Month: July 2010

I know Mel Gibson from way back. He’s a good actor, a good director, a good husband and a good father. He’s a patriot, an all-around All-American, a bad boy and, yes, sometimes a drunk. But now he’s in trouble and he knows it.  Mel Gibson is riding a beast Hitler and Napoleon couldn’t ride. The Russian.

                                 Russians

When you listen to those tapes you are listening to the rage of a man who’s afraid of losing it all. It’s sudden, like a Russian winter and it cuts to the bone until you are bled dry in the snow. What happened to Mel has happened to many men but in Mel’s case he’s facing off with a woman who’s very DNA is steeped in those winters, centuries of winters and Cossacks and invading armies. Her tribal roots extend to the very fuedal serfs that brought down the Tsar. Mel, in an effort to feel young again and be the man he was and not the husband and father of eight he is, got himself a toy, this gorgeous young Russian artist, a gypsy siren to strecth by the fire with. He got himself a toy….and the toy’s broken. What has happened is that Mel’s not-so-irresistable force has met the Russians Immovable Object. She now has him backed into a potential palimony suit, one that could very well drain away more precious millions from his reputedly shrinking financials. He sees all that money and all that freedom and all that..dare I say it….pussy going away and leaving him single, yes, but broke. That’s why the man is enraged. His heart isn’t broken. His life is broken, snapped in two over the passive-aggressive knee of the Grigorieva.

Phil, back row, third kid from the left. Good damn times but this was before the wonderful world of girls so…Let me just add, for what it’s worth, our coaches, Mr. Brennan and Mr. Combs were patient, calm guys. We had a lot of fun and we had a pretty good little team. By the way, one of these guys dad owned Little Joes italian restaurant near Chinatown so at the end of the season we had this big Italian meal. I mean for being 10 or whetevr that’s pretty cool.

 

…..and you’ll note we now offer the download both ways…(if you’ll pardon the expression)…You can take it in the single file or you can get it in three hourly files…(if you’ll also pardon those expressions) …..how do you want it? (And, finally, pardon that expression)………

The Phil Crew

artwork by amanda green

…Not that we’ll necessarily care…..

And why is that? Well because once Feedburner gets done with your website it looks nothing like what you wanted it to look like. And it does appear that Feedburner and others like it are around for no real reason other than to, once again, fuck up somebody else’s work. Gee, why would that be? Well, having been tossed into the world with no real creative skills of their own but seeing an enormous canvas called the Internet, they decide to get into the We-can’t-do-anything-ourselves-so-we’ll-turn-someone-elses-work-to-shit business. If you are reading this right now off of Feedburner…well, I refuse to believe it. How’s that?

Margaret Grey’s real time Journal Of A Fist-Fight..written right after it happened, Thursday, July 16, 2010, 3:45pm PDT

My heart is still pounding. I was saying to Donna Butt, who is one of our fashion writers, that were I an immigrant at Ellis Island at the turn of the 20th century, I would have insisted they write my last name down correctly. You know, instead of some butchered-up Americanization. And she says…God help me through this…she says “I thought you did come through at Ellis Island.” …Well, there was about a split second worth of silence and she’s looking at me as if waiting for a laugh like she got off a good one…I’m staring at her and way deep inide of me there’s a voice and the voice is saying “Bitch I’m a STAR, bow down hoe” and with that I was on her…..I don’t remember who pulled me off but I had a handful of weave. I’m in Contessa Dicklins office right now. Franks been called..and guess what? I don’t give a s-h-i- (will not spell out the entire word because I am ‘class’. More than Butt will ever be. And what about that last name? Thought about changing it? To Cunt?) I asked where she was and someone said laying down in Jason Facia’s office. And again, to quote Ike Clanton, “Well, I hope you die.” You see, let me explain. No bitch-made, Katrina vanden Heuvel wanna-be get’s to drop s-h-i-(won’t spell because I’m a lady) on me. I’m looking through the blinds in Connie’s office and I can see them helping Butt back to her desk. She’s holding a rag to her mouth and head. I’m calming down. Franks on the other line. I don’t care. Frank’ll take care of it with a check. I only wish she’d sue. Look at that. There’s a paramedic here and he’s holding a tuning fork to Butt’s ear. A tuning fork! Brain damage?! Man, I kicked her ass……

It was a two hour Raj Feneen extravaganza as Raj and his Arabic-speaking son Todd talked with Phil about the proposed mosque at Ground Zero, New York. Raj told Phil that the new mosque was needed because while most immigrants coming to America enjoy seeing the Statue of Liberty, Muslims don’t really like the view because Liberty is a female with no veil and an exposed arm. “You might as well have a dog holding a torch for all it means to me,” says Raj. Predictably the audience reacts negatively as the “dog” theme continues. While arguing with one woman, Raj stops down to ask Phil “Do I have to keep arguing with this woman. It’s as if you are forcing me to argue with a dog.” In the background, Raj’s son Todd is barking and whistling the Lassie theme. By the second hour, Raj has changed gears and switches stories. Now he says he’s in favor of a new mosque near Ground Zero because of the “foot traffic” that is there, making it the perfect spot for a food court inside the mosque. Raj talks about “making a beautiful dollar” with a KFC and a Burger King. Raj tells Phil that he is in fact the owner of a fast food franchise and then offers a 9/11 first responder who calls in “dibs on a Checkers franchise.”

I recieved a communication from a young man who is obviously angry. He messaged me at Facebook. Usually I refer all messages at Facebook to our website as I do not reply to any e-mail save that which I recieve from Backstage Pass members. His message was rageful and hateful. It attacked me personally and professionally. Upon doing some research I found out the young man was confined to a wheel-chair and suffered from SED or what we commonly call “Dwarfism.” Through his anger I saw pain, deep hurt over how fate had dealt with him and I did something corny. I put myself in his  shoes. I decided to break a cardinal rule and communicate directly with a non BSP. I wanted to try something completely different in responding to what we in the business term “hate mail.” His name is Eric and here’s what I wrote him.

“You dirty filthy little man. Do you know what I could do to you if I had 5 minutes to spare and packing tape? You do don’t you? Maybe you wanna come and get some, huh? What do you think circus boy, huh? Wanna get some? I could kill you by looking at you. Just by looking at you with the rage I feel right now I could kill you and your body would ignite and burn which considering body mass alone would take around 6 or 7 minutes and then there isn’t enough left of you to put in an ashtray. Go to hell. On second thought, you’re too small. Go to hell jr. They won’t take you in regular size hell.”