My television broke a few months ago. I had already cancelled my cable service after realizing some harsh truths. First: Comcast is evil. Not in a hyperbolic internet kind of way, but actually evil: if you close your eyes and say “Comcast” into a mirror three times, a Satanic service technician will appear behind you. Of course, he won’t appear behind you until the Monday after next sometime between noon and seven, but still: evil.

Second, the ratio of worthwhile programming to soul-deadening offal is worse than the ratio of good to bad Vince shows. The supply of creativity has remained fairly constant over the years: there’s the same amount of entertaining fare now as when your channel changer stopped at 13 and everyone had a secret way of insuring good reception, from extra-large rabbit ears to tin foil to inserting the antennae up the rectum of your friend with all the piercings.

90% of every medium is shit, but TV seems to have taken that as a dare, filing the airwaves with racist buttermongers, blotchy-skinned fat people running pawn shops, and Anthony Bourdain smoking at you while sneeringly wearing a Dead Boys t-shirt despite being 50 years old and telling you how much better food is when prepared in a country where no one has ever washed their hands.

So when the TV gave up the ghost (which reminds me: Nostradamus made a prediction about an empire falling when a critical mass was achieved of shows about liars and idiots hunting spirits, chasing ‘squatch, and talking to the departed in a grating Long Island accent) I did the righteous thing and called a local charity to come pick it up. I might have neglected to mention that it didn’t work any longer and I was using their free donation service as a garbage pick-up, but in my defense, they didn’t ask. Plus. the place is entirely staffed my recovering junkies and alcoholics; exercise is good for them.

Nice rationalization.

I’m human: it’s kind of our prime directive.

It’s just me and the computer now. Got the Netflix and the Youtube and someone (not me, your honor) keeps sneaking into my house to torrent Archer and Hannibal and Top Gear seconds after they air.

Last night, though, I checked out the newest offering from Charlie Miller’s visual counterpart, Voodoonola, whom I can only assume is from Michigan. April 27th at the Capital Theater in beautiful, downtown Passaic, NJ, from the fabled Spring ’77 tour.

It’s a multi-camera shoot and there’s just tons of nifty shit in here. Some highlights:

  • Garcia is fantastically entertaining. His eyebrows are more expressive than Rowan Atkinson’s rubbery mug and he’s having a great time. He’s trim and bopping around the stage, making eye contact with everyone and just generally looking like he wants to be there.
  • Billy is a revelation, slamming into his kit and loosing more beats than humanly possible. Check him out on Mississippi Half-Step, but be prepared to massage your aching face after the smile fades away hours later.
  • Mrs. Donna Jean’s hair is positively Rapunzel-esque. Keith would have climbed up it later that night had he not been completely immobile, wearing a ludicrous scarf, and sporting my Great-Aunt Helen’s sunglasses.
  • And for all my fellow Enthusiasts raised thinking paradise could only be illuminated by the dashboard light, the set break feature the legendary and much-missed dulcet tones of Scott Muni.

So watch it. Or turn on your TV and check out the latest wacky misunderstanding on Two Broke Girls. (That was a bad example: that show has two undeniable reasons to tune in.)

Just say it.


There ya go, slugger.