IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU THINK!

I used to love (watching) wrestling. I grew up a Hulkamaniac, in the era of Macho Men and Warriors, both Road and Ultimate. The heroes were huge (Giant in one case), the villains were despicable (of the throw-salt-in-your-eye and rake-your-back variety), and both always had a gimmick. Hillbillies. Sheiks. Animals. Psychos. Clowns. Barbers. Mr. T. Men that were both mythical creatures and water vessels. Dudes with attack snakes. Ian’s mom. You know, the whole menagerie.

I fell out of following the WWF (I’ll always call it that, World Wildlife Foundation be damned) around the time I fell into boning chicks and smoking, and wrestling happened to begin falling into steroid scandals and shit, and we (the public in general) now knew it was *“fake.”*

*What’s with the air quotes, Nuv? Well, while it is scripted, meaning the outcome is pre-determined, they are still doing those flips and clotheslines and taking those chair shots to the head; watch Beyond The Mat, watch Mick Foley take like 400 of ‘em to the dome, then tell me it’s “fake”… Or watch this shit, where Mick falls through the roof of the cage and wrestles the rest of the match essentially unconscious, only to get thrown off the top again! Huhthefuh?! Basically wrestling is an incredibly-choreographed, improvised live comic book/soap opera, and Mick Foley is the shit, capicé? Ahem. Where was I? Oh yeah…*

I fell back into wrestling just before I crossed the gulf between my teens and twenties (That gulf was filled with blondes, both beer and broads), during the larval stages of “The Attitude Era.” In addition to the roster being different, so was everything else.

Sure, it was still a battle between good and evil, but there were a lot more shades of grey and everything was turned up to 11 in intensity and violence. Sex, sacrilege, swearing. Depraved midgets. Fat samoans wiping their asses on people’s faces. Old ladies giving birth to mannequin-hands. (Seriously. Don’t ask.) And the roster? Well, the big names had all changed. (*Well, all but one, but I’ll come back to him shortly*)

Trading in Hulk’s big foam “#1” finger for a big foam middle finger, you had the bald-headed, beer-swilling, take-no-shit Tim Stone Cold Steve Austin, whose “bottom line” was basically “fuck management.” In the other corner was said management, the reality-blurring self-lampooning boss/villain Vince McMahon, capitalizing on the real-life perceptions of him after the infamous “Montreal Screwjob” on Bret “The Hitman” Hart by playing an even bigger asshole in the ring than everyone thought he was.

In between these two ends of the spectrum were all manner of anti-heroes, heels and hoes. There was D-Generation X, pranksters and ne’er-do-wells lead by the owner of the most awesome/awful 80s-ass theme song of all times, HBK (The Heartbreak Kid) and HHH. (They also had a dude named Mr. Ass in the crew. The less said about him the better.)

There were vampires and black militants, porn stars and pimps. Vince’s (rich) son Shane McMahon was even (unnecessarily) leaping with abandon from insane heights. Sometimes through a table on top of a table into a dumpster full of thumbtacks or some shit. Or sometimes onto nothing at all. I guess he had his huuuge, rich nuts to brace his fall…

Love or stupidity, it’s hard to say, but it was fun as shit to watch, and made every Monday Night Raw must-see-TV. The live, who-the-fuck-knows-what’s-gonna-happen atmosphere. The aforementioned acrobatics. And most of all, the much improved, improvisational microphone work by funny dudes like Jericho and, the cream of the crop, grandson of legendary High Chief Peter Maivia and son of Tag Team titan Rocky Johnson (one half of the first black team to hold the Tag titles!) The People’s Champ, The Rock. I could try and tell you why The Rock is The Shit but I’d rather show you…

*That one big name I alluded to earlier, that was still around and bridged the gap between the two eras I watched, was The Undertaker, the coolest and most long-lived of the “gimmicked” wrestlers. Seriously, his entrance is goosebumps-epic, and the level at which he still performs at his age is awe-inspiring. Plus he’s got a throat-tattoo! That’s fuckin’ baaaad, jack! His reward for being a locker-room leader and a legend? His undefeated Wrestlemania streak. 19-0, more coveted than any of the title belts at this point. (I’m gonna predict 20-0 and then finally the Dead Man will rest in peace…) Bonnngggggg… Bonnngggggg…*

Wrestlemania is like the Super Bowl of wrestling’s season, where all storylines and rivalries culminate on “the grandest stage of them all.” (Yeah, they’ve been known to rock a little hyperbole here and there.) It’s also where my time as a fan culminated.

