In the summer of 1993, I liked Jawbreaker and Jawbox and Samiam. But I worked in a fast-food kitchen with 3-4 other people at all times, none of whom shared my tastes in music. Our solution was quite simple: Whoever came in first to open the kitchen picked the radio station. Some days it was classic rock and some days top 40. But when it was my turn to open the doors, cook multiple pounds of bacon and arrange individual stacks of tomato and lettuce into neatly assembled, ready-to-go hamburger toppings, I chose Modern Rock at the Jersey Shore, FM 106.3.

This would be the first place that I was introduced to the Canadian folk-rock group Crash Test Dummies, and their only hit on US radio, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm.” At the time, I remember thinking to myself, “This is a really strange song.” That it was doing so well throughout the world (except in the band’s native Canada) was even more baffling. The song was, well, unique to its place on the pop charts.

For one, there is the chorus, or lack thereof a typical chorus. At least no words are sung. It’s simply Crash Test Dummies lead singer Brad Roberts humming “Mmm mmm mmm mmm” on three separate occasions during the course of the song. In typical radio-friendly pop songs, humming isn’t something you run into everyday, nor is Brad Roberts voice, a deep baritone. In fact, both were true anomalies to the Cobain-rich days of August 1993. Perhaps we didn’t know it that the time (perhaps because irony didn’t exist yet) but “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm” may have been a direct middle-finger reaction to the Pearl Jams and Alice In Chains of the day. And if that wasn’t the purpose of the song, then perhaps Crash Test Dummies unique approach to song writing was simply in the right (almost-post-grunge) place at the right time, just before an even more radio-friendly version of grunge would arrive in the form of Stone Temple Pilots.

Still, I’ve spent too much of my life trying to blame the world’s problems on the effects of grunge in the early ’90s.

Bill Clinton’s infidelity? Cobain’s fault.

The success of Titanic: The Movie? Definitely the work of Pearl Jam.

So from here on out, I’m drawing a line. You can relax now Vedder. Rather, I should examine the lyrical content of “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm.” Each verse of the song describes the isolation and suffering of children. The first two suffer from apparent physical abnormalities, the third, religion. On the surface, maybe Crash Test Dummies are equating religion with unexplainable physical attributes, but I can’t say for sure. Deeper still, I think it could be that each child is struggling to deal with some form of abuse, but aren’t sure what to do (or who to tell.)

What I always found interesting though, was that Crash Test Dummies doesn’t seem to offer any solutions to these scenarios. Instead, they hum, which I interpret as a sort of non-answer to the variety of problems. And that was always resonated with me: the lack of closure within the song (another anomaly in popular music of any kind.) People don’t want to be left wondering, they wanna believe we put a man on the moon, went Lenny Kravitz’s way and or could be shaped into a great pet for Perry Farrell.

In the end though, Crash Test Dummies had the last laugh. Despite the many accolades “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm” would receive for being a notoriously “bad song,” despite being called the “15th most annoying song ever” by Rolling Stone, and despite being ranked #31 on Blender’s list of the “50 Worst Songs Ever,” Crash Test Dummies went on to sell over 1 million copies of the album that contained “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm,” not to mention being parodied by Weird Al Yankovic and used as part of the soundtrack in Dumb and Dumber. All for writing a song that sidestepped the expected norms of pop music, without a traditional ending, and humming as the chorus.

This is what I remember from that one summer when I got really good at cooking 5 lbs of bacon at 9 in the morning.

I spotted this on Flat Matters yesterday and wanted to give it some attention. It’s from Jody Temple, and it’s really great. But the strange thing about the video is the name given to it on YouTube: Jody Good. If you don’t believe me, watch the above video, then click on the YouTube link to watch it over there. Great video, strange name. Maybe a more appropriate name would be “Jody B. Good” or something like that…

I’ve discovered a new way to catch Osama Bin Laden.

Intergalactic mercenaries.

Some call them “Bounty Hunters.” Most call them “Scum.” Others simply don’t call them at all. They exist on the fringes of the galaxy, bouncing mercilessly from bounty to bounty, alone and without a care for any species existing in and around them. Unless of course, there’s a monetary investment to be collected.

