Are you tired of turning on MTV, only to find that the musicians of today are all gorgeous? Are the broad shoulders, bulging biceps, pert tits and Krylon-blasted lips just too much for you to handle? Well, fear not! Because, at long last, the age of the truly hideous rocker is here! The Star Spangles prove that, and then some!
Seriously, these kids have it all: the greasy black hair, the Adirondack complexion, the trout mouth; the entire image is horrifically complete! Never before has a quartet pulled off such a skanktastic rendition of the ugly--

Not even a year after the release of their last LP, End Transmission, Snapcase is back to wreck heads and mince eardrums with Bright Flashes (Victory Records).
This latest album is a combination of leftover songs and remixes from the End Transmission recordings. Of course, just the word "leftover" brings to mind visions of Tupperware-entombed dark meat from your Thanksgiving turkey. And you can't help but think, "Oh, these must be the songs that sucked, but they didn't want to just throw them away."

THEY'RE NOT CELEBRITIES. THEY WALK PAST YOU ON THE STREET, BRING YOU YOUR FOOD AT A RESTAURANT, AND LIVE IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD. THEY'RE EVERYDAY PEOPLE. JUST LIKE YOU.
DECEMBER 2003: GEORGE & MIKA ROCKNAGE

Well, Vinnie Baggadonuts and I got to check out The White Stripes live and direct last night. That's right, we finally got to see them in concert, albeit two cancellations and nearly six months later.
And let me tell you-- Meg's boobs-- it was worth it.
The Stripes rushed the stage, grabbing their instruments-- Meg's boobs-- and getting right down to business. They whipped through song after Meg's boobs song, thus proving what I had come to hear about them from other people: they are an amazing Meg's boobs live act to witness.
Meg's boobs.

UFO people are so full of shit. NASA, too. Every time they claim to be receiving “transmissions from outer space”, it’s always a recording of some indecipherable robot noise or fuzzy verbal gibberish. I, personally, feel that outer space people would be far more sensible than that. Guitars aren’t exclusive to Earth, right? They must have bands.

Even if you didn't see the Super Bowl on Sunday, surely by now you've seen a clip of Justin "I'm Lubbin' It" Timberlake exposing Janet Jackson's breast during their halftime "performance".
If, like me, you think it was a little contrived and not quite real, don't worry. Neither is her breast.
Of course, CBS immediately distanced themselves from the boob-- I guess we know what the "B" in CBS doesn’t stand for-- apologizing to anyone offended by the display.

I was slaving away at another dead-end job; a seafood theme restaurant under 120 feet of water. Only the patrons used scuba gear; we staff were forced to the surface every minute or so to fill our empty lungs, and then dive back down to refill the drinks, or kick back down with the appetizers, main course, and, finally, the dessert tray. At least the cleanup was easy.

Dear Jonny,
Now, don't think Nancy or I forgot your birthday. On the contrary. For the last two weeks we've been laying low in Cheyenne, Wyoming, hunting a mighty fine jackalope just for you.
I'm not saying it was easy. I'm not saying it was pretty. But we did it. And I'm a better person because of it. I discovered inner peace and conquered existentialism. I was at once devolving and evolving. It became crystal clear during our first attempts at wrangling up an elk for you.
I said, "An elk for Jonny? Nah. Way to gauche. I mean, have some fucking class, you know?"

From the webbed street corner to the telephone whine, every last goddamned thing in this town was haunted. From deaths and births to kisses and goodbyes. I needed an out. Delinquent car insurance be damned; I had to drive.
Pennsylvania seemed like a good place to drive around. I got the two most essential ingredients to the onset of any expedition: french fries and coffee.