What I'm Not Listening To

Sonically amazing, musically impeccable, vocally superb, this album swings hard from start to finish. Crank it loud on a great stereo. Crank it loud in your car with the windows open and the top down. This is fun music, this is music to drink cocktails to, this is a seriously fun album that seriously swings hard!

Beginning his career by entering amateur contests and sneaking into clubs, Paul Anka has gone on to become one of the most prolific, successful songwriters in history. This year marks his 47th Anniversary in show business, which he celebrates with the June 7th Global release of his latest album, 'Rock Swings.' It is a concept that takes rock hits from the 80's and adds a swing arrangement to give them a completely different, and fresh new sound. Songs like 'Jump' by Van Halen, 'Smells like Teen Spirit' by Nirvana, 'Wonderwall' by Oasis."

There's absolutely nothing I can add to make that funnier. Click. Read. Enjoy.

Somebody's Playing The Crying Game

TOPSHOP PETITE SIZE 12 MICRO MINI SKIRT 9" SEXY/KINKY

If you missed out on the skirt, don't dispair. That thong'll be up for bids soon.

And, oh yes, I'm going for it.

Free on a 3-Day Pass?! I Guess, Antonio Cosme Velasco Soriano Is Spanish for Willie Horton

Taking the law in her own hands, a Spanish mother set afire a man who raped her teenaged daughter and allegedly taunted her about the assault, a report here said today.

The rapist Antonio Cosme Velasco Soriano, who later succumbed to injuries, had been sent to jail for nine years in 1998, but was let out on a three-day pass and returned to his home town of Benejuzar, 50 km south of Alicante, on the Costa Blanca.

While there, he passed his victim's mother in the street and allegedly taunted her about the attack. He is said to have called out: 'How's your daughter?' before heading into a crowded bar, The Sunday Telegraph reported today.

Shortly after, the woman walked into the bar, poured a bottle of petrol over Soriano and lit a match. She watched as the flames engulfed him, before walking out.

Let me translate for you, Antonio: "My daughter's fine. I'll tell her you asked."

What I'm Reading

"A SORCERER?" said Gwendolyn, one of the few times I told her this tale. "Just because she ate your candy bar? My mom guzzled rye and beat us. My uncle put his dick in my armpit while I slept. My cousin hid my college acceptance letter until it was too late to reply. Your mother ate your candy bar?"

"It's symbolic."

"That's what people say when they know they've come with the weak shit."

"Fuck you," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said fuck you," I said. "I've been meaning to say it for a long time. I just couldn't find the right words."

That certainly isn't true of the author, Sam Lipsyte -- my new hero (assuming, of course, men my age are allowed heroes) -- and the author of the above. He's got just the right word for everything.

And I'm enjoying reading them.

Happy Father's Day!

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! On behalf of wayward and feckless sons everywhere -- the ones who have left you shaking your heads in bewilderment and amazement, wondering if we were paying attention all those years; the ones who have left you ending more responses to inquires about us with "I don't understand it, either, but that's [insert name here]: we love him, but we thank the good Lord, he's the only one like that" -- thanks for all the love and support.

And a toast to my departed dad: Here's to your prayer that I have a son just like me someday going unanswered.

Torn between Loofah and Merkin, the Artist Took the High Road

Perhaps the oddest piece of work at Art Basel is a bar of soap, displayed on a square of black velvet, purportedly made from Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi's fat, removed during liposuction.

Also part of the bathroom display, a loofah. You don't want to know what that thing is made of.

I Read "The Hours," Mr. Cunningham. You Should Have Moved to New Orleans

"I almost moved to New Orleans, years and years ago," [Michael Cunningham] said. "I've always wondered what would have happened if I had. I mean, I was there. I was staying with a friend and just loved it. I thought, why not just stay here? I was still in my 20s and still a little tentative about this whole notion of 'writing.' I thought, given what I know about myself, I might move to New Orleans and write a novel, or I might move to New Orleans and wake up at 75 with a cocktail in my hand, sitting on a veranda realizing 'I guess that was my life.'

