Tuesday, December 18, 2007


They say that Los Angeles is the city of dreams, a place where ugly is made beautiful and skinny is made fat. From knowing exactly how many hairs on britney's twat to the presidency of Mitt Romney, the influence of Hollywood's morals on society at large is immeasurable. But, in my experience, it's the small things that define a larger truth. (That rule also applies to my sex life.) Here, it is the wishful thinking of the signs on the highways that crisscross the valleys like a Peter North face-painting. The most obvious are those that declare a certain, (inevitably bland and depressed) area, as "historic." LA County has, according to my scientific analysis, added that moniker to "Filipinotown", "Arroyo Seco", and "JewTown." (The latter being historic since they have all moved to Brentwood.)

If you have to put the term "historic" in front of anything, then it most definitely is not historic. In fact, it is probably relatively new and largely ignored, except by politicians who want the votes of the people in the area. And what does "Historic" really mean? It seems to imply that the area used to be described as "full of filipinos", but is now full of EZ-Lubes, massage parlors and car dealerships, with the aforementioned filipinos lost to the sands of history, like the dodo bird and a rational foreign policy.

How about this for a sign: "Historic Lake View Terrace." It is famous for nothing other than being the town where Rodney King got the mother of all beatdowns circa A.D. 1992. Of course, this is not that great of a history. But, and some of my best friends are filipino, but I'm sorry, a lot of them living in one area, then moving away when they could afford something better, is not great history, either.

Having the government officially designate places as "historic" leads to a slippery slope of false-naming; We could have signs such as, "Silicon-Free Chatsworth," "Class/Color blind Malibu," "Safe & Clean Compton," and even "Pedophile-free Disneyland."

At least only the tourists would believe that last one.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Will that be to stay or to go?

While being escorted out of my local mall recently, I came to some real conclusions regarding the nature of mans existence vis-a-vis machines. It all started earlier in the day when I attempted to buy some iced coffee at the mall's Coffee Conglomerate.

The kiosk was off the main food court, next to the the cinn-a-lard and a PinkBerry (or as I call them, Dachau II).
After elbowing and and hip-checking my way to the line, I asked the cute as a button sales teen for an "iced coffee, please." After entering my order on the Marketroid 3000 (C) computer, she smiled at me in that comatose, corporate expression, precisely as the training DVD instructed her to do, and said, "Do you want that to stay or to go?"

I stared back at her, frozen. To stay or to go? I looked around. There was one chair, one table, and one stand with fake sugar and some cooling sleeves. "What, exactly," I had to ask, "is the difference between 'to-go' and 'to-stay? Are you saying that if I opt for 'to stay', you will serve it to me in one of the porcelain, $12.99 oversized mugs on sale here? That an alarm will sound if I take my coffee beyond the invisible borders of the store?" With that little smile still plastered on her face, she uttered a profound comment on our society: "Oh, it's just something the computer tells me to ask. It's the same either way."

And you know what? She's right. Better to just placate the computer's desires and ask a pointless question countless times a day, then go through the trouble of an Independent Thought. The fears of sci-fi writers of the 1950's, that computers would one day become sentient and force a brave but outgunned humanity to its knees, were wrong; We don't require death rays or giant robots to submit to the will of the computer. We have done it to ourselves through our lazy, shrugging boredom in the face of the massive mainframe. Skynet is active. They have already won.

It was only after I challenged her slavish devotion to the inventory control device that I realized we can free ourselves. To start, you might want to turn off the Internet for a few hours a day. Dust off the old Lite-Brite for some classic analog art. Or, if you are faced with a dilemma like mine, ask the girl if (hypothetically speaking), the computer told her to take off her top and start playing with her tits, would she do it? Baby steps, people, baby steps.

They may dismiss you as a luddite or a Level 2 sex offender, but if you speak the truth, it will eventually set you free. And the ankle bracelet they give you at the police station is so Web 2.0.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

On Religion

Is religion really still around? Really? People are still believing that some great big power up in the sky is helping you, commanding you, and most importantly, looking in on you at night, when you think you are alone? This god character sounds more like a child molester than a deity. (Trust me, I know the difference.) Maybe that's why the priests are on a tear that would make NAMBLA blush.

Despite my agnosticisim (thank you, 16 years of Catholic education), I just love L. Ron Hubbard. I mean this guy is a fucking genius. He took the basic recipe of Charlie Manson (confused young Californians + drugs X promise of celebrity=cult), threw in a dash of Gene Rodenberry, took out the hippie happiness bullshit and replaced the Beatles with a billion year old alien. They both courted celebrities; Manson got Dennis Wilson, L. Hubby got Cruise, Chef from South Park, etc. And say what you will about those cults; they both took their shit seriously, unlike other so-called 'religions'. (Mormonism for example.)
I mean, Manson had people starting race-wars, while L. Ron Jeremy uncovered an intergalactic monster named Xenu. (Sorta like Jesus with rayguns and shiny pants.) In between orgies, they actually got a lot accomplished.

