ROOT BEER RANTS II

The Food Lion store-brand root beer is satisfying in an Uncle Jesse's-rusty-tub-of-not-quite-distilled-moonshine kinda way. Gimme this tried 'n' true love potion over the new Mountain Dew Code Red any day. "As real as the streets?" Pleeze, dawg!!! Like I'm supposed to take it at my 20 y/o television's face value that Macy Gray just happened to be carrying a bottle of the blood juice before giving the pedestrians an impromptu sidewalk show? Or that B-ballers in Rucker Park coat their dry tongues with this era's answer to Crystal Pepsi? Speaking of "reality," have you ever seen an honest-to-goodness black gentleman drinking a Zima? Darius Rucker (no relation to the Park) does not count.

jOhn bOy and I decided not to see The Strokes at The NorVa on November 28th. Mainly because jOhn would have to be rude to library patrons asking stupid questions ("...we already know the answers" -- New Model Army was on the 97-Star WGH play list back in '87!!!) the next morning at 8 A.M. sharp. No way was he gonna be slumbering in his cynicism for lack of sleep. Also, when taking into account the ticket prices, service charges, parking fees, and gas monies, both of us would've been set back at least $22.50 a piece. I know, we should've planned the evening more carefully, but where's the fun in that? Procrastination is where it's at!!! Instead of live tuneage, we opted for the pre-recorded variety in the cheapo bins at Cash Converters. This place is always swarming with Australians (both behind the useless jewelry counter [read: any which doesn't display Pac-Man watches -- did you know that the "whistling Dixie" part of "Rock The Casbah" was sampled from one?] and on the customer end [Yes, it's true -- they all have the mannerisms of Paul Hogan]). At the College Park location, the world's largest concentration of Manitoba's Wild Kingdom discs is scattered about the cramped shelves and dirty floor. I've been trying to convince MWK to drive down from Rudytown and play a straight, in-order run thru ...And You? at the Converters. Hell, no need to bring their merch guy, cause the discs are already on the purchasing table. Anyway, here's what I picked up on the 28th: REM -- Murmur (perhaps the finest "goth country" album of its type -- love dem jangly guitars and hard-to-understand lyrics), Oasis -- (What's The Story) Morning Glory? (sometimes crunchy, sometimes crispy Brit R 'N' R from the wasted-on-the-set-of-TRL Liam Gallagher and his bro), Elastica -- The Menace (more "out there" than the self-titled masterpiece -- this really is their Chairs Missing or 154), Joan Jett and The Blackhearts -- Up Your Alley (mostly the good 'n' glammy stuff per usual, but one track beats dangerously like an '80s Heart palpitation), Straightjacket Fits -- Melt (Sonic Youth meets The Bats meets Red Lorry Yellow Lorry noise from Kiwi-land), Miracle Legion -- Drenched (the uncontrolled sloppiness of Dead Letter Office reined in by a rootsy twist -- jOhn also bit on it), Uncle Green -- Book Of Bad Thoughts (underrated Georgia-by-way-of-New-Jersey combo who meshes the best of Stipe and company with The Smithereens' Especially For You/Green Thoughts-era on their swan song), and Dreams So Real -- Gloryline (track-to-track, a finer effort than their more well-known Rough Night In Jericho which adds Toad The Wet Sprocket-like modern-folk touches to the R.E.M.-esque guitar buzz). Eight discs, eight dollars -- though nowhere near The NorVa, I'd still say, "a good show."

On the December 2001 cover of GQ, I am waiting for Muhammad Ali to shout,"YO, UNCLE PHIL!!!" To be a "GQ Man," I must wear a $15,950 Gucci knee-length mixed-fur coat and listen to snobby-rock intellectuals like Tom Waits and Loudon Wainwright III's little boy. No thanks -- I'll suffer in my CostCo-purchased flannel and listen to dumb-ass cretins like the Ramones and the "poser-Ramones" Riverdales. But I do appreciate the free rub-on cologne strips, cause I love smelling like a Hecht's department store. My tacky-ily applied scent drives my LovieHoneyBabyBunchesOfOats wild!!!

Bumper-sticker juxtaposition on a plumbing van (December 3, 2001 -- 4:05 P.M. at Independence Blvd., Va. Beach): Back left -- "Virginia Is For Lovers." Back right -- "God Bless America." Back center -- "My Wife Doesn't Need To Fart...She's Already Married To An Asshole."

Several Saturdays ago, I tried looking all cool and shit by pinning a triangular-buttoned motif on my Route 66 outerwear. The Socials, Kings Of The Sun, and Elvis Costello were the angle representations. Welp, the first and third points fell off either in a thrift store, pawn shop, or parking lot. Now, the KOTS pin sits in a Ziploc bag along with my birth certificate (born March 10, 1972 in Elizabeth, NJ -- my SSN...wait, what am I doing?), trading-card-sized porn pictures (mostly of larger women -- black and white, separate and together), and dozens of Putt-Putt scorecards (January 13, 2000 was when I entered into the next realm of mini-golf). Woe is me.

En mi opinion, the CD-R is the greatest music format ever created. When someone burns a disc for me, I get that warm-'n'-fuzzy-I-didn't-have-to-pay-$23.99-for-The Avengers-hard-to-find-comp-cause-I-got-it-for-free feeling all over. Whereas a cassette copy of Billy Idol's Vital Idol is met with, "Ah, it's just a tape." Every CD-R I own at present has been recorded well (nearly approximating the sound levels of a store-bought disc), tracked out individually, and labeled correctly. One day, I'm gonna plunk down the $399 or so for the Philips hardware and burn like En Why See for all those on my A-list. Also, I'll start a label and sign myself to a contract. EpiFat, Lookout, Vagrant, etc. aren't willing to ink a deal with a one-man act who performs acapella versions of Foreigner songs in monotone and calls himself Xenophobe, are they?

What is "It," Ginger? A $3,000 "scooter" that only goes 12.5-17 mph? When it rains, is there an optional bubble enclosure? By this time next year, I think most people are gonna stick with their $350 K-Cars or $3,500,000 Land Rovers. "It" will merely be a toy for the young Richard Strattons of America. If you wanna go to the ABC store up the street, why not ride a bike? As the old "Sesame Street" (or was it "The Electric Company"?) number went, "There's nothing that I like like my bike/There's nothing that I like like my bike..."

Have you noticed something different about that one Nicoderm ad? You know, where this man and woman meet on a second-floor patio at a party (did they later "Party On The Patio?" -- ask Mr. Beard.) and the lady goes (paraphrasing), "The irony is I started smoking to be part of the crowd." Empathizing, the guy shows her his smoker's patch. "Aren't the cravings unbearable?" she asks. In the original spot, he replied, "Well, I'm not gonna jump, if that's what you mean." Now, his corrected line is, "Well, I'm not pulling my hair out."

What in New Jersey smells worse: The everyday air of Newark or this bunch of devil-locked fuckos "The Misfits"? They've been touring the globe -- throwing parties for themselves and charging guests upwards of twenty-five smackaroos. If you were separated enough from your taste buds to feast in one of these celebrations, hope you enjoyed the Frankenstein-shaped hunk of shitcake, as well as the realization of spending all your cookie dough to see a cover band. You goddamned son of a bitch.