I went to New Orleans once, back before I was a 'Net prole, before I was a graduate student, even. It was when I was assistant director of undergraduate admissions. For five days, I worked and I played. I didn't sleep, mind you -- at all -- but I worked and I played, and I had one of the best times of my life.

On the plane home, I remember having a similar realization to Michael Cunningham's. I remember thinking I could move to New Orleans and wake up a week later looking 75 with a cocktail in my hand, on a curb off Royal Street, realizing "I guess that was my life."

And I remember thinking how that would be a good life.

Dude, Seriously, Run.

It was classic: She was anxious to get married. He didn't want to be pressured for the ring.

Liz Naiman and Rich Boardman met two years ago while teaching at a high school in Amherst, N.H. They planned to move in together at the start of the school year. But two weeks before the move Mr. Boardman, 28, dropped a bomb. He didn't want to go ahead with it. In fact he didn't know if he wanted to be with Ms. Naiman at all.

'He couldn't give me any answers as to why he had changed his mind,' Ms. Naiman, 27, recalled. 'He was completely shut down.'

Months of relationship limbo followed. Finally Mr. Boardman decided he wanted to stay together and to marry. Ms. Naiman put forth conditions: He had to write a letter of apology to her parents; he had to cut down on his 'frat-boy activities'; and he had to agree to go to couples therapy.

"Um, Honey," Mr. Boardman replied. "I have good news, and I have bad news: The good news is, I can finally articulate why I didn't want to marry you; the bad news is.... Well, really, it's only bad news if you still want to marry me. ..."

The Best Part Is, This Article Is Listed Under "Politics"

THIS IS the photograph the White House and Second Lady Lynne Cheney didn't want you to see: Vice President Dick Cheney in a skimpy Speedo swimsuit with his cellulite popping out all over the place....

'Honey, he's got it bad,' says the disgruntled White House secretary who leaked the explosive photo to Weekly World News after Cheney -- who often hurls epithets at other men on the floor of the U.S. Senate and in church -- told her to 'F@#% off, ho,' when she asked him for the time as they passed in a hall. "

Oh, Weekly World News, you had me at "Cheney in a skimpy Speedo swimsuit."

"Love is..."

...nothing in your inbox since the night you let him up your outbox.

"Love is..." was a mainstay of my hometown paper, although not in this new iteration.

Call Sign: Big Hairy (Don't Ask; I Won't Tell)

The call sign has since evolved into a tradition celebrated by each branch of the military. Naming rituals vary by branch and by squadron, but three rules universally apply: Pilots who do not have good names when they arrive at their first operational squadron, will be given new ones; they probably will not like them; and, if they complain, they will get even worse names."

When I was in the 7th grade, my physical education instructor, our basketball coach, had two assistants, a couple of 9th-grade no-accounts whose qualifications for the job amounted to being on our varsity basketball team and being in need of an easy A to remain eligible. Their charge was to instruct us in the proper ways to do complex techniques like duck-walking and falling off of the pommel horse; but, they chose instead to use the time to physically and mentally abuse us at every turn.

One of their favorite tricks was to sneak up behind one of us during roll call, when we were lined up in our P.E. duds, and pull the target's gym shorts down, leaving him there, in his tighty-whities or, worse, his jock strap. I say worse because at the time, there was nothing that compared to standing in a junior high school gym with your gym shorts around your ankles and your ass hanging out except...

There was this one kid, who because of poverty or whatever, didn't have any underwear to wear, but, due to some ingenuity, had acquired the elasticized waistband of a pair, which he wore to give us the illusion of undies. I know this because, one day, the no-accounts chose him: They walked up behind him, pulled down his gym shorts, and left him standing there buck-ass-naked, except for that rim of otherwise absent Fruit of the Looms.

This is his naming story. Real name omitted (actually forgotten); Call Sign: "Rim Daddy."

"Your Honor, We'd Like the Article's Last Sentence Striken from the Record"

Patricia Sato said the charges against her daughter are exaggerated....