In 2003, I braved the post-9/11 American border and went to one in Seattle where both eras collided for me. Yeah, I got to see Undertaker, Jericho vs HBK, HHH, the “farewell” (in wrestling, farewells are usually Favre-style) match between Stone Cold and The Rock, the Wrestlemania debut of battle-rappin’ wrestler John Cena (more on him later) and even Brock Lesnar (botching a back flip and knocking himself out mid-match) before he was in the UFC. Sweet, eh?

IT DOESN’T MATTER IF IT WAS SWEET!

It was all about the ushers of the two eras facing off, the ultimate say-your-prayers-take your-vitamins hero and the ultimate corporate-suit-capitalist-evil-mastermind-devil-himself villain: Hulk Hogan vs Vince McMahon. 5-year-old Nuv put down his rubber Hogan figurine, took his vitamins and fixed his headband. 24-year-old Nuv put down his highball, slapped your bitch and rolled up the sleeves on his velvet turtleneck. The two high-fived, and proved Ghostbusters wrong. The streams crossed. The universe exploded.

I don’t watch wrestling anymore. The legends have long since moved on for the most part, some to obscurity or reality TV (boo!). Some to successful ventures, like Mick Foley to the NY Times Best-Sellers List and The Rock to the silver screen. (Well, maybe success is too strong a word. It’s been hit – The Rundown, The Other Guys, Faster and Fast Five – and miss – The Game Plan and Fuckin’ Tooth Fairy!? Eaaattt Shit – at best.) Some, like one of the best to ever do it, childhood hero Macho Man Randy Savage, are dead.

Sometimes I’ll catch it on while flipping channels, stop for a second and be bored by the “larger-than-life” personalities they have in the squared circle these days. “John-John Morris vs Steve Dave” and shit like that. The types of generic dudes that were no-name one-and-done opponents for Hulk to show off on and mow through back in the day, in between real matches.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I flipped past Raw and stopped just in time to hear The Rock’s entrance music kick in! Out he comes. One-time thing, probably to promote a movie. Nope. He’s hosting Wrestlemania? Whaaaa?!! And suddenly it’s trending on Twitter. And suddenly, I’m gonna be watching Wrestlemania.

‘Mania has since come and gone. For the record, it was entertaining. Undertaker and HHH put on an epic (for me) grueling (for them) match and The Rock “hosting” entailed pretty much what I wanted to see. Him talkin’ shit and performing his finishing move (think ridiculous MK fatalities, minus the gore) on John Cena – who has become the closest thing this generation has to The Rock and the other icons of yesterday – while calling him a “homeless Power Ranger” and “Yabba Dabba Bitch,” and leading the crowd in a “Frui-Ty Peb-Bles” chant. And the next night, on Monday Night Raw, The Rock came back out to challenge Cena to a match… in one year… in his hometown of Miami, at…

(The ref counts. 1… 2… shoulder up!)

Wrestlemania XXVIII.

And just like that, they got me again…

– Nuv

Wrestlemania XXVIII airs TODAY! Want to see more Nuv/WWF madness? Check out his ode to the late, great Macho Man Randy Savage here. Ooooooohh Yeeeahh!! And before you go, feast your eyes on this amazing mock poster for WM28 by the NEW “Mr. Wonderful,” Paul Griffin!

December 1

The first of the month we posse’d up, crossed the border & I saw my first live NFL game! (That dullard Jay Haddow manages to string together something resembling words and describes the experience HERE.) The best part was that we were ourselves (drunk and fighting each other through the streets while A.T. the Bartender was flexing his supreme tact and impeccable taste via a ‘North American Pussy Crushers’ t-shirt and Jay’s twin – yeah, sorry to say, there are two of ‘em – rocked a damned do-rag!) and we didn’t get arrested or kicked out of the country! Sick-stravaganza!

