It just doesn't matter

Is there anything that God actually likes?

Make sure you see this before they rip it off, folks (it's already gone from Youtube and very difficult to find on Google Video):

The Bible Says

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There's a lot of speculation about whether or not this is a joke. Well, you know how when you're watching a parody video there's that hint of irony somewhere in the back of your consciousness? Yeah, that doesn't happen here. In fact, lead singer of Evening Service, Donnie Davies has a whole li'l page explaining that he is a "Reformed Homosexual." Isn't that a lot like saying you're a "Reformed Redhead?" It doesn't make sense.

Yub nub, indeed

This was emailed to me. I hate that I love it.

Uh...

...right.

What killed the citrus crops the ice age?

Freshly re-minted Governor of California Arnold Schwarzenegger announced that he is seeking disaster aid for his state's citrus crops after a prolonged bout with frigid weather. He then went on to say "I'm here! Kill me now! Do it!" And other movie references I'm too tired to come up with. Faithful readers?

Lip Service

A good many linguists posit that human beings enjoy a unique capacity for language that occurs innately in all of us, unless of course you were born with severe head trauma, with Shacklesburger Syndrome (no lips and a nun fetish), or born President of the United States (yes, there are those who are, in fact, born president. It is largely known that William Howard Taft was our fattest president. But, it is less widely known that Bill Clinton was our fattest baby president and had to be removed from his mother by catapult in utero, which is Latin for "up her vadge" or is somewhere around Montego Bay). Needless to say, one's consumption and understanding of language is fascinating. Even more fascinating and enraging is the phenomenon known fictitiously as Flappengummen Syndrome, or "Ol' Ghost Lips," in which a subject processing any given language is compelled to move his lips while reading. Now, I've observed TWICE within the last two days people moving their lips while reading on the subway. And I'm not talking a subtle flutter of labial excitement, like a nervous hummingbird jerking off a wasp. I'm talking a cartoonishly exaggerated labial pantomime akin to what one might do when signaling to another person across the room that their balls are on fire or that his or her grandfather is secretly a vampire.

It is not possible to look more ridiculous than when one is moving his lips while reading. Even if he were putting sound to the movements and actually READING OUT LOUD, it wouldn't be as startling or worthy of a baseball bat to the mouth. Scientists have a long list of explanations regarding this phenomenon, but I don't give a shit. I find it distracting when, out of the corner of my eye, I see what appears to be a silent, puckering asshole opening and closing in space. And when, full of hope and wonder, I turn to look only to be rewarded with some douchebag whose mouth looks like an epileptic sea anemone, I tend to get a little angry.

Or people could stop reading. But they've almost achieved that anyway.

Second wave...

Tim Gyves has posted wave two of the birthday rockathon pics. Though he says he had no time to edit them, he was somehow able to replace all photos of me with images of Tom Arnold. Here's a link, but you have to sign in:

WAVE TWO

I have also been told that I neglected to mention a few performances and this, I regret, is embarrassingly true. Fortunately, my omissions have not been overlooked and angry party-goers have flocked to mention them in the comments section.

Remember when I botched Electric Avenue? Good times...

All through the karaoke girls were squealing the hits

Saturday's birthday karaoke jamboree was a tremendous success and I thank everyone who came out to bring Chelsea to its knees with hard, hard rocking.

Initially, I was up against Stalinist-level censorship from Anna and Carla as they attempted to block the first wave of party pictures, courtesy of Mike Solomon, from being seen. As you can see, they put the screws to him and had some of the hot pix removed:

The first wave of pictures are here!

Now, regardless of what Anna will tell you, everyone looked fantastic and hot and popular. In fact, I will have to say that BY FAR the highlight of the evening was Anna's rendition of Eminem's "The Real Slim Shady," which made niggas wanna weep. John Ness's songbird turn as Jack Black in "Wonderboy" had everyone believing in God again. Amanda Nazario's velvet voice made the ladies cream and the men scream, especially when coupled with her boyfriend Dan's silver-lined tenor during "Thunder Road." Let's not forget the very metal team of Matt Gurwitz and Carrie Canada's channeling of Rush for "Tom Sawyer." Not to be outdone, Jeff and Clara Solomon brought karaoking to new heights with their version of the 80's classic "Livin' On a Prayer" and not a soul was left unrocked by this. When Paul Chaytor set forth the power and the fury of several Oasis songs, let it be said, panties were thrown. Hearts were broken.

But honestly, it was seriously the most fun ever and I am so fortunate to have such amazing friends. Next year? Arm wrestling party.

The Advent

For 30 years now, people all around the world celebrate the coming of the crimson baby, Silvarado. It is said that denizens of the deepest regions of the African jungle, most notably the Pygmy or Negrito tribes, light a pair of red candles which represent the inflamed cheeks of Silvarado, whom they also call Bagganaynay ("Douchebag God"). Some children in Castillian Spain await eagerly for presents smothered in warm mashed potatoes and traditional jokebooks consisting of barely humorous stories, woefully bad puns, and blue material about baby rape. It is custom for those recognizing this holiday to greet each other with the traditional "I hate myself" followed by replies of "I hate myself too" if you're a male, or "Who are you again?" if you're a female. Depending on the region, special make-up is applied to the reveler's face in order to accentuate their embittered frowns. The remainder of the day is spent not talking to women and shying away from confrontation. Some orthodox Silvanians continue to collect action figures, comic books, and hardcore pornography. Some paint elaborate murals of Silvarado and Elvis Costello in a sultry bodily entanglement. All weep.

Fagspace

Friends of Davey Jones (me...it's just me really...so very alone) has amassed their media together in a central and accessible place. Myspace. Ever heard of it? Ever heard of the single biggest social cancer the world has seen since roller disco? Well, here's the URL:

myspace.com/fodj

Not all of the video bits are up there yet, but it's a painstaking process that leaves those wishing to promote themselves and their material wondering why anyone would fucking bother ever. Editing a Mypace Comedy page is like fingering a barely legal East Asian: frustrating with occasional exclamations of "Why are you doing that?!"

Which brings me to identity and its construction in a post Myspace world. It seems to me that the biggest irony at work today is that our very ability to fabricate our own custom identities using available technology is exactly what makes individuality almost completely unachievable and, in turn, nearly extinct. The role that the internet plays in the construction of one's identity has long been studied since its advent. Online, we can be whomever or whatever we want to be. It's, in a way, hyperexistentialism, in that not only are we essentially amorphous voids defining ourselves by association with external traits (I like baseball, I like mashed potatoes, I like deep anal penetration), but we are no longer bound to the physical world and can actively manipulate our identity online. But the irony is thickest when we consider that, honestly, the choices available to the construction of this identity are actually very limited. For the most part, the common man, unless well studied in HTML and the like, creates his online persona from what's already floating around out there, the common pool of popular culture. I can be an Elvis Costello loving, Dane Cook hating, quasi-pedophile with a Hello Kitty chat avatar, but that's just a crude combination of the bits of the popular culture with which I've chosen to associate myself. In the end, the building of one's identity becomes no more than a trite illusion. Nothing more than Disney icons and iTunes song lists.

I guess what I'm saying is that in trying to be so different from each other, we've made it impossible to be anything but woefully identical.