But in the end, they both became the only thing worse than a failure, as our society defines it: an ironic, pop-culture reference point. One ended up as nothing more than the namesake of a sexually ambiguous death metal singer; the other ended up being run by a sexually ambiguous actor and part-time death metal singer.

I can't wait until the inevitable schism that rips Scientology apart. There is going to be some serious collateral damage from phaser blasts and theta-wave duels. Of course, the rebels will claim they are merely trying to return to L. Ron Hubbel Space Telescope's Flash Gordon spec-script beginnings, complete with the power to heal and way cool unitards.
Of course, TomKat will lead the counter-reformation: e-meters will be turned into torture devices that inflict unspeakable pain, and the zombie hipster douchebags who now do the shilling for them on sidewalks will be ground up and used to sate the unqeuenchable thirst of the minions of Xenu. He will then be elected Vice President.

There is really only one person with enough imagination and liquidity to create a new religion to rival Scientology: JK Rowling. In fact, if you think about it, there is really no difference between the Bible and Harry Potter. Both contain images of fantasy violence, withcraft, and forced sodomy. (Actually, only the Bible has that last one, but I'm sure that there are reams of Potter fan-fiction available if you want that.) There is no more proof that there are talking owls delivering messages than there is to support the contention that a man set up a fairly comfortable home inside the belly of a whale for months at a time.

"But," you may ask, "how did we get here? What is our purpose?"
And lo, I answereth, "Smoke another bowl and maybe the answer will come to you. Or maybe you will eat some peanut m&m's and fall asleep on the couch. Either way nothing will fucking change." Duke 3:69

Saturday, November 3, 2007

These names are absolutely awesome. Randall should have been reading this list at the video store.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Friend-Zone Fan Mail

My first fan IM: (names changed to protect the innocent.)

SN Redacted:duke! LOVE your blog! MISS YOU

Sweet, platonic love from a hot chick! Just what I was lacking.....

The Naming Conventions on RedTube Have Room For Improvement

Redtube.com is what the internet was made for: free porn videos with absolutely no censoring or ads. In fact, most of it isn't even 'porn' in the ron jeremy, fast-forwarded through the 'plot' sense, but honest to goodness non-celebrity videotaped fucking. Nevertheless, despite the fact that it is truly the promise of the internet unleashed in one place, there is one problem that needs correcting: the titles given to the videos.

To be sure, some are very accurate: 'Home Movie-Fucking A Small Dick' is, indeed, just that. But, just what exactly does "Brazilians Having Fun" convey? It could be a bunch of assholes playing soccer, Which might be a fetish, but then it should say so. (After watching the aforementioned I can actually suggest the title of "assholes playing soccer.")

Looking for something a little more artful? Then you are gay and are ruining porn for the rest of us. Stop.

Another sad consequence of thoughtless naming is that crucial information is lost, even if the name is technically correct. Upon initially viewing the title of "Sexy Girl Getting Hard Fuck," one does not get the truth that the star is in fact a pig-tailed asian spinner with braces. About the only accurate part is the 'hard fuck.'

Of course, the panopoly of human sexual practices makes it impossible to accurately name some videos: 'orgy' could never really encapsulate the epic scale of this depravity straight from the land of the rising sun and birthplace of the upskirt fetish, nor can 'ejaculate' be anything but a lukewarm attempt to define an ability that was last seen hosing down blacks in Alabama in 1964. Thus, I can forgive their authors for falling short.

But the award for most difficult to title properly goes to this little gem, shot in a magical place where being in love means never having to look for a toilet.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Ellen Degeneres: Get Fucked!

Go watch the video on youtube. Now, read this: This is the moment. Right here. A woman sobbing over someone ELSE'S dog! She probably didn't wail that much when the planes hit the towers (or Wolfowitz hit the plunger on the controlled demolition, whichever you believe.) This will very likely be the point of no return, a place future historians will point to, when they are sifting through our rubble, as the exact moment when it all went to shit. All over a fucking dog whose sole concern in life was shitting and eating and having his belly rubbed.

Which is ironic, because that's pretty much all a guy is really concerned with, and we know Ellen's track record with them. One could imagine she went through several 'dogs' who did not get along with her 'cats,' until she finally woke the fuck up and said, "Gee, I don't really like dogs. Too rambunctious. I do like cats; they are furry and soft."

It is tempting to fall back on the old insecure straight guy aphorism of 'she just needs a cock' to explain her insanity, but that isn't fair because a) I've confirmed through extensive wikipedia research that Portia is a better pussy-eater than any man alive; and b) Her pantsuits, scruffy hair and 70's collars are like kryptonite to a dick...in fact, I'd dare say that if any guy could get it up for Ellen, he must in fact be a fag, pretending she is a young boy with an asshole that smells like fish. Actually, that's not such a bad idea now that I think of it.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Newsflash to Asian guys who are pissed about white dudes taking their women:

We don't give a fuck. Sorry. You can pee in our coke and add broccoli to our tso's until the year of the goat or whatever the fuck it is, we are still going to desire your women. That is what we do. It's not fair; it's not right; it just is. Just as Teddy Roosevelt and his rough riders tamed the vast, virgin western states, so too do white guys see it as their manifest destiny to pluck at least one pristine, unspoiled asian flower.