December 25

Christmas was also retarded special needs! It was my daughter’s second, but really the first one where she wasn’t a blob of adorable nothingness. You know what that means! If you said “Miss Teen USSR forcing her to open presents big, coloured squares that don’t mean shit to her, through grit teeth, ’cause you will like Christmas dammit!” you would be correct! Although if you said “a mini purple armchair to match Pops’, mad blu-rays and dolls and books, a baby Ironhead hoodie from Uncle Piggy, a magnetic helicopter, a superhero-dinosaur backpack and matching mask, her first colouring book and crayons, a stylish apron, a Grover microphone, a talking treehouse full of crazy-ass Zoo creatures (no Haddow), a giant plush Super Mario coin box that makes the noises when you hit it with your domepiece, AND her name in motherfuckin’ Run DMC-typeface on a shirt!” we will also accept that answer. Stella be all like, “Gimme the loot, gimme the loot…”

December 26

Boxing Day was Fizjmas (don’t ask), the annual get-together between me and my stupid-ass circle of friends (whom I’ve been bound to by black magic and legally binding contracts since elementary school). I can’t say much about it. I’ve been sworn to secrecy on the EPIC events of that night. Uh, or I can’t remember anything past that shot of 151 I did out of the midgets. (No, you read that right. No apostrophe intended and that WAS the end of the sentence.) Choose your own adventure, folks! Either flip to the next paragraph or take my ass to the nearest STD test! Fizj!!

December 16 &17 (Featuring December 14)

And the shows! Sweet Andy Griffith, the shows!! I already talked about December 14th’s early evening visit with Ghostface Killah OF FUCKING WU-TANG CLAN (pardon the yelling).

And that was just the warm-up to the craziest back-to-back concert tag team EVER! Separated only by one night, and in the same venue no less! I’m talkin’ ’bout the one-two punch of the 16th and 17th: The Royal Weekend. Saturday night we would be watching The Throne. The dream team of two of the biggest titans in rap’s pantheon. Jay-Z & Kanye West.

And that ain’t even shit!

Friday night. Oh, motherfuck me, Friday night. Not a Friday night. THE Friday night! PRINCE, LIVE!?!! The one I’d been waiting for since I was 4! Ever since deciding purple was regal and declaring it my favourite colour. Since bumping Purple Rain on vinyl and wearing out 1999 on tape and tapping my feet in the theatre seat to his Batman Soundtrack. Since my mom finding out Apollonia’s titties got purified in the waters of ‘Lake Minnetonka’ in the film and mercilessly forbidding me to see it. (I had to wait a year or so until my brother was ‘babysitting’ me and get him to rent “that movie with the weird little gaylord” to occupy me while he ‘occupied’ his girlfriend downstairs.) Where all everyone else saw was the blouses and androgyny, I saw a hybrid of Hendrix, James Brown, Little Richard, Sly Stone… the list goes on forever. Point being, he wears his musical influences on his (frilly) sleeve and has the talent to, despite his diminutive stature, stand shoulder to shoulder with these musical giants. Don’t believe me?

HOW ‘BOUT NOW, LONGHAIRS?! The only thing better than his guitar wizardry is his guitar face! And that’s just the tip of the iceberg’s dick! Prince can (and does) play every instrument. One man band. Force of nature. Weirdo. He’ll kick your ass at basketball for breakfast and then serve you breakfast for dessert! So much creativity he had to create whole other acts to release it all (see: Vanity 6 / Apollonia 6, Tevin Campbell, Morris motherfuckin’ Day & The motherfuckin’ Time!) and gave away hit, career-making songs like they weren’t shit (see: The Bangles, Chaka Khan, Sheena Easton, pre-Pope-bashing Sinead O’Connor, etc.). Plus: no matter how many women’s clothing racks he raided he got ALL the pussy! (see: Kim Basinger, Carmen Electra, Madonna, Vanity, Apollonia.) And he even staked claim to the few chicks that didn’t get “the 7 inch in the computer” by stickin’ ‘em in his band (see: Sheila E, Wendy & Lisa). So diss his clothes all you want, tough guy. He’ll just be over there fucking your soulmate. In the soul. And then he’s gonna pose nude in a bed of flowers and pretend he’s finger-banging himself. No big whoop, Short Round!

So… how was it? Well…

I waited MY WHOLE LIFE for this show! The least you can do is wait 7 days, mu’fuckers!! Plus, that means it’ll be exactly one month to the day(s) from show to review. Which means, well, nothing, but it sounds like… destiny? Or something? Except I’m posting them on opposite days so… I DON’T KNOW. Shut up, already! Damn! Just come back in a week, mmm-kay? Monday: THE THRONE! Tuesday: PRINCE!! Today? PEEEAACE!!!

