METAL INSIDER IS COGENT, NOT PETTY ENOUGH

It's obvious that we all love Metal Insider for their concise analysis of current events and industry trends. MI displays an unsightly maturity unseen in most Metal media, for example in a recent piece about the CD format at age 27. The article demands that they reference a bunch of suckass records -- each a benchmark in CD history -- which MI kindly resists excercising their journalistic right to mercilessly belittle. Billy Joel? Seriously? That guy can shampoo my crotch.

But MI closes with feel-good nostalgia thanks to which I remember my first CD; it was Rust in Peace in the longbox and I'm very proud of that. The first ever loaded and played is ...And Justice For All, and if this seems too convenient that my virginal experiences with CD involve these high-watermarks of Thrash and not Poison or worse, first of all, I think your attitude sucks. And if my memory were a fucking liar, it sooo would've rewritten history regarding the first CD I ever heard: The Bangles' Different Light. Shit. It was over pancakes at Cory's house with his hip divorcé dad and his generously beknockered sisters. It was my first up-close look at an indecipherable intellectual and untamed/incidental boobage, respectively. But that day I was more impressed with this comparitively sleek, uber-precise CD player thing; to illustrate how cool Cory's dad was, I'll explain that he had books everywhere, wrote books himself, made a living as a college professor, edited a terrifying literary journal, and owned the first CD player I ever laid eyes on. Oh and though he spent what $2800 on the fucker, his daughters (the eldest and beautiful) ruled over the owner and his sons (Beastie Boys fans). And hence, the Bangles breakfast. That story's quite sweaty but honestly, just hum a few bars of the the title track and I smell syrup and feel a tingle in my junk.

THE SPRUCE BRUCE

I'm not sure how it's possible but my 100% not-literal love affair with Iron Maiden singer Bruce Dickinson has actually intensified over the last decade. By the time of Fear Of The Dark, I had logged about 60K listening hours on Somewhere In Time and Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. To that you can add roughly 14 weeks each on Beast, Piece; let's agree that a season could approach and pass in the time I've spent rocking either No Prayer and Powerslave. My last semester at college is a blur of Chemical Wedding and Accident of Birth (not Accident At Birth, Brian); and then there's Skunkworks (3.5), which broke the record set by A Lil' Ain't Enough (3) for consecutive months in my shower stereo. A dude could lose an entire morning to just "Innerspace" and "Strange Death In Paradise" continuously.

Anyway even since all that, Bruce has rejoined Maiden for a classic and a two solids, has become a freaking jetliner captain who flies his goddamn fucking tour to and from "the asshole(s) of the world," and has still not once been a douche about anything, especially his own deafening awesomeness. Now sure, I don't really get his sensibilities in film and the written word. But I just figure that's cuz he's British and everything. Sorry the point is Bruce is tops and his breathtaking performances just with Maiden are pretty much innumerable. Plus, each Bruce highlight presses a different button, from dread ("Hallowed Be Thy Name") to pre-hysteria ("Public Enema #1") to bona fide wistfulness ("Wasted Years" thank you Adrian Smith) and so on. He's pretty much the best at the pleading, theatrically persecuted outcast ("The Prisoner," "Powerslave," "The Prophecy" vote for that shit over there). He sings about like relationships and shit on Skunkworks and it doesn't sound weird at all. I also love that he has worn a different outfit each tour. And nobody said SHIT when he covered -- and singled -- Bowie's "All The Young Dudes" which isn't actually as faggy as the title implies but still. Actually I'm a chick dude but if he asked me, I would let him take pictures of my butt. Sorry mom but there it is.

