Shanghai Nights is a pulse pounding, astonishing flick. But I must admit, it did leave me a little confused. It begins at the great London Historical Museum in England on a dark, stormy night. A bolt of lightning strikes the museum and somehow resurrects the remains of Tutankhamen. The dead pharaoh is obviously not happy with his current situation, and threatens to destroy all of Europe with an antique atomic bomb, unless the Queen gives him the one thing that will fulfill his insatiable appetite for destruction: Godiva chocolates. A lifetime supply.

Brett Beighley has been making zines since 1992. And now, more than ten years later, he has stopped.
What Brett is producing now, although it could probably be herded into the category of “zine”, is far more intimate and way more beautiful than any zine out there. I’m talking about House Interlocutor; the zine that became a work of art.

After seeing George Clooney’s outstanding directorial debut, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, it was clear to me that this movie reviewer had a little confessing of his own to do. First of all, this is all in thanks to Sam Rockwell’s marvelously real portrayal of The Gong Show host Chuck Barris; which makes me feel that now, I too can come clean. For over the last five years you have all known me as Darby O’Gill, staff writer here at tastes like chicken.

Penturbia is the fourth release from Troubled Hubble, which is a band that, until now, I had never heard of. A quick glance at previous press releases made my skin crawl with references to "Phish-style jam band" and "hippie-infected" stylings. Thankfully, the person who wrote that is a misguided ass. As soon as I started playing the record I thought, "Cool. This album sounds like Built To Spill!" And as the record progressed I could hear a possible vocal influence from They Might Be Giants.

It was made abundantly clear to me a few days ago that I should lend my ear to the three-song EP, Somewhere Across Forever, by New York's stellastarr*. "It's so YOU," I was told. Well, despite the similarity in name that we happen to share, I assumed with my obsession for all things White Stripes and anything formed with gritty, garage-band swagger, I was in for a raw guitar, basic kick-ass beat treat. Oh, not so, dear Stella. Not so.

The day I got this record, a really cool thing happened. My friend Beth walked by my room, and asked who it was I was listening to.
“Chris Murray,” I told her.
“How old is he?” she asked.
Weird question. “Why do you ask?”
“That sounds really old,” she explained.
And it does. It doesn’t sound shitty. It sounds old. Vintage. And I think that has more to do with how respectful he is of the Jamaican styles he plays than of the fact that he recorded the album through his Walkman.

I get to work and look at the pile of things that absolutely must be done by two days ago, so I pour myself a cup of coffee and do the crossword. Things have come to that. Soon, I will celebrate what will be my eighth anniversary working for this establishment. That is only a bit short of one-third of my life. A third of my life coming to the same place everyday, selling needless crap to the mindless masses, and receiving just enough of a pay raise every year to make me think that I am actually getting somewhere. My paychecks do nothing more than sustain my lifestyle.

It's Tuesday, January 28, 2003. We send the paper to the printer in two days. And my comic still isn't done. Debbie's gonna be pissed.
It's not like this is the first time this has happened. Plus, since my workload usually spans three sections of the paper, I have two editors and one editor-in-chief who will be up late tomorrow due to my procrastination. (Debbie, despite being the most vocally opposed to my tardiness, only needs about four minutes to lay out a page in the comic section. I've seen him do it.)

Everything that once stood tall now lays crushed smooth at each side of a one way road. It is all so dimly lit. Shadows and thick, heavy curtains of red velvet keep the secrets of minute details packed away amongst the murky depths of normalcy. I hide in the great wild wonders of wide-open grasslands and point towards heaven without too much contempt or regret. Silly sayings and blue-collared paychecks somehow seem to make do. We are the last of the quiet kids who always knew how to shout the loudest by saying absolutely nothing.