– Nuv

There’s nothing quite like a good MC battle! This was modern-day gladiator shit for rap fans. The cypher, our coliseum. Larger than life lyricists going toe-to-toe. Two enter, one leaves (with his dignity anyway). From the first time I heard KRS declare The Bridge Is Over, or Cube tell the rest of N.W.A. what he was going to do to them with No Vaseline, or Black Sheep’s mocking laughter at Hammer’s expense in H.A.A. or… well I could go on and on. The point is this: I was hooked! LL Cool J vs Kool Moe Dee. Cube vs Common. B.I.G. vs ‘Pac. Jay-Z vs NaS. LL Cool J vs Canibus. I couldn’t get enough! I followed each battle closely, from the first shot fired, anxious for the inevitable response, eager to declare a winner. There’s just something about battling that brings out an MC’s hunger and competitiveness like nothing else. And no matter how long and storied your reign is, you’re only as good as your last one. (Just ask Cube. Or Cool J.)

All that to say this: I decided I needed to share the passion and knowledge I have of this subject, and prepared to unleash on the world my new series of columns focusing on the art of rap war. And then… the Royce/Canibus battle never happened. So what are we doing here? Well, it’s my column, dammit! Who’s to say these articles are limited to documenting real battles? I mean, everyone loves a good “what if” right? Or a “if this guy fought this guy, who would win?” Also, I basically didn’t want to waste the article or the poster (or the series header image directly below this paragraph, which rap heads should click to enlarge/appreciate). So fuck it! Here is the first (but not the last) installment of Tale of the Tape!

Bad Meets ‘Bis

In the red corner, hailing from Detroit, Michigan we have the human gun, the “Bad” half of Bad Meets Evil, the only man to successfully hang with Slim Shady himself, The Motor City Motormouth, Slaughterhouse’s Royce Da 5′9″. Equally comfortable with going toe to toe with every drum hit and letting off rapid-fire shots or moving in and out of the beat at a more deliberate pace, Royce’s reach allows him to remain detached and unemotional, pushing buttons to make his opponents come to him, and can usually dictate how the battle will unfold. Don’t get it twisted though, he’s equally confident taking the fight to you, (see: Malcolm X, where he hilariously lays out his plan to get former foe/fatso, D12’s Bizarre, with a cheeseburger, compares the rest of the crew to Ninja Turtles and predicts they’ll all be raking 50 Cent’s leaves in the near future), but would prefer to let you wear yourself out and slip up. With Shady Records in his corner, the level of competition has kept him sharp and focused. The “Rock” of the Rock City, Royce is solid, hard as fuck, and if you get in his way, he’ll crush you. “Steppin’ around all of your punches like, ‘that’s all you got’?”

And in the blue corner, is a man whose name and rabid dog voice are synonymous with the words “battle” and “KO” ever since he came out of nowhere and dethroned the Living Legend, Cool James himself, in his rookie season. The HRSMN War. The “skinny kid, the music industry’s guinea pig”: Canibus. Coiled like a cobra, ‘Bis is all venom and always ready to live up to his previous promise to Mike Tyson to “eat, eat, eat MCs.” Like Tyson, Canibus’ whole style is fueled by a hair-trigger temper and built to get in close and go for the throat, but his cannon is as accurate as it is loose. There’s a reason the second round is his. He’ll let his opponent make the first move, size ‘em up, and identify their weaknesses. Once he’s done with his rope-a-dope/research, watch out. There’s a reason it’s called Second Round KO. Or, to put it another way: “I let you kick a verse, fuck it, I let you kick ‘em all / I’ll even wait for the studio audience to applaud / now watch me rip the tat from your arm, kick you in the groin, stick you for your Vanguard Award in front of your mom, your first, second and thirdborn, watch your wife get on the horn call Minister Farrakhan…” Oh yeah. It ain’t over motherfuckers! The verse goes on, kicking sand in the victim’s face, on some reverse Charles Atlas shit. Did I tell you that he’s got no quit in him? Even after he wins (again, see: Second Round KO) he’ll keep hitting the body until the refs pry him off (see: Rip The Jacker). Or until “the meter says 9 – 9 – 9 – 9”…

Judge’s Decision

Personally, I think Royce is the better MC overall, and right now he’s at his peak, (peep his infamous “HI Rihanna” verse in the Shady 2.0 Cypher at the 5:17 mark), plus, well, Canibus is kinda absolutely batshit crazy. (I mean BONKERS! Who the fuck disses Premier?!) If they were to take it to the circle today, Royce gets the win. (Probably by pointing out that Canibus once said no one could “eat a n****’s ass” like him [?] on a record, obviously before saying it out loud to himself.) But both in their prime? Canibus plucked right outta Second Round KO against Royce? Canibus takes it. (In Round 2, no doubt.) Royce can do a million things well, but ‘Bis is a specialist. A hungry, angry, vengeful, merciless specialist. He does one thing, and he’s one of the best at it, ever, period. Either way, I think we can agree, the true victor would be us rap fans.

