thanks to first dates at ground kontrol, you can say goodbye to 20 plus games and heeello to the lame sit down girl zone. they took out a bunch of games to make buck rogers looking bar tops for people who dont like games!!! fuck you very much. bring back spyhunter..........

Ripping of the title of a book (Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp) is almost as pathetic as the subject material.

Thomas Ross is a fag if he couldn't laid at Dixie.......

Id like to quote some words a friend of mine Roesing Ape (https://www.facebook.com/roesingape) wrote in his note titled " Exceprt #459887636 "

SO you decide to go to the bar. You drink whiskey when you want to stop the bad feelings. You drink beer when you eat to perfect the proceeding food coma. You drink whatever is available if you think it will help you get laid. But you're pretty certain not much will help you get laid these days, aside from a rock-solid internal lie.

"THE bar is dead. This makes you feel bad, because it is understood implicitly that those who are here at this time have the excuses of whatnot (blah, blah) but the reasons of feelings of badness to drink. No one is making any love. No one is flirting. No one is talking politics. No one is playing chess. No one is dancing. No one is playing pool. You decide to play pool. By yourself. The bartender pours a heavy shot. The scratches in the brass countertop pretend they are circling the reflections of light bulbs. They are really just the scars of hard cleaning. The heavier a bartender pours, the worse their taste in music is. Bars are stupid. There is no sunshine in a bar. There is always a symbol of death in a bar. Alcohol is poison. They charge you money for poison. You drink poison. You are poisoned. Then you may or may not talk to other people who are also poisoned. In general, it is common to prefer speaking to people who are poisoned just as much as you are. If they are less or more poisoned than you, there is a larger fear of miscommunication. However, since communication is one of the first things hindered by being so poisoned, it really makes little difference. The bottles are pretty, because they contain spirits. Nobody wants a spirit who lives in an ugly bottle. Sometimes you feel like you live in an ugly bottle. And you pay out the nose for it. As an aside, you also suck at pool. The bar is still dead. Playing bad pool with yourself inspired no mass of immigration. Schizophrenics smoke cigarettes on the porch with pudgy, balding, Macintosh cult members trying to intersect cleverly their penchant for overpriced, design-centric computers and gadgets with their delusions of credibility they associate with empty dive bars. They don't really succeed. Just as you don't really succeed at pool. You pretend you are solids for a miss. You pretend you are stripes for a miss. Then you cheat and knock in a stripe because it was an easy shot and you were sick of missing. Mod-glam post-punks hover in and out of vision, grouping bird-like at sincerely bad video games that bank on badness as kitsch much in the same way that the Macintosh cult members drink PBR. The anti-aristocratic nature of the birth of your country still places the majority of cool in the hands of the intelligent or clever poor. They've figured out how to get people to worship celebrity and to worship money, but they can't seem to hit that old style European home run that got the poor to worship non-celebrities with money. Being rich and unknown just increases the odds that you are a total dick. Unless you spend it on them. Then you're either a politician or a shill. So then you drive drunk home, you eat junk food and then you pass out. Tuesday.



WE all rape ourselves. You can call it fucking yourself. People very often tell other people to go fuck themselves. But really. It's not normally consensual when you fuck yourself. Fuck. Go fuck yourself. You take advantage of your body when you eat too much. You create the fat-sugar euphoria in your mind with your mouth one hour before midnight and sleep and therefore bludgeon your stomach, esophagus and insulin system with unnecessary stress. Smoking is an easier example. Lung rape. It's even shaped like a dick. A dick on fire. Your body says no, but its mind says yes. It's all dressed up for it, with taste bud tights and nicotine receptor mini-skirts. Take it all, bitch.

I have a comment about two (2) previous articles which both were both noted by others in the latest issue--thankfully at least two folks out there feel the same as me!

1) Vince Mancini is the new, and most relevant, voice of U.S. Film critics (BTW, will people stop calling it 'American' Cinema?--that's a continnental designation, and pretentious to boot!!!

2) I don't care how many 'stoner' records Tool recorded--they will be regared as far more relevant to today's contemporary musical landscape than LMFAO always, in 50 years, in 25 years, in 5 years, and tomorrow.

Maybe we can get Vince to comment on the Dixie Tavern DJ selections?