Bounty hunters take all forms, from renegade hunter-killer droid to the cloned and abandoned son of a Mandalorian warrior. They are also extremely well-armed, daring to live outside the traditional roles of morality and law, and more often than not, pretty damn good at killing and or capturing.

I have never met any bounty hunters in my life, but from what I’ve seen and read, they would do a good job at capturing Osama Bin Laden. They are well equipped with a plethora of creative weapons that would do plentiful damage in the mountains in and around the Afghanistan/Pakistan border, including double pronged Amban phase-pulse blasters, Valken-38 blaster rifles, concussion grenades, BlasTech DLT-20A blaster rifles, paralysis cords, stun gas blowers and tractor beams.

And even better, according to Article, sub-section 6 of the Bounty Hunter Guild’s rules and bylines, bounty hunters are not allowed to drink on the job (Section 6. Intoxication whilst on duty shall be defined as any hunter found intoxicated whilst on duty. Intoxication includes substances such as alcohol or spices.) This would not only make for a more effective hunt; it would be beneficial in the acrid desert conditions where Bin Laden is reportedly hiding. Basically, they wait for more appropriate times to get their drink on. (In this case, after Bin Laden was frozen in carbonite and safely delivered to George W. Bush.)

But I’m only just getting started. I haven’t even mentioned their work ethic. Yes, we’re going to need to pay them a little more, but as is always the case, you get what you pay for. Bounty hunters wouldn’t be caught dead dangling from shelves in the local dollar store, but they do know their way in and around an effective kill. In fact, I’ve even procured a quote from one of the most notorious bounty hunters in the galaxy to substantiate that claim: “I’ve killed virtually everything that moves, one time or another, a hundred different species, sentient and dumb; if it breathes I’ve probably killed it or something like it. But I’ve killed clean. I’ve killed without stretching it out,” says one Mandalorian armor-clad bounty hunter, who single-handedly captured Han Solo, escaped the Great Pit of Carkoon and even made his way in and around New York City about two years ago.

He was good at what he did. And he didn’t rest until the job was done. Of course, he was a clone, and may not have required the necessary essentials of human life such as sleep or food, but I think we’ve exhausted all other options. And let’s face it, right now, with the economy in the tank, Jersey Shore on top of the ratings chart and Tiger Woods in rehab for sex addiction, a bad ass bounty hunter with a jet-pack capturing Osama Bin Laden, freezing him in carbonite and delivering him in a spaceship named Slave 1 to The White House would definitely bolster some morales among the people.

In closing, I wish to quote the ever-creative words smith George W. Bush, who said, just before Christmas in December of 2001, “We’re going to get [Bin Laden] Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter to me.”

Yet, following nine years of Bin Laden-less justice, I think now is the time to assemble the scum of the universe, implore the “No disintegrations” rule, issue some Imperial Peace-Keeping Certificates (if need be) and hopefully, free up some time on the Nat Geo Channel in the process.

(I hate to be that guy, but those ‘Hunt For Bin Laden‘ documentaries are killing me.)

By the way, this is sarcasm, so don’t take it too heavily. Thanks.

“There’s an audience, and someone will remember this.” -TAAS

I’m a little late on this one, but I wanted to at least mention that one of my personal favorites, a Seattle band known as These Arms Are Snakes, called it a day late in December, followed by an official announcement on or around January 12 of this year.

I didn’t exactly take it personal or anything. I understand the nature of bands, and how fragile the arrangement of personalities can be. Not to mention the constant uphill battle a touring band undertakes, from broken down vans to countless nights spent sleeping on people’s floors. But I will miss them.

And I can’t help but think that in the wake of these circumstances, swift and deliberate confrontation took a direct kick to the head. Those that have ever attended a TAAS show can attest to this. Even when the band seemed internally disjointed, the music grabbed each audience member by the throat, shook them violently and never let go.

Still, priorities change, people move on and bands break up every single minute of the year. These Arms Are Snakes leaves behind a lasting legacy of recorded music, scathing live shows and a heavy dose of confrontational influence. And, if nothing else, I’ll always have the memory of them driving through Northern Philadelphia, blasting the They Might Be Giants CD box set on the way to their next show, getting it done the only way they knew how.