What do you think? Who wins this, the calculating Royce Da 5′9″ or the cutthroat Canibus? Weigh in below in the Comments, motherbitches!

– Nuv

This is the age I want to live in. Carousing with Hemingway and Fitzgerald, or being Hemingway or Fitzgerald, living as bourgeois bohemians but living like kings, legends of the Lost Generation, fated to write, drinking to oblivion. But how can one be nostalgic for an era he’s never lived in? Oh, but I have. From the books and movies of my life and the puzzle pieces of my years in Paris I’ve filled in enough details, dreamed up enough images to have spent a night in a black and white Paris, sufficient time to know without a doubt that I could live there.

Cheap suits and fedoras, Gauloises Bleues, trickling urinals, bird cages and wicker baskets. Moustached waiters with bowties and silver trays. The soft Paris night, descending on the boulevards, alive with a fretwork of tabled terraces, creaking from the weight of happy hour demis.

All this nostalgia came about as I watched Midnight in Paris, easily the best movie I’ve seen this year (and I’ve seen plenty). And though this is not a movie review you could take it as such, for this is the feeling I got after seeing it. Results will vary.

Don’t get me wrong. I love present-day Paris, but it limps on with its history, while acquiring the same qualities of what you’d expect of a modern city, accompanied by the stench of progress. Plumes over the citadel. The glowing ozone and the engines idly choking. Sure, the architecture and cobblestones are still there, but the feel and mentality is now undeniably modern, albeit European. Gone are the brothels. Gone are the artists, the intellectuals. Gone are the 20’s. And along with it the gay from gay paree.

But so what? Nothing lasts forever. Eras end so people can say it was the end of an era. And so it was. Which era would you like to have lived in? Woodstock in the 60’s? The Renaissance in Italy? The wild wild west? The Jurassic period? The rise of the Roman Empire? (Wearing togas on a daily basis and watching gladiators kill each other instead of today’s pussy-ass UFC would be pretty cool I suppose). There are infinite possibilities.

Personally, if I wasn’t getting soused with Hemingway in the 20’s, I’d be jousting with knights in medieval times (not the restaurant).

It happened quickly. With one deft blow the knight Galdor has lost his helmet and left eye. He has paid for his crimes. The family crest billows from the summit of Morinhath, it bears a Cyclops and a double mace. Fitting. Retribution will be swift as the forest rises like the flames of Vanjar’s cauldron, enough eyes of newt have been sacrificed but the potion isn’t ready quite yet. As the others dine in the gold and stream of the royal halls, Gorgomish stirs in its dungeon lair…soon it will feast on the blood of their broken rectums…

Of course the reality is, Paris back then was old and decrepit. Cinder block buildings the colour of pigeon shit. Living in an apartment with no running water as Hemingway had, with a slop-bucket-in-a-closet “bathroom.” Windows that open onto courtyards that are more like elevator shafts full of clotheslines and eyes of deformed children staring back at you. Your descent to the depths of a Pere Lachaise sepulcher just around the corner. ‘I love you’ sent by telegraph crackling with lesbian jazz. No internet. Which isn’t so bad if you think about it. Instead of gathering on Facebook, you gathered at cafés and debated over topics with substance, not last night’s Jersey Shore episode.

Paris in the 20’s – I wouldn’t change a thing. This is the city, and this an ode.

And while no one likes living in the past, this isn’t exactly the same thing is it? It’s a place you’ve never been before – making it more like traveling to a foreign land and experiencing a new culture. There are those who, when faced with a time machine will choose not to go anywhere. I commend them for their discipline and utter lack of creativity. Had they hopped in with me, they would find me sitting at the Café de Flore on Boulevard St. Germain, quietly writing perhaps, or if it’s later in the night, drinking to oblivion, reveling in my proper place in time, a time where I belonged, a new beginning, the beginning of an era.

