THE GREAT GADFLY:

Top Ten

1. Concerts, concerts, concerts. This week I bought tix for me and my mother to see La Bowie this January. Or should I say "next January"? "This next January"? Language - BAH! Anyway, putting my mother in a stadium full of people and bright lights and spectacle is going to be interesting, but hey - I remembered promising her sometime last year that if the man ever came through Chicago I'd treat her, and so it has come to pass, mote it be so and hoka hey and all that jazz. Meanwhile, I talked a friend who'd never heard of Fischerspooner into attending their show at House of Blues next month by promising her "lots of glitter and nudity". They better deliver the goods, god damn it. Truth to tell, I'm a bit more excited about FS's opening act, Kenna. I've listened to Fischerspooner far more than I've listened to Kenna's "New Sacred Cow", but I can't help but feel that this guy is someone about whom we may well soon be saying, "I remember that guy before he got huge". Or he could just be a flash in the pan like Robbie Nevil or Richard Marx, and wind up a songwriter for Pixar movies or some shit. Which, you know, ain't a bad way to end up, I guess.

2. The new Spiritualized album, Amazing Grace. Short. Sweet. Their most stoner-rific music yet.

3. Fucking up my leg. During my sleep last night, I woke up to the sensation of what felt like a muscle being pulled out of my leg by some kind of insidious muscle-robber. I yowled like an alley cat just before a boot comes flying at its head, freaked out for a minute or two, then decided "ah well, I'm screwed", and went back to sleep. Today I'm limping around like a goon, and I have no idea how I'll be getting myself to work. I'm going to be hobbling around downtown Chicago doing unintentional Vanilla Ice impersonations, right out on the streets, right out in public. I have no idea what this wound is all about, but I demand some answers. Someone will pay for this injury - and mark my words, that someone will be ME! And that's a threat, not a promise!!! Oh, wait, no. It's a promise. A promise, not a threat. However that shit goes. I have no idea what I'm talking about. My leg hurts. I want a cane. And I don't mean Big Daddy Kane.

4. Creepy candy. I bought candy yesterday called AquaDrops. It's supposed to be a mouth freshener. Not a breath freshener, mind you, but a mouth freshener. I think it's made up of nitroglycerin and cocaine, but I can't be sure. I'm not sure why I bought this creepy candy yesterday - I have a fresh enough mouth as it is.

5. Bad eating habits. Last night, someone at work gave me a big plate of hash browns. Later last night, I had a big, spicy bowl of curried vegetables. Needless to say, I deeply despise my digestive system.

6. Run, Ronnie, Run! I think we're all pretty much done with the mullet humor - when Loni Anderson's surgically-bukkakaed face appears on a prime-time network television show dedicated to the ol' neckwarmer shag, you know the joke's gone stale. But the movie Run, Ronnie, Run, based on a Mr. Show skit about a ne'er-do-well redneck whose propensity for appearing on reality cop shows makes him famous, manages to squeeze out a few more juicy comedic farts before the familiar stench goes completely stale. Even if you're not as easily amused by David Cross as I seem to be, it's worth it just to cherish a scene in which the dreaded Manty Patankin gets naked and sings "y'all are brutalizin' me". Don't take my word for it! Erm...don't take their word for it either...

7. Geek Maggot Bingo. This week, I found a used DVD of Nick Zedd short films. I wasn't quite sure what a Nick Zedd film would be like, as I used to confusedly amalgamate him and Richard Kern into the same artsy uber-filmmaker anyway. After seeing some of Zedd's "Lord of the Cock Rings", I now know the difference. Kern is more noirish gutterpunk gritty fetish goo, and Zedd is more porn-y hipster Mad magazine-esque schtick. Of course, I still need to see the other films. I could be completely off-base. Whether I feel the love for the Zedd or not, it was nice to see some NYC hepcats from back in the day in these films. If nothing else, Zedd's films capture the beauty of skanky-cute boys on Avenue C circa 1995, with their pricey Smiths import CDs and their dirty clothes. I can smell their long-neglected catboxes now, as if the aroma of petrified kitty dung were the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. Ah, memory. Anyway, God (or Satan, or Klemptor, or whomever) bless Zedd for doing his thing.

8. The new job. What can I say, I like the new gig. I work with geeky, earthy, irreverent people who are just as adept at goofing off as they are at working hard. I adore the new schedule - the only challenge over the past couple of days has been that of making myself slow down, sleep in, stay up late and enjoy the new way of doing things. Yesterday, my supervisor told me I could expect at least three weeks of training before I'd be considered ready to handle actual work. Last night I turned out two projects. I ain't no limburger.

9. Wanting to hear the new Outkast album so much I could poop myself. Hate to say it, but I'm not exactly in love with the new Bowie album. Results are subject to change, but right now, I think it's a blathery mess. He even kinda crucified a cool Jonathan Richman song called "Pablo Picasso" - you know the one, from Repo Man? "Girls would turn the color of an avocado..." Yeah, that one. Love that song. Love Bowie. However, this is sadly not a fortuitous "you got your chocolate in my peanut butter" moment. Maybe it's a grower? I dunno. Anyway. I want to hear the new Outkast album. Everyone's scratching their eyes out and bashing their skulls with rocks over it. And the new Peaches is supposed to grace our lives next week. Oh, and something else good falls from the music industry heavens next week, I forget what. I wish the cool people would quit putting out new music for a while, because Daddy needs to save some money.

10. Marcel Dzama. If there's ever a time to say "last but not least", this would be it.