``I'm not saying all of it didn't happen,'' Patricia Sato said. ``I asked Charity ..., and she said, `Mommy, I was drunk. I don't remember.' ''

Charity Sato was arrested Saturday on charges that she forced the boy she was babysitting to use a sex toy on her twice during a 2 1/2-week period ending this past Tuesday.

The affidavits indicate Sato touched the boy inappropriately, then punched and squeezed his genitals ``to hurt the victim'' while two other children watched.

Even with the testicle punching (or, maybe, because of it), that's more fun than I ever had with a woman when I was his age.

P.S. Don't you love Charity's mother's reaction? Is there nothing so beautiful or as blinding of the truth as a mother's love?

I mean two-six packs got her so blotto she doesn't remember forcing an 11-year-old to use a vibrator on her? Come on.

Luckily, she wasn't so drunk she couldn't capture the moment on film. (When will people learn?) I'll post the results of her 35mm fancy as soon as they hit the Internet, which should be right aboooooooooooooooooooooooooooout NOW.

Either, He's a Bad Tipper, or That Was One Sorry Lap Dance

The city of Knoxville used tax dollars to pay for lap dances at local strip clubs. It was part of an effort to force adult businesses to adhere to stricter regulations and the city says, in essence, it was money well spent.

The city paid a private investigator nearly $100 an hour to go to adult businesses. Then the city paid for the investigator to get lap dances while he was there.

On April 23rd, private investigator Greg Lundy went to the Mouse's Ear and paid a topless dancer $40 for a lap dance. He tipped her $3.00.

Services rendered: $100/hour
Lap Dances, beer, and cover charges: $267
Paying to get your root rubbed by topless and nude dancers with taxpayer dollars: Priceless

For your own personal gratification there's MasterCard; for everything else, there's the public dole, responsible for more good times and less public good than it ought to be.

*Thanks to the Law Guy for the heads up.

Million-to-One Shot, Doc. Million-to-One

Insurgents usually fashion roadside bombs from artillery or mortar shells, detonating them remotely by cell phones, satellite phones or walkie-talkies when a U.S. convoy drives by. Sometimes they disguise bombs in dead dogs, cutting their stomachs open and stuffing the explosives inside. The 23-year- old Rauch tells stories about a donkey cart loaded with gasoline cans that exploded as it was pulling up to a checkpoint. And of a cow with a 105mm shell inserted in its anus.

got depleted uranium shells?

"When Loman Was in Wachovia Land, ... Let My Loman Gooooooooo"

Wachovia Corporation is following up its apology for its slave-owning past by offering to help educate people about black history.

Well, that's a start, but you know what really says, "I'm sorry"? Not charging for ATM use. Obviously, I can't speak for all black people, but if Wachovia wants to make this descendant of slaves happy, that's the way to go.

Oh! and Kids, Stay in School

The lawsuit claims Jenkins' face, neck, arms, torso and legs were severely burned last July after the cigarette ignited methane gas leaking from a pipe underneath the toilet unit.

When I struck the lighter, the whole thing just detonated -- the whole top blew off,' said Jenkins, a methane power plant operator with North West Fuels Development Inc.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, and May Complicate Pregnancy. It may also cause you to ignite into a feces-covered ball o' flames if you do it in a Port-O-Potty. The general is surprised he has to tell you this.

The Specialist Was, Obviously, a Veterinarian

In the showers, after playing a match for Springfield Working Men's Club in 1976, he noticed a swelling in his scrotum.

With hindsight he should have acted sooner. ...It was six months before he saw his GP.

By this time it was swollen like a balloon. It looked grotesque.

Bateman convinced himself it was merely a hernia. The doctor referred him immediately to a specialist.

He came at me with this needle the size of a milk bottle and plunged it in my testicles.

I can't write a response to that. Every time I try, I see that scene played out in my mind, and I double over, clutching my genitals. It's an automatic reflex. You're going to have to write your own comments for this one.

Forgive me.