I'M LOBBYING FOR THE MANTIC RITUAL GIG

Thanks to fellow award-winning Metal Sucks reviewer/stud Corey Mitchell I'm all gorgor for Mantic Ritual. So my brow is furrowed in contemplation of earth's cold indifference to last month's announcement that singer/guitarist Dan Wetmore departed the band. That's a lot of prepositions in the previous sentence so sorry but anyway the Mantic story fetched but a dozen comments on Blabbermouth and I didn't even see any coverage beyond that (Metal Sucks did, however, give Ziltoid's boyfriend a column and it's great.) And for that, I'm wagging my finger at everybody in Metal even Mitchell, though he too is probably busy eye-raping the pages of this year's Best American Crime Reporting (a September occurrence that staves off suicide between summer and NBA) to publicly mourn this band-imperiling development. OK sure they've already replaced Wetmore, so there's no imminent danger. But at the same time, who can tell how the other three Mantics may rebound after being dumped for ahem photography studies. I took photo once and my big project involved two chicks kissing (Angela your knockers ruled I should've told you). Which means both that I rule and that I've already achieved the pinnacle of photog ambition so naturally I should be selected to front Mantic mark II. And that solves that BAM pick me up Sunday, k guys?

THE FACIST SECURITY DROID GOES WILD

I love that drinking game where dudes take turns calling out hair rock bands and the first to blank out is punished by a council comprising the other players. The sentence is usually some night-ending amount of intoxicants delivered by eye injection or something. It gets hard to recall what may amount to dozens of crotch-boy groups by name, especially once you get into sub-minor successes (Baton Rouge, Tuff, Jet Boy, Roxx Gang, Spread Eagle) and the semi-hair rockers that always spur debate (The Cult, Aerosmith). Side bets can be had by challenging the namer to also identify by complete title a song attributable to the named band. (I took major action once to sing in its entirety "Walkin' Shoes" by Tora Tora FTW.)

This game was started before the onlinenets, so shit this is knowledge culled from Headbangers Ball, Rip and Metal Edge. Oh and thousands of hours appearing nonchalant while positioning oneself to shoplift at CD stores. Anyway, it's good strategy to keep a few in your breast pocket for later, so to speak, groups which you're reasonably certain will not be mentioned by your competitors. My trump card is usually a unverifiable regional act (Legz Up, London zing!) but when Bubbles isn't playing I squirrel away for the tough upper 60s some stateside flops like Cats In Boots or Babylon A.D. But that last ace up my sleeve might be wrecked if they ever reissue the red hot Robocop 2 soundtrack (above) or if Lazarus A.D. continues to flourish. Those are what you call good problems.

RICHARD PATRICK IS AWESOME, CREEPING ME OUT

There was a point during Monday's Jeopardy when I was like dumbfounded at the amount of creepy-ass shit going on in the show. Right off the bat, the very first contestant to be announced was leering, mouth agape, openly attempting to mentally undress the home viewing audience; just as announcer Johnny Gilbert (hotness) hits the last syllable of the boytoucher's name, he suggestively raises his eyebrows like the grossest perv to ever grow a rapist beard. Then you hear the Miley Cyrus superfan's voice and goddamn if it doesn't sound like a seventh grader's. I'm afraid to go near Sony Pictures even though this shit was taped weeks ago.

But Alex Trebek is a glory hog and wouldn't allow attention to focus on the guy who eats people's faces. So when time came to give the correct response for a botched Daily Double, he actually acted out the definition of bashful to the lone female player. My family is Italian but I'm not exaggerating when I state unequivocally that I nearly ralphed at his attempt at boyish innocence. It was like Mickey Rooney as Fallout Boy. It was like Fall Out Boy. Then, while I'm still choking back -- and back down -- my dinner, Trebek says the word Alcock followed by the completely hilariouser Alcock & Brown. Oh oh oh and then, Trebeck, just smoldering with white hot animal intensity, read a clue that referenced Warrant's "Cherry Pie" and now I hate sex.

In other creepy news, some creeps made a movie about the creepiest male relation ever, the stepdad (silver medal: uncle). Somebody in this organization has half a brain cuz, to sing a potentially mega-creepy song, they enlisted Richard Patrick and his Filter guys. And the result (here, stay for "American Cliche") is the most potent popular expression of windowless-van creepiness found outside a Dennis Lehane book or a movie by Todd Solondz (above). Great references, right? I'm like Dennis Miller in here, cha-cha. 'The fuck off me.