Proof that world music is for assholes?

Probably unintentional publicity-related Goatse reference here.
Apparently all he was trying to do was turn us on to some new world music groups. Who knew?

Poll:

Which part of this rumor is more depressing:
A) That Whitney's (allegedly) gotta wear false teeth because her crack habit trashed her originals, or B) that she (allegedly) has a habit of losing her false teeth around the house during her binges?

Just real quick.

This is a video by a band called From First to Last. The video is notable for containing the most emo thing of all emo time: a beautiful, naked woman puking up blood.

The angel on my shoulder wears a doo-rag.

It's these last fucking couple of weeks of winter that are the tough ones. When you start getting the nice days like Saturday, and they feel like spring, but the next morning it's 34 and sleet, it's like God just saying "pssht" to your face.
I've been trying all winter long to keep my head up. The goal was to make it through one entire winter with neither crippling depression, or medication, the "medication" category including winter-long whiskey comas. I made it all the way through the end of February before a clusterfuck of dramatic situations got a hold of me and started tugging me down. Now I'm limping towards the finish line, bleeding, with little more than the image of Tupac lipsynching "Keep Ya Head Up" in my mind's eye to keep me dragging myself towards the end. I'm not even sure where the finish line is anymore. I figured it would be the first day that I saw girls walking around in tank tops, but that was last week.

Lil' Coldplay: the happening

I had a mustache briefly. I took a shower in a semi-intoxicated state last night and decided to shave down to the mustache-and-chin-beard combo favored by such people as actor Johnny Depp. I woke up today and looked at it and realized that I had made a mistake. I looked less dude-from-Santana than I had hoped, more your-dad-who-lives-in-an-apartment-complex.
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My new rap persona Lil' Coldplay is going over better than I had expected. Thanks to the band Ester Drang and their milquetoast rock music styles for inspiring it. I am going to thank them in the liner notes to Lil' Coldplay's debut album A Rush of Def to the Head. Did I mention that I'm reviving "def"? Hip-hop historian Jeff Chang, you get a shout out in the Rush of Def liner notes for that. "Yellow, falsetto." That is how Lil' Coldplay raps. "Parachutes, bitches." You see that? The Coldplay fan that was sitting down the bar as I was first exploring the world through the eyes of Lil' Coldplay wasn't so amused. He kept telling me that Parachutes is really a good record. I said, "Yellow" at him a couple of times and he stopped talking about it. "I get you pregnant, Gwyneth Paltrow." Then he started talking about how he looooves to do Ecstasy, and that he's a doctor, and that if you take a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) at the end of your E trip you'll prevent any noticible imbalance in your brain chemistry. We tried ignoring him in a forceful enough way that he could tell that we were ignoring him, but he kept on talking anyway.
Somebody make Lil' Coldplay rich. Soon. He needs a new computer.

Better than our heads, at least.

You could kind of tell that the little Mexican guy on the 49 Western had liquor in the bottle of Coke he was tugging at the whole time he rode. If I had to put money on it, I'd probably say rum, but that might be some subtle racial prejudice. But the way he got all shifty-eyed each time he got ready to drink from it, sort of eyeing the four other people on the bus to maybe decide if he thought we were narcs, and the frequency of the sips, and the look of complete satisfaction he had after each drink, which you only get that look from drinking Coca-Cola on extremely hot days or if there's booze in it; it all added up. Plus the dude had wrapped his bottle in a way-too-large black plastic grocery bag, even though you could see when it poured through the neck that it was a standard Coke-brown liquid.
When I got home I started installing the new shower head I bought, but halfway through had to stop to take a call from a friend on the West Coast in the middle of a suicide attempt. Right now she's probably at the hospital getting her stomach pumped.
The shower head works great.

Work notes from the seminal period that lead up to his groundbreaking essay "Noise Boners".

My blogging's been suffering under the scope of my planned exegesis on the bukkake'd state of the noise scene. The essay's epic as hell. I've already written it about three times, so I should know.
Otherwise my time's mostly been taking up with arguing the journalistic value of the term "rippersville", trying to invent the onomatopoeia of the "bong rip" sound, writing a profile on the guy who played Jason in the first Friday the 13th (available in this week's Reader), and getting on the guest list for Fangoria's Weekend of Horrors convention in Rosemont. Which is basically to say I'm working on degrading the last remaining bits of journalism's virtue that Maxim and the New York Times haven't gotten to.
Meanwhile, a couple of questions for the readers:
1. Is there a way to address the topic of romantic triangles in song without coming of as exceedingly unimaginative and/or self-absorbed?
2. Is the shaved head a) a stylish and practical spring look, b) a blatant concession to one's turning almost-30 and sort of a physical expression of giving up on chasing styles that are becoming less age-appropriate with every passing minute, or c) too gay?
3. Would it be possible to use the spare cycles of a global computer network, a la SETIatHome, to artificially evolve the best mathematically possible onomatopoeia for bong rips?
4. Do you want to go to the Fangoria Weekend of Horrors?