(The above video is a few years old, from North Six in Brooklyn. I loved each and every time I saw the band play, but the above performance turned me into a true believer.)

(Man walks in. African American, approximately 50-60 years old, mustached face, tightly curled hair.)

Man (to me): Is this seat taken? (He points to the stool next to me. He speaks in a halt and concise borderline shouting tone.)
Me: Not as far as I know.

Man: The name’s Jules. Jules Winnfield.
Me: I’m Brian Tunney, how are you?

Man: I’d be a lot better if it wasn’t so mutha fu**ing cold out, I can tell you that.
Me: I heard that. I’m never ready for winter. So what brings you in here tonight?

Man: I’m just walking the Earth, meeting people, getting into adventures… like Caine from Kung Fu.
Me: Really, that’s awesome. My story isn’t nearly as interesting. I prefer riding bikes to walking, try to keep to myself and like the Jedi before me, do my best to not crave adventure.

Man (Amused): That’s some funny shit right there, you know what I’m saying? So what’s on the menu in this place anyway?
Me: I think there’s some kinda pork chops as the special today. I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention.

Man: I don’t eat pork.
Me (Attempting to make a joke): What, are you Jewish?

Man: Nah, I ain’t Jewish, I just don’t dig on swine, that’s all…. This reminds me of a conversation I once had with a former colleague about 15 years ago…. It was a very strange day.

Me: Example?
Man: I can’t really go into the specific details. I left that behind long ago… I will say this though: on that day, myself and my former colleague, we witnessed a miracle…. He’s not with us anymore, but I won’t ever forget that day I spent with him.

Me: Sorry for your loss man. That sucks.
Man: Shit, it’s cool man. That was the line of business we was in, if you see where I’m coming from.

Me: Oh, uh. Maybe that’s all you need to say then.
Man: You telling me man. But I left all that mutha fu**ing shit behind years ago. Got out of L.A., made a new life for myself. (He grabs for the peanuts on the bar, swallows a handful and continues chewing.) Mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this down with?

Me: Not at all Jules. It’s a pale ale, I hope that’s okay.
Man: Shit man, that’s cool. Say, you know where someone like me could find a place to stay around here for a while?

Me: I don’t really know. Have you tried Craigslist?
Man: I’m trying Ringo…. I’m trying real hard.

Me: Who’s Ringo?
Man: Shit man, I just don’t dig on Craigslist.

Me: Well, there’s an apartment building near our house that does month-to-month rentals, and I think some of the apartments are furnished too. You’re gonna get, well, you know, that transient element, but what else would you expect from that kinda place. At least it’ll be cheaper than the city.
Man: If you would be so kind as to give me directions to this esteemed place, I would be most grateful my kind sir.

(I write down directions for Jules on a napkin and point him up the hill.)

Me: Here you go Jules. If you need anymore help, I’m here most nights.
Man: Thanks man. You’ve been like Fonzie to me.

Me: Huh? What do you mean?
Man: What’s Fonzie like?

Me: Cool?
Man: Correctamundo. And that’s what you’ve been to me. Thanks.

(The man starts to exit the bar.)

Me: Jules, I got one question for you before you leave?
Man: What’s that?

Me: What was in Marcellus Wallace’s brief case anyway?

Often times, when I’m attempting to understand the public’s neo-fascination with vampire lore, my mind wanders. And I’m forced to think about other forms of blood-sharing amongst humans; types that haven’t caught on and/or made an impact on pop culture in quite some time.

Like that of the black sleep of the Kali-Ma.

For those in the “What the hell is that supposed to mean” category, let me explain. You see, in the dark days before The Lost Boys, True Blood, Twilight and whatever that show on the WB is, vampires inhabited a not-too-crowded space in the pop culture lexicon between Count Chocula, Grandpa Munster, Tom Cruise and a post-hardcore band from Philadelphia named Ink and Dagger (who, for all intents and purposes here, were awesome, despite my present sarcasm.)

Vampires’ reputation to scare was spotty, or perhaps more appropriately, their blood-soaked cup of terror had runneth dry. Replaced, long before, by marshmallows in cereal, prime time black and white bad jokes, and, once again, Tom Cruise.