Look at the Vietnam war; it took a decade and 70,000 lives. Yet there is one thing that all can agree on, vets and draft dodgers alike: the women in Saigon were all fucking 11's. Imagine, killing gooks all day and then banging their women at night. No wonder they were so pissed. Every punji stick crammed up a GI's ass saved one VC regular from a 3.62 mm round and one gorgeous Vietnamese woman from a case of HPV. Christ, WW2 was over 50 years ago and we STILL have 20,000 troops on Okinawa. (Lucky fucks.) Now, you contrast that with the Bosnian thing, or even Gulf War I, where there were no whores to be found: We got the fuck out as soon as we could. What do both of these places have? Nasty women. Bosnia has a bunch of fat, hairy eurotrash who smell like pickled-herring. And Iraq...I guarantee you that for most of those women, the burqa's are an improvement.

The only reasonable explanation, then, has to be the quality of the whores. The American soldier can have all the fancy equipment and gung-ho training in the world, but without top-shelf asian pussy, we don't stand a chance.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Why Gay Dudes Are Rich

First off, and the number one reason, they don't have to take women out. That saves about %50 of your discretionary income right there. Boom. Who pays? They both split it, unless its a real case of a rentboy being treated by his daddy. Or so I am told.

Women expect this type of service because straight guys need that pussy so goddamn much that we are willing to lie, cheat, steal, even pay for crap that will distract them for two seconds while you try to score. The entire greeting card business would shrivel up and die were it not for our insatiable thirst for twat. No gay dude is going to buy another a fucking hallmark card. That's even too gay for them. They are way too busy buying dildoes in the shape of a fist and lube. You know, shit that you can actually use.

The other reason is that they don't have kids that much. Since it's impossible and all.

First thought


In Rainbows...A Review

(Meant to be read whilst listening along. And also reaaaaalllll fucking high on drugs.)

Track 1:

Track 2:
One of the most frenetic songs on the album, BodySnatchers gives a visceral punch right at the near start of the album, their first in 2 years (the longest break of their career). Released in an unprecedented manner, the band opted for what that they often do: authenticity and doing whatever the fuck they want. Call it authenticity, call it 'not selling out,' call it stupid; you can't call it a failure. This album will undoubtedly move 5 million units, even in this 'dead' album era.
Track 3: Nude
Is this the intro to a Beatle's film? I don't know, it seems to be self-indulgent to me. Ok, I'm digging the backbeat....ultimate trance beat, slowed down a million times and smoothed out by Greenwood's underappreciated drumming. This track shows a lot of complexity in its mellowness. The extended downtemp part, punctuated by a cymbal crash around 1:40, signals the start of a newer depth to the piece. Or maybe I'm just realllllll fucking high on drugs.
Track 4:
Silky smooth right from the start, Weird Fishes/Arpeggio is probably the best-crafted songs since "No Surprises." Affecting, haunting, yet never slow or lugubrious, it can't be conveyed beyond, "The shit just works." From the mournful, guitar dense atmosphere comes a bountiful undergrowth of sick drumming and Thom's ridiculously perfect pitch. The best 5:28 money can buy, heck, even worth the last :45.
Track 5: All I Need
Radiohead is like a fat woman at a buffet: once it gets going it ain't going to stop. Putting the piano to its full-effects, Thom pulls off a mozart-capable piano solo, transcending the mere 'rock' piano playing into a higher form, raising the whole genre up the 'art' category level. Trippy when it needs to be, mixed with a heavy flow and a heavy dose of awesome. No cowbell needed.
Track 6: Spare and staid at first, the violins, close-miked guitar and flawless mix (that are together a song unto themselves), moves at just the right pace to provide a comedown from "All I Need."
Track 7: Contrasting clearly against its predecessor, Reckoner does not disappoint, as the band continually incorporates new instruments and arrangements into its retinue.
Track 8: House of Cards
At turns majestic and haunting, the refrain of "Tonight/tonight" hints at something more to come, an expectation of greatness that can never be matched.
Track 9: Jigsaw falling into space
Downright snappy, this fast-paced song is nearly a toe-tapper. At times it reaches a rapid pace, but it never pushes the envelope, always keeping one fret before. BY the time the frenetic cavalcade of strings kicks in, this wall of strings rises to a triumphal finish, keeping the hand steady. The ultimate penultimate track.
Track 10: Absolutely slowed down, especially in light of the album, this track doesn't really seem to fit on an album wth such a heavy emphasis on the instruments and the right mix. Even with the crescendo rapidly approaching, one only sees a dull thud of an ending to what was a spectacularly alive and even reverential album. Completely re-worked from the version played at MSG on their mini-tour in 2006, one could convincingly argue that it is the worst song on the album. At best, it is a one-off show song, reminiscent of "OK Computer's" "Treefingers'"s'. While that's not necessarily a bad thing, it is a meager exclamation point for such a fantastic album. For the final track, only extreme emo fags and hardcore shoegazers may apply.

Final Rating: 5 out of 5 asian schoolgirls.