–Tom Day

The Day The Music Died

Pops passed away at the beginning of the summer. We used Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here for a slideshow at the funeral, and now I can’t listen to them without “something getting in my eye.” When my grandma died a few years ago, we used a Beatles song with similar results. Note to self: use shittier bands for funerals…

Same Same

Why has no one cast Elias “Casey Jones” Koteas, Christopher “Kick-Ass Fag” Meloni and DeNiro as brothers? Maybe because THEY’RE THE SAME GUY!! In related news: ever wonder why you’ve never seen Omar Epps and Mike Tomlin at the same time…

Best And Worst

Minus 30 Rock (thanks Tina Fey’s unborn child) the Thursday night comedies are back! Oh, and Wednesday’s Modern Family. I love Al Bundy’s kooky family (especially the “intelligently retarded” Phil Dunphy). Aziz and Ron Swanson are the shit on Parks and Recreation. James Spader is creepin’ up on The Steve Carrell-less Office. In a roomful of heavyweights, Community wins by a Mayweather-style “while you were apologizing” KO. It remains one of the best/most creative shows on television. And this season fuckin’ Omar from The Wire is on it! Even with guest stars of that caliber, it’s still all about Troy and Abed at the end of the day. Don’t believe me? BAM!

See? T&A are the best duo since… well since T&A. Or at least since these dudes, rendered giving each other pounds by the best-named artist ever, Henry The Worst. Behold: Dap Bros!

I know I said no segues, but that last one reminds me: THIS!

Fade To Black/Spanish

All this Troy-talk got me thinking – whether they admit it or not, I’d chalk this next one up to his campaign to play Spider-Man, despite not being a cracker-ass cracker: The first issue of Marvel’s much-hyped half-black/half-hispanic Ultimate Spider-Man came out. And? Well, it was pretty good. Too bad history (via the pen of JSM!) shows us it won’t last…

And maybe it was a blessing in disguise not getting the Spidey role, Troy. It left you more time to sharpen up them rap skills and drop this:

Please Hammer, Hurt ‘Em!

I saw Drive. You should too. I was blown away. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from the oddly named Nicolas Winding Refn. (Fuck off! Stick a vowel in there!) He did direct the equally weird/amazing Bronson. Well, you’re 2 for 2 with me Refn, despite your overly-European last name…

Driven by the top-notch, less-is-more acting of Ryan Gosling and a throbbing synth-y score, this movie is off the fuckin’ hook! Quiet poignant moments are punctuated with bursts of mega-violence, super-innovative car chase sequences and the most tense yet elegant elevator ride since 14 of us got stuck between the 4th and 5th floors, drunk, a few weeks ago and had to stage an action movie escape. (OK. So the doors came apart with minimal effort and we had to crawl and jump a few feet max. Not as cool as having to climb out the top and scale the cable in a wife-beater and say some “I’m too old for this shit” type of shit. Still, it was exciting at the time. YOU SHUT UP!)

Ahem. Where was I… oh yeah. Drive. Excellent film. I can blame Miss Teen USSR for both the real elevator incident (her birthday party) and being dragged to see her boy Gosling in a new film (her birthday proper). I’d say it evens out. So if you see me driving around in a scorpion jacket waving a hammer around out the window, you can blame her for that too…

Nuv’s “Sexist” Slap-a-Bitch Sentiment Of The Day

Behold! An image from some webcomic called Yearling. Haven’t read it. Just liked the art and the vaguely creepy overtones of this image. Not because I endorse pseudo-rape imagery. But because I love stuff that will piss off the overly-sensitive man-child pussies and wanna-be feminist blogosphere. And because I’m a cad. Fuck ‘em! Actually, this one will probably get a pass because it’s an indie. Meanwhile, DC’s Catwoman and Red Hood are “THE END OF THE WORLD!!” You’re not wrong guys, but it has nothing to do with Catwoman and Batman fucking. It’s because they’re shitty comics. You can just say that instead of burning a bra and hating sex because you don’t get any. Cool?

My (Guided) View On Digital Comics

Finally: I bought an iPad. And I’ve been reading a lot of comics digitally. I was skeptical, but I have to say, it’s pretty awesome. And not just because it will be lessening the amount of giant boxes I have to constantly move around. They’re actually doing a good job of making the experience very different from reading the print version. Looking at a static scan of a comic page on a computer monitor or iPad isn’t gonna hold a candle to physically having a piece of art in your hand. BUT a few of these mofos went and got all innovative on us. Most of the big publishers are using the Comixology engine and one of its features is Guided View. Double-tapping the screen activates it, and then a swipe of the finger takes you through the comic cinematically, panel to panel. Not only that, it will stop and focus in on things they want you to dwell on. (A background detail; a subtle change in a character’s expression; a clue that only Batman and now, you, are privy to etc). And it’ll open up at appropriate times – a giant, detailed splash page, for example – and allow you to see the scope of the artist’s money shots. Essentially, it forces you to read the comic exactly as the creators meant for you to read it. It changes the pace, feel, mood, EVERYTHING, about the experience of reading comics. I love it. And if you have an iPad, you really need to check it out ’cause you will too.

