The Culture Bunker

And so, to our critics—sadly, there’s only one or two of them, but they are REALLY pissed—we would like to declare ourselves to be the three-dot columnist equivalent of that esteemed social commentator, Eminem. Oh, all right, we’re the Bloodhound Gang . . . As for the actual Mr. Mathers, will all the critics still think he’s so brilliant, funny, and insightful when he actually kills his wife? Our guess: They’ll simply blame black culture!

Though he’d like his new nickname to be “The Big Aristotle,” Shaq should really be known as “The Big SCAB.” Yes, having starred in such cinematic masterworks as Steel and Kazaam, he is indeed a member of SAG—at least he was—and should be vilified and scorned for strikebreaking his way into a Disneyland commercial. How does Phil Jackson, who has got be a Wobbly from way back, feel about this?

Cynthia Plaster Caster will be exhibiting her cocks in NYC next week, a collection that includes the molded members of Jake Shillingford and Momus. The world’s gone topsy-turvy, hasn’t it? On a related note, when you shell out your $19.95 to get into the EMP, shouldn’t Jimi’s dick be on display? Hell, at those prices, it’d best be interactive!

Poor John Mortimer. It’s bad enough that he had to sit through Scream 3, but now he has to endure Disney’s The Kid. She Who Must Be Obeyed must be None Too Amused . . . Meanwhile, Courtney Love is starring in a new movie from Niagara Niagara director Bob Gosse (the man responsible for Dabaret and Ball That Jazz), which she’ll follow with a leading role in a new John Carpenter pic (written by the Blinker the Star guy, no doubt). Yep, Courtney’s burgeoning movie career looks to be every bit as successful as Celebrity Skin was!

Speaking of Courtney, we are genuinely pleased to hear the news of not one but two Evan Dando solo records in our future . . . Not as pleasing is the way Goldberg abandoned the Dallas Stars the minute the Devils won the Cup. Memo to Brett Hull: Next year give your free tickets to Vampiro . . . Y’know, when we started hearing about Austin’s Dynamite Hack we just assumed people were talking about Andy Langer. Turns out it’s a band . . . We notice that the great Robert Stone has blurbed Robert Bingham‘s Dog Soldiers-esque new novel by saying it was “in the Conradian tradition” when he should’ve just said, “in the great tradition of Me!”

So what kind of screwy, screwy world are we living in when a Black Sabbath reunion is the featured attraction of Los Angeles’ KROQ Weenie Roast? What, OMD weren’t available? Which reminds us, if you care to spend a summer evening watching a very old, very haggard Richard Butler choking his way through “President Gas” and “Into You Like a Train,” feel free. But does anyone really need a new Psychedelic Furs album? On a related note, we recently spied a pic of the reunited Iron Maiden. Sadly, now they all look like Eddie.

It’s been a few months, but for some reason people who attended All Tomorrow’s Parties are still upset that Sonic Youth didn’t play any “songs.” We suppose Mogwai or Clinic busted out with all their big pop hits. What the fuck! . . . Speaking of “what the fuck!” the Farrelly Brothers have only just recently heard of Preston Sturges? They are soooo out . . . A few months ago Esquire magazine asked, “What’s inside Heather Graham‘s head?” It turns out the answer is a series of best-selling romantic thrillers.

A thought: Why eat Subway when you can eat Quiznoe’s? Another thought: Shouldn’t Michael Jordan have somebody else to call besides Tweety Bird? He must be bored out of his mind. One more thought, as Wimbledon approaches: How did Magnus Norman become one of our best tennis players? Isn’t he the Strongest Man in the World? . . . The Catholic Church has announced that it will name a patron saint of the Internet. Insert joke here.

This month in London Scott Walker presents his Meltdown fest, which features the likes of Smog, Blur, and of course, Radiohead. Man, we love Scott Walker and we love people who are influenced by Scott Walker, but we do not like what Scott Walker likes . . . And what’s up with Thom shaving his head? Guess he felt the need to ugly himself up before the new record comes out and photographers start tramping up to Oxford. Either that, or he’s taking a bit too much career advice from his pal Stipey . . .

Finally, your not-so-humble columnists have spent weeks—OK, days—trying to figure out what the hell “Bling Bling” means. We simply aren’t down with the hip-hop culture, as Jason’s Wu-Tang name—Victorian Cow—amply displays.

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