I used to live in Los Angeles. My roommate at the time, Paisley Boyd, started acting suspicious three weeks after I moved in. Odd things would come up, like she would receive mail addressed to Jennifer Boyd. I asked her about it when it first happened.
“Why does your mail say ‘Jennifer?’”
“Oh, they always screw up my name at this place for some reason,” she answered.
I didn’t really think about it again until a week later. Her mom came down from Fresno for a visit. The three of us were sitting in the living room talking.

There is a fallacy in America today. The hope for the future is gone. Men like our fathers and the fathers before them no longer exist. Our heroes are lost to corrupt politics and seedy strip bars. The mothers who made us moral have all been swept away by minivans and designer drugs. But the real fallacy is in our youth. They cannot care and will never have the compassion or strength that tomorrow's leaders must possess. There is simply no chance for tomorrow. Just look around you. These kids are not going to grow out of their malice and disrespect.

Got off work about an hour ago, had a few hits with St. Amanda out back behind the Green Monster before I left, and then had a gin and tonic waiting for me when I got home. Now that's love. Mad Dog stopped by with a bit of Keith Richards' Dandruff in the corner of a cellophane bag. Good thing he gives this shit to me for free, because it's too damn expensive. Fifteen minutes later, I'm in the accelerated state where everything is a good idea. My teeth are icy clean--I should brush them next time like this, see how it feels.

Uncle Ben was “hangin' in there”-- whatever the hell that meant. It was the doctor’s favorite explanation. Why professional physicians have to talk like gas station attendants, I’ll never know.
“How much longer is he going to be ‘hangin' in?’” I asked.
The doctor laughed. “I really couldn’t tell you. He was supposed to be dead last year.”
I went home depressed, and rang the doorbell of my own house.
Uncle Ben opened it, looking fresh and rosy.
“Howdy!” he said cheerfully.
“Hey, Uncle Ben.”

Listening to this album reminded me of the last time I played an old Avail album. And it wasn't even a musical similarity. It was the feeling. The Stoics are not politically or even thematically related to Avail, but they play with a sincerity that makes the audience understand that what they are hearing is honest and heartfelt. The Stoics play from their gut, and they do it loud and fast. Their energy might be confused with anger and frustration, but if you pay close attention (or better yet, see them live), you know better than to mark them down as just another pissed-off hardcore band.

Well, it's been 16 years, and Tim Burton's reign as a creative genius has come to an untimely end. I'm sad to report that not only is Planet of the Apes a huge disappointment, but it also doesn't have a trace of Burton's film style, defeating the whole point of a Burton film. I guess it had to happen sooner or later. The best compliment I can offer is that the ape suits look amazing. Trust me, this review hurts me more than you. It's like when you were a kid and you finally realized that your father wasn't a superhero.

TONGUE/SWEET MEAT: Everyone knows that I’m a Y chromosome-sporting enthusiast of punk bands with girl singers. It’s not because that’s the only way I can hear a woman screaming in my bedroom. There’s just something awesome about a girl who sounds gentle and loving one minute, and then pulls your spleen out through your nose the next. And that’s just the kind of girl Liz McGrath comes off as while leading the charge on the latest release from her band, Tongue.

From now on, when my good friend Sgt. Huntry sends me music, I'll listen. This round: albums from The National and Clogs.

Dick and fart humor hit the Columbus afternoon airwaves last month by way of Opie & Anthony. The dirty radio duo are featured weekdays at 3pm on The Big Wazoo just in time for the kiddies. Call them crude, rude or vulgar, the show is funny. And it's just the release most of us need after a long day in a soulless corporate vacuum while we rot in homebound traffic. Their dead-on impersonations and witty banter leave few unscathed and little sacred during the show's four-hour run time.

I’ll say it right from the beginning: this review is going to be biased. Partly because I think The Beta Band is a damn fine band. Mostly because they have never disappointed me before. With their third release, Hot Shots II, the boys of Beta go back to the roots of their debut album, The Three E.P.’s. Stylistically, the album is much more calm and collected than I expected. Their self-titled second album, The Beta Band, offered a plethora of funky beats and rhythms that made it much more pop-friendly.