...I Have A Headache

2006-05-03T23:24:00.000-07:00

Hey readers. Sorry for the lack of posts this week. I've been really run down and while I have a great topic or two loaded and ready to go, I also have a bad migraine this evening which means I can barely sit up and type this note let alone string together a long, humorous diatribe pointing fun of the foibles and shortcomings of this crazy modern world we live in. Hopefully I'll have a little something by Friday. I'm hoping next week will be a little more prolific.

In the meantime, throw your man some taglines for the contest! Amazon gift certificates in the form of 25 and 10 dollar increments do not just give themselves away for free!

Hugs and shit,

Kern

The Kern Returns Quote Contest 2006

2006-05-01T07:33:00.000-07:00

Finally, the moment some of you have been waiting for!

In keeping with a tradition that The Sheriff began last year, we're going to have another tagline contest as we did last year.

I wouldn't say there are any hard and fast rules, but I will say that I think fortune favors the Bold and The Filthy. And the clever. So be creative and give it all you've got.

As far as prizes, I think there will be more Amazon giftage up for grabs, but here's the part I want some feedback on. Should we have a winner and runner up like last time, or should we just have one big grand prize and everyone else gets sweet F.A.? Let me know what you think.

Please send all entries, as many as you like to thediscerningkern@gmail.com.

The deadline for this contest is 11:59 June 20. I will announce the winners on this blog on the 21st, one day before The Kern Returns.

So good luck and get to it!

For One Night Only, Kern Channels The Spirit of Rodney Dangerfield

2006-04-28T07:25:00.000-07:00

"For the longest time I was confused at the end of most of my dates, because I thought I was being asked for a sexual favor. As it turned out, what the girls were actually saying was, 'fuck off, Alex.' "

-Kern

Happy Friday!