Question: What is the best way to fill a music venue with aggressive homoeroticism?

Sitting here, carefully attempting to superglue together the remnants of my brain, I begin to regain some of life's most critical skills...mobility, rational thought process, the ability to form a complete sentence, etc. As for my hearing, well that's another story, thanks to last night's sonic-blitzkrieg courtesy of the Mars Volta.

Needless to say, waking up was no easy task: Where am I? What happened last night? Why is there a river of dried blood running from my ears? Why did everyone in the crowd last night feel that it was their civic duty to act like a complete testosterone filled asshole? Oh that's right...Pants, then shoes.

Apparently there is a new set of guidelines one must follow when attending a hard rock concert:

1) When maneuvering through the crowd, you must, well, not maneuver through the crowd. Otherwise some Ratso Rizzo/neanderthal hybrid will greet you with a "Yo, keep on movin" or "Don't even think of standin' here". Was anyone else aware that Ticketmaster sold tickets for specific plots of ground upon which to stand?

2) The person behind you is there to serve as a recliner. When watching a band perform, be sure to lean as far back as possible, allowing the person to your rear, a yummy bite of Pert-Plus-potpourried rat's nest, you call hair.

3) Carelessly bump into everyone. Hard! When traveling from point A to point B, rather than a polite "excuse me", just use your shoulders and aim for the chest. Not getting to your destination with enough brute force? Why not use your elbows! Just imagine you're the praying mantis and walk with your arms akimbo, sharply digging that elbow into anything and everything.


I'm always on my best behavior the 1-2 times a year that I am forced beyond my will to ride the LIRR and Path Trains, all I ask is that you troglodytes do the same.

Paean To The Food Mecca

Hungry? Self-Conscious? Do you have an allergic reaction to glutens? -- If you answered yes to any combination of the aforementioned, then we have something in common my loyal compatriot, You eat at Whole Foods, too.
Fear not, for wheat-product-induced hazes are a thing of the past; why don't you try the quinoa. Any post graduate, investment banker (with a the paycheck to support living close to a Whole Foods) can find solace in a freshly baked slice of pizza and a wing of buffalo. Personally, I need my sushi to be brought to me via conveyor belt -- now if there were only some high-end grocery store/cafeteria hybrid in lower Manhattan...


A Proposal For John P. Mackey, Chairman and CEO of Whole Foods Market, Inc.

Dear Mr. Mackey,

Thanks for taking the time to read my modest proposal. I can only imagine how busy your days can be, between all the cutting of plastic six-pack holders, and the boardroom displays of environmental elitism, it's any wonder how you find the time to...I don't know, recycle?

Now its obvious that your fine establishment knows more about guiltless eating and shopping than most retailers, and being the guiltless consumer that I am, it only makes perfect sense that we join our forces, with the greater intention to leave the consumer marketplace with one-hell-of-an environmental tramp-stamp.

Mr. Mackey, make me the new face of Whole Foods. Not only do I eat there at least five meals a week, but also am the one to throw away the backed-up pile of recyclables that fill the entire fucking cabinet under the sink. They don't actually get recycled, but just get tossed down the trash chute. As a man who understands the critical importance of energy conservation, you don't really expect me to take all those bags down to the recycling basement, do you Mr. Mackey? I can wear your t-shirts everywhere I go, provided they are American Apparel, of course. I'll stack my 2008 soapbox right on top of my 2007 soapbox (Dr. Dog), and like the disciples of an edible Jesus, will exult the praises of your excellent cereal assortment. With one lung-filled blast of Ani DiFranco from my Ram's Horn, I shall summon my Mango Chutney Militia , and the streets will run opaque tan with Chickenless Chicken Noodle Soup. Let me be your Edamame Succotash lobbyist, for I sire, bleed green.

Humbly yours,

Brussel Sprout