Start, like I did, with Justice League #1. Reading it with Guided View instantly turned it into a mini-summer blockbuster, and that was the verdict of not just me, but some folks who don’t normally read comics, aka the prime targets of DCs relaunch. This coupled with the consistent sell-outs of the DC’s #1 print editions at the comic shops makes me think DC’s already gotta be viewing the New 52 as a success. Here’s hoping Marvel stops worrying about looking like they’re copying DC and goes day-and-date digital too. I know it’s gonna hurt your pride admitting that the “Distinguished Competition” is leading the way for the first time in a long time, but don’t get left behind. It’s gonna take both of you to save the industry. Stop the clichéd “fight each other” part of the story and get to the team up already…

Digital Comics 2: Electric Boogaloo

Another reader I got for my iPad is called Double Feature. The app is free, and you can buy comics within it. Two 8-page short stories for .99¢. I bought one called Action Double Feature #2, and one of the stories is okay enough, if a little bit of a Tick rip-off. The other one is great.

The Liar, illustrated by Hulk artist Gabriel Hardman, is a tight, fun, smart spy thriller. Considering it cost half a buck, go out on a limb and trust that it’s worth your time. What blew me away even more than what I read was how I read it. Since for some reason they aren’t part of the Comixology family they don’t use their patented Guided View tech. Instead, they turn each comic into a special edition DVD with features you can turn on or off with a tap of the finger. Features that take you behind the process like commentary from the creators and the ability to view the comic pages normally, minus the word balloons, pencil and ink minus the color, or stripped all the way down to the rough pencil sketches.

Look. The Liar rules, as does Gabriel Hardman, and Double Feature makes this little gem shine even brighter, no lie. Buy that shit!

Bye. And shit.

– Nuv

Apps to get you started: Comics by Comixology • DC Comics • Double Feature
Mo’ comic apps fo’ yo’ ass: Marvel • Image • Dark Horse • IDW • Boom! • Dynamite • Comic Zeal

PS – This here is dedicated to someone I’d like to Kickpunch: that turd-nado Ian Explosivo. May he fuck off and die horribly.

We only moved maybe 10 minutes across town but the differences between the two neighborhoods are vast. Forget apples and oranges think a peaceful French countryside with lavendar dancing in the fragrant breeze vs the aftermath of Chernobyl.

I don’t want to turn this into an obituary for our beloved #304, but it’s difficult sometimes to let go of walls and a ceiling, especially when they housed me, my love and our newborn daughter, and gazillions of friends and family over four years filled with booze and food-fueled love and laughter.

It’s difficult especially when the only night-time disturbance at our old place was an occasional skunk flume of odor, versus the new place which is perfectly situated between various bars so that the screams of ecstasy of late night hammered revelers echo beautifully up and into the night air aka our open windows. Because it’s suddenly HOT AS F-CK in this city and ¾ of this place is windows. Sure, that provides great views of our neighbours in various states of undress, greatly appealing to my sh-tbag voyeuristic tendencies, but mostly we’re like three ants under a magnifying glass in here. So, I take Stella out most days to explore our new surroundings and learn to love our new *block.

Meat & Bread

I have a raging hard-on for businesses that choose one thing/concept then do it really really well. (Side beef – who the f-ck decided to bring in pro chefs and give White Spot the whole “gourmet makeover” years ago? They should have just stuck with their tried and true strength: mu-fuh pirate packs, sloppy burgers leaking Triple-O sauce, milkshakes and drive in’s. Perfect.) Anyways, Meat & Bread is exactly what it says it is – an old school sandwich shop with only a few varieties of sandwich to ensure high quality gorgeous ingredients and flavour combinations. (Follow them on Twitter to get the daily specials.) Inside the large open bright space is a long wood table to park yourself at, old boxing equipment hangs in the back and there’s a perpetual but fast moving lineup out the door. They also have desserts like a bacon maple ice cream sandwich. There’s some serious good eats happening here folks. (Now, if only I could eat bread…)

