two-headed boy

.... is that the math and science nerds see right through the pseudo-intellectual, Vonnegut-loving, bullshit posturing of the english and drama nerds.

A couple of months ago when Myron Cope shuffled off this mortal coil, I thought it proper to link to some sound bites.  I guess it's because I thought of him primarily as a radio personality that I didn't consider checking Youtube.  Sweet Jesus, that was a mistake!  This video, which I can only assume was meant to make me excited for Pittsburgh Pirates baseball, came to my attention a couple of days ago.  It's probably not safe for work.  Or home.  Or.... anywhere, really.  Don't say you weren't warned.

Today is not a significant day.  But then, neither was yesterday - and yet thick-necked fraternity brothers and vacuous sorority sisters everywhere commemorated the non-occasion with three dollar mojitos and unplanned pregnancies.  So perhaps the great unwashed might also one day remember this uneventful day.  With a massive marketing campaign and a vague (at best) understanding of the flimsy history involved - all supported by the entire weight of a legalized drug industry, natch - we here at hotrod.vox.com think there just might be an outside chance they will.  Step three: profit.

Today marks the one week anniversary of the first day we might have posted our inaugural installment of our intended new weekly feature "the vault."  And today marks the first deadline we set for ourselves pertaining to said feature that we have missed.  We anticipate that it will be the first of many, which is why after considerable deliberation our editorial staff has decided to delay the debut of this much-anticipated column.  Astute readers no doubt will have noted a more sporadic than usual posting schedule here at hotrod.vox.com over the past six weeks or so.  After careful study of our second quarter projections, we expect this trend to continue into the summer.  Things are just way too hectic down at the lab, what with a high-profile study of the University of Maryland's indigenous turtle population occupying most of our time.  The last thing we want is to begin a regular feature for which our massive readership awaits weekly with bated breath and then not be able to follow through.  So look for "the vault" to resume - or to begin, rather - in July.

Make no mistake - this delay has nothing to do with the record we selected to review in our initial installment.  It sucks.  Really, really bad.  We can't wait to write the review, actually.  We just don't have the time.

Look, it's time we came to an understanding.  Yinz all know by now that the greatest motion picture ever made by a human being is set to drop this summer.  So to make a long story short, every time Chris Nolan so much as sneezes between now and July 18th, our crack staff at hotrod.vox.com is going to report it.  There's no need to thank us; it's the least we can do.  We're givers.

In other news: the new Batman movie (or at least the marketing campaign for the new Batman movie) looks totally badass - way more badass than either Spiderman or *snicker* Superman, that's for damn sure.

I have more CD's than ninety-nine percent of America but fewer CD's than forty percent of my friends.  Those aren't my words; Chuck Klosterman wrote them in Killing Yourself to Live.  And I'm not sure I even identify with them.  I mean... except for Soo, I suspect I actually do have more CD's than most of my friends.

I've given discs away, but I have never sold any back to any record store.  I find it dishonest, in a way, to purge one's collection.  Anyone and everyone can sift through the strata of my collection and formulate any hypothesis they wish about my musical development from the fossil record.  My standard response will be that Jesus placed those incriminating discs in my library to test the faith of the believers (or non-believers; I'm not really sure how that concept is supposed to work), but we all know that I - like everyone else - used to listen to some seriously uncool music.  As I've grown older, I have found this policy has - perhaps unfortunately - influenced my buying habits.  I'm less tolerant now than I used to be of the more flash-in-the-pan bands (See: The Fratellis.  See also: everything else to which Dabysan listens.) that come down the pike.  But I still have plenty of older material that rarely, if ever, finds its way into my rotation.  I can hardly be blamed.  Hell, there are records I truly love that I forget about if I go a few weeks without listening.

So with that we begin a musical odyssey, of sorts - an exploration of my back catalog; a re-visitation of those discs which haven't been spun in years.  Here's how it works: I pick a CD early in the week and give it four or five serious listens.  And then I post a completely objective and unbiased review on a day to be determined by whenever I get around to posting my first installment.  Hopefully, that will be Thursday.  Thursdays are a good day for a regular feature.  I think we'll get things started this week with the Replacements' craptacular debut Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash.  Like I said, objective and unbiased.  Totally.

The Commissioner of my fantasy football league is a total deadbeat.  The season ended over four months ago, and I have yet to receive my prize money.  Just yesterday, I received my long-overdue trophy.  And my anger is only partly assuaged by the handsomeness of the award.  It now occupies that slot on my bookshelf which was once filled by that totem of Karaoke excellence: Lord Ramsey's Cup.  As I have reluctantly accepted the fact I will never again hoist in glory the Ramsey Cup, I guess I will just have to win this award next year (and the year after (and the year after)) in order to reaffirm to myself my excellence and my superiority over my peers.  It will probably eventually be named in my honor.  The Hotrod Trophy has a nice ring to it.

I screwed up.  There, I said it.  I know what you're thinking, but there's a first time for everything.  There was a grave oversight in the "desert island record" list I posted a week and a half ago.  And  was reminded of such this evening by a song M-----l posted.  I don't know how I overlooked the Wrens' "Meadowlands" CD, but I did.  And it belongs on my island.  I have edited the post accordingly.  Suck it, Uncle Tupelo.

I'm not so much a fan of homemade videos (let's be honest - most of them blow), but the band seems to like them.  So who am I to disagree?

This past week most certainly did not go as we had anticipated.  After several weeks of near-constant scrambling down at the lab, we thought on Monday we might actually be able to relax a little.  As it happened, this was our busiest week in a while and we didn't have any time even to manage the ol' blog.  On behalf of the entire staff of hotrod.vox.com, we apologize and offer an overdue and abbreviated glimpse of the week that could have been.

hotrod's birthday (observed):  Many, many thanks are due the organizer and attendees of our birthday festivities, which transpired Sunday evening.  Our official birthday is in September, but we didn't celebrate then.  We never do.  It usually takes people about six months to remember that they missed it.

challenged:  The New Pornographers played two sold out shows at the 9:30 Club this week.  We didn't attend either performance, but we did read with some glee the interview with Carl Newman in which he stated that DC is the best town for music but that despite that fact the New Pornos always play shitty shows here.  And that he's a hack.  Get your shit together, Post Express.  We already knew all that.

mum's the word:  Some losers at our college started a movement (of sorts) to paint their fingernails red on the first anniversary of the Virginia Tech massacre as a way to honor the victims.  For the record, Virginia Tech's colors are orange and puce.  We suspect these guys were just looking for an excuse to wear nail polish.

holy shit:  The Pope seriously fucked up our morning commute.

hungry heart:  Danny Federici - multi-instrumentalist and original member of the E Street Band - died this week.  Rest in peace, and cue the video.

seven-inch:  Today is Record Store Day, so get out there and buy some CD's from somebody in your neighborhood.  Steve Jobs is killing music.  He's evil incarnate.  And we realize this item could have stood on its own now that we've got some time.  But fuck it, we're on a roll.