Vinyl retentive

I love shopping for records with an unbridled passion that is usually reserved for such primal activities as sexual intercourse. Its speaks to a baser need that is buried somewhere deep in my core. Something left over from simpler more barbaric times. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes you get rabbits and sometimes you take down the fucking mammoth but you rarely come back empty handed. If you did you would somehow be less of a man, unable to provide aural sustenance for your tribe. There is a certain moment when you’re out on the field of battle when things can turn vicious. Consider this: Your flipping through a record bin which has been filled seemingly at random. You must weed out the unworthy game from the truly amazing kill. You look to your right and notice another hunter. Most of the time (for myself at least) this doesn’t pose a problem, yet occasionally you realize that this fellow primate is hunting the same game as yourself. You realize your working your way through fields, which were once rich with the type of game that you and your tribe thrive on. However this hunter has picked the fields bare. You are at odds. There have been occasions where I wondered if I could take this hunter out and hide the body before an employee realizes that Ive just killed a man over a Kinks or Standells record. Perhaps I was born too late maybe I’m a relic from a time I never lived in. However, know this: If you see me in a music store don’t touch my records or Ill fucking kill you!

Not unlike a swift kick to the ovaries

I didn’t think that this stuff required qualifiers yet as of late I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong. It would seem that sarcasm does not telegraph in text as well as I had hoped. In regard to my previous post I received a few emails with varying degrees of eloquence essentially stating that the sender was disappointed in me. Allow me to clear this up right now. I was expressing my disdain for this way of life by presenting somthing written in the first person of one of these sad one-dimensional individuals. "A good hard fuck" is NOT the only thing that makes me feel alive....... Its just one of them.

Welcome to the meatmarket culture...

There are hundreds of thousands of us stinking of desperation and cheap cologne, stuffed into hip little bars all over your town. Our inexplicable loneliness is matched only by our unending need for validation at the hands of the opposing sex. Look into our shallow vapid eyes. Do you honestly believe that anything but a "good hard fuck" will make us feel alive? Do you really think that intelligence or stimulating conversation has ever been on, or ever WILL make the list of requirements? Sure, It comes right after a huge set of tits and the four hour massive erection. The only thing that has EVER made us feel alive is the trading of poorly veiled sexual innuendos and the grinding of vile stinking flesh. We've dismissed the concept of cerebral stimuli to the realm of the glitterati intelligentsia. We are the culmination of the cultivation of the most base human instincts.

Oh-goddamn-Kay,

It's a new year so I figured it may be time for a new blog. I hope your happy (Claire, I'm glaring in your general direction).
Ya see, I fight an ongoing battle with myself in regard to taking part in the "Blogosphere" (shoot me if I ever say that godawful word again). The problem is that I find the medium inherently caters to the self-serving and hackneyed kind of bullshit I hate. And don't you feed me some shite about the blog being "The zine of the new world" because I don't fucking care. I felt largely the same way about those fucking things. With the exception of precious few (Cometbus ect.) zines were nothing but trite and pretentious recycling bin fodder.
So, these days I find myself reacting to blogs in roughly the same way I reacted to zines in highschool. Spewing bile about how much they fucking suck and not having the balls and more imortantly the attention span to do it myself.
However, Life has gotten easier for the lazy and the stoner alike. Gone are the days of endless cutting and pasting, as are the late night trips to Kinkos. That, is what I DO like about this format: its easy. I can type out any kinda nonsensical bullshit that ruffles my feathers and.....CLICK.... Assholes everywhere get to see it.
Sometimes I wonder if that's such a great idea. I really don't feel all to passionately about my distaste for zines. I've got far more pressing things to worry about. I'm a very important guy. Yet I got to thinking about it on my short walk to get coffee and because its so damn easy.......Here it is.
The filter is now gone, destroyed by convenience and "user friendliness". There was once a time......Long long ago, if you wanted to force your opinions on someone else you had to work for it. Late nights with your cutting edge electronic typewriter, the sickening sweet smell of rubber cement. Suffering for your craft.

So I say "Bring back the zine!!!"

....And get ME the FUCK out of here.

Jaz Brown fends off the angels of death...

Well, Ive done it. Ive beaten the odds. They told me it couldn't be done. I looked Death square in the eye and said "The check's in the mail......Bitch". Thanks to everyone who sent me flowers and porn and to whoever it was who said "Dont die". Now that Im feeling better Im 50 parts piss and 50 parts vinegar. Im gonna tear down the fucking walls and break these chains that bind us. Im gonna change the godamn world.....Well maybe Ill just have a smoke and some coffee.

Shoot me....Soon.

Im without a doubt certain that I will wake up dead tomorrow. The inside of my throat has obviously become a testing ground for some sort of innovative biological weapon. Im sure that things would get better if I would stop smoking for a day or so....But that's not gonna happen. I knew that the end was at hand when I came to and realized that I had been watching Will And Grace for 15 minutes. Perhaps I am already dead and this is hell. Back to back episodes for eternity.

I teeter now on the brink of death....

While I slept someone took to my throat with a chainsaw. Taking vitamin C is like trying to swallow a baseball bat. My life is quickly coming to an end. And no, you cant have my records.