Fortunately, the long lost art of blood drinking continued to exist during those dark, comedic days of the vampire. Long before Bill Compton emerged from his Civil War-era sleep to wage war on long lost gods in Louisiana, Indiana Jones was entertaining an entirely different type of blood drinker: The Thuggee.

The Thuggee cult was a secret religious society centered in India and depicted in Indiana Jones And The Temple of Doom. Joining the Thuggee was a pretty simple task: the cult just forced you to drink The Blood of Kali, and the resulting “Black Sleep” allowed one to serve the God of Kali with the fervor of a giddy school boy. Unfortunately, the Black Sleep of the Kali-Ma was quickly eradicated by the burn of Short Round’s torch, but while under the hallucinogenic trance, one did whatever they could to efficiently serve the God of Kali and the Thuggee cult, even if that meant sacrificing one’s self. To support their cause, the Thuggee simply kidnapped children to dig for diamonds. And to fuel the cult on a magical level, they kept a trinity of stones, which in better times, had served as good omens for nearby villagers.

The whole premise, culled from real ideas but twisted in Hollywood proportions to allow for drama, was terrifying, and the nine-year-old kid that was once myself spent more than a good few months scared straight over the ramifications of cult-tinged cardiectomies purported by blood drinkers in 1920s era India.

Thankfully, that terror passed after realizing (in church) that symbolic blood drinking was an act that religions throughout the world weren’t scared of embracing. And so I drank, and laughed at Mola Ram’s bad acting, and unknowingly waited for Indiana Jones to make another movie that depicted his son swinging with monkeys through trees.

But let’s get back to vampires. Personally, I think the time frame from around the 1950s to right around 1987 painfully transformed vampires from a legendary monster of mythic proportions into something more akin to Alf. The Lost Boys attempted in vain to bring back the darkness, but Tom Cruise did a pretty good job at killing that bitter return by 1994, as it had been for over a decade, until about two years ago.

Now, I can’t look left or listen right without encountering vampires. And not only that, they’re not jokes anymore. They kill, and live dangerously, and probably tear the tags off mattresses with their teeth before they even buy them. Or more appropriately, vampires have once again become terrifying.

So this is my question: At the most basic form, what is required to transform a blood drinker from comedic relief into the commander of a camp, psycho-sexual drama of good versus evil set in rural Louisiana? And secondly, should I pitch a new breakfast cereal to General Mills that transforms the Thuggee into cute, lovable, sugar-filled flavors?

We could call them Thuggee-Puffs.

Or did I push this just one bad joke too far?

I love the lines “Catholicons for violence” and “This record’s over, so why not go outside and stop them?” That’s all.

There’s a few things that bother me about the current state of technology. Granted, most of it, I’m for. But it also seems that, along the way, technology sometimes enables us to lose certain parts of our identity. The parts that at the time, didn’t seem to matter at all. Parts that we wish would go away, but upon retrospect, actually realize that they help build character. At least in my case anyway.

Like getting lost.

I never used to go out with the direct intention of getting lost. Wandering, that’s a different story altogether. Whether on my bike or on foot, I’ve always enjoyed wandering. But now I have an iPhone, and wandering seems to have lost its allure. Maybe it’s because it feels like everything in the world has been discovered, pissed on and built over, or maybe it’s because there’s an app that does the wandering for almost anything I might want to imagine. I fight back, by only playing the Jeopardy App.

But I still miss getting lost and all that it created in its wake.

In the past, there were times when I became stranded in a strange place, with no phone to call for help. In those strange places, I would have no other choice than to talk to strangers, or act on intuition, and hope that I was going the right way. Ultimately, whatever the situation was, I figured out my way, learned a little about myself and the environment I was in, and got on with life, chalking up the past events to an adventure/life-learning experience.

Now my phone tells me which way to walk, and which places to avoid, and where the best bathroom and cup of coffee in the area might be.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate those conveniences, but I’m also left feeling that the adversity created by not knowing where the hell you are or what to do to get out of there builds character in the long run.

Basically, I still think it’s not only okay, but necessary, to get lost every once in a while.