Listen up

The music that you and your friends (If you do in fact have any) listen to is horrible nauseating tripe. You need to leave right now. Whatever you do don't come back because your ruining my day. I am quite certain that if you hang around any longer you face will end up on the receiving end of some hot projectile vomit. Im sure that there is some mildly retarded socially inept guy whose 15 years older than you that would love to tell you your ass doesn't smell. Go find him. Leave me alone. Im on the brink of death and I cant stand one more second of you or your tragic face.

I've had about enough of morons and half-wits, cretins and congenital idiots, dolts, dunces, dullards, and dumbbells.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you have never been inside of a comic book store in your life. And Im fairly certain that you rarely ever (if at all) leave your house. However, just because your completely devoid of any sort of simple deductive reasoning does not not mean you are incapable of finding the price on the cover of a comic book. Or maybe you are.
Your children... Your children are horrible little people with cold black hearts who im im sure will grow up to be horrible big people who steal and fight and end up naked and drunk on COPS. They will grow to hate you because you were incapable of controlling them or teaching them some semblance of social norms. They will hate you. But trust me...They will never hate you as much as I do. I fantasize about applying my converse to your asshole till the rubber hits the back of your teeth.

I need sedatives.

Things You Don't Want to Know Vol. 43

On the subject of demo CD's.
Now, I'm not trying to say that my band is better than anyone else's. I've shoved demo CD's into hands which I'm sure took a trip to the nearest garbage can. But, that's my point, sometimes making and handing out demo CD's of your band would be just as effective as throwing money directly into the garbage. I'm not saying that you shouldn't do it. I still do. Just be aware of what's really going on. As I have seen your demo CD thrown from the windows of moving vehicles. I have seen their cases used to roll joints. I have seen them grow mold under piles of sweaty show shirts in corners of tour vans. I shit you not I have seen your demo CD in a microwave. I have seen them broken, defiled, battered, and belittled. And for all these things I've seen I've rarely seen them get played. Maybe it shouldn't be this way. But....It is.

The Stinking Beast Of Convenience

It would seem that we live in world that is unbearably difficult and unwieldy. If this were not the case then surely we wouldn't need all the wonderfully time saving stupid little inventions we CANT live without. Here's the deal, your stupid little fucking bank card is a joke. Is buying a 2 dollar and seventy-five cent comic with a card convenient? No, but you know what is? Fucking cash! Try it. When I know that Im going to buy something I get myself some real money. Its stunningly fucking easy. No waiting for a some godhead computer out in Fairfax to tell me my allowed to buy a pack of gum. No signing slips of paper in triplicate. You know what else isn't convenient? Text messaging. Now I don't own a cell phone but if I did and if I did in fact start getting text messages from people I know I would call them and ask them what the FUCK they're doing. Write me a letter or give me a call. Make up your fucking mind! You are not saving time while your hunched over a LCD mashing buttons til you can convey with a nauseating E-short hand what you could have send in seconds with your fucking mouth.

Am I really this angry?

The 8-bit generation

I was never a Nintendo child. I was never kept up til ungodly hours of the night by a drunk Italian in red overalls. Some people Im sure would insist that I missed out on what could have been known the greatest years of my life. These people are known as fucking morons. And Im sure that these same people would be horrified to find that not only was I not allowed to play with or own G.I.Joes but I also was not able to watch that steaming turd of a product tie-in cartoon. It would seem that my generation was endowed with the great honor of growing up with some of the most appalling cartoons of all time. However, Im not talking about cartoons Im waxing poetic on the marvels of being the first wave of the video game generation. Things were different in those days. It was a whole different world. You didn't just walk into the bedroom and flip on your GameStation 2 and flop on the bed. No. Just getting the game to work was an ordeal in itself. You see I owned one of the greatest "gaming systems" of all time. It was huge and brown (later grey) and it radiated an incredible heat amongst other things which Im sure contributed to what I would not be surprised to find is a near non-existent sperm count. It would sometimes take up to 10 minutes to load wonderfully primitive games which managed to entertain me for hours. I've spent many days of my life looking for a mordern game which would even come close to showing me a mere glimmer of what I loved about some of these games............Jesus Christ......Im a fucking geek...Im....uh...I....Better stop this right now.

Fuck Dilbert

Thats all...

My brain is all dirty.

Ive been rubbing filthy things all over it for too long now. Its taking its toll. Dipping it in experimental drugs, marijuana, alchohol, ungodly amounts of caffeine and cigarettes cant forget the cigarettes. Cheap ones that burn.

Hey Kids!!! Do you know what time it is?!

The light-hearted xylophone music announces my entrance as I run through the curtains onto the sound stage. As I make my way to the front of the stage I kick the guy dressed up as Billy the Bear in the back of the legs right behind his kneecaps. He drops to the ground clutching himself and moaning. I stand in front of the crowd and the television audience staring maniacally at all the horrified children. I yank down my colorful pants and shake my genitals at them screaming incoherently at the top of my lungs. The stage lights go off as security escorts me out of the building.

So the question is: should I sue jobpredictor.com?

Jaz Brown, Your ideal job is a Kids TV Presenter.