Old Faithful Shop

“Good quality goods” is how they market this shop of treasures. Inside it is stunning, the old brick and beams holding strong from generations past. And the approximately 17 things in there are very from the earth and awesome, but just a little out of my price range. It is my favourite place to wheel Stella in and sniff the cedar incense and manly soaps and flip through stiff empty journals. I feel like the stock is all wheel-barrowed in, off the back of a rickety truck by men in overalls. For the sheer amount of great-for-housewarming-gifts, this place needs to be on your shopping list. I would also like to own all the lamps they have. It’s my birthday in September. Just to let you knooooooooow. (They also just had a summer market in store with locally made yummies and produce. If I hadn’t been shockingly hungover I would have been pressed up against the glass front hours before they opened.)

Charles Bar

Situated directly underneath us, their fine menu has saved me from cooking on many an occasion when Nuv bops down with a buddy for some deep-fried magic and a scotch. So thank you kitchen that isn’t mine. You saved me from 12 minutes of dishes that I’m having to do by hand now because the new place does not have a dishwasher. That’s right. Or washer & dryer. It’s pretty much the Wild Wild West for me domestically.

London Drugs


Sure, right, the indie shoppe London Drugs. The reason I throw my hands up in the air for this establishment is first and foremost, they are in a hood that welcomes drifters and unsavories yet despite that, the staff is exceedingly nice, helpful and not jaded. Great hours, cereal always on sale and located directly under my apartment = Try Harder Shoppers Drug Mart.

Woodwards Sign



We can see the great revolving ‘W’ from our bed. Watching it slowly silently rotate gives me that warm peaceful feeling inside, like I’m in the 50s, minus the Mad Men angst. Dresses, pin curls, fresh produce and pantyhose. Sigh.

Art Attack


There is all types of colourful and abstract art slapped up on walls around here. The riot mural that greets you as you walk up to the atrium is kind of an odd choice. I’d probably google why that call was made, but I’ll save that for another day when I feel like being smarter. Anyways, with some time and positive thinking, we’ll make this place home. Really, my new hood has lots of lipstick on and it’s barely smeared.

(*I can use “block” liberally because once when I argued with Anami that his favourite neighborhood coffee shop couldn’t be 17 blocks from his home, I lost the argument. Mostly because Nuv was there and when in doubt he will always argue against me.)

After watching the trailer for the “new” Pirates of the Caribbean, I became intrigued by the notion of the Fountain of Youth and the concept of immortality (but not intrigued enough to waste money on that movie).

What if a fountain of youth really did exist and you had a choice to become immortal? Would you drink from it? At first glance, it would seem like a great idea. Who wouldn’t want to live forever? I know I do. There’s so much to do in this world and so many different ways of doing it, that I would be first in line to drink the fountain of youth kool-aid. “Immortality, take it, it’s yours!” But wait. With such colossal consequences hanging in the balance, let’s have a pragmatic look at immortality before we jump in the pool, shall we? (This is probably the only time you’ll see the words pragmatic and immortality in the same sentence.)

Yes, life’s too short, but that’s because we know how long we have to live. We all come out with an expiry date, and while the dates vary, there is a date. And yes, I would say a lifespan of 80 years is way too short, especially when you consider all that stuff in the beginning and the end is pretty much useless, what you’re left with really is a 60-year chunk of change in which to play with. That’s peanuts. No wonder people are obsessed with immortality. But what those people are forgetting, and probably never considered, is that we’re not talking about living another hundred years or so, but forever.

Think about that for a second. Having no end in sight in anything is a scary thought. Marriage. The Post Office. The Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. Depression must inevitably set in. Yeah, I suppose the first hundred years would be pretty cool, as you slowly make your way around the world, explore different careers, personalities, learn new languages, and do everything and everyone you’ve ever wanted. And then what? Give homosexuality a try? Entertain a sex change to see how the other half lives? How would you spice up your eternal sex-life?

Imagine living millions of years! I can’t even fathom what that would be like, but I can assume I’d get pretty sick of life after a while. And we’re not talking about an idealized immortality like in a fictional heaven. We’re talking about living forever in this world, with all the hardships that come with it, all the scum and wrack of your day-to-day existence, the sea of pain and despair. Watching your loved ones die while you live. Could you bear it? How would you find the strength tomorrow to go on doing the same thing you did today and have been doing for much too long? What if you find that destiny is implacable, that you’ll be crushed by the dread of more and more inescapable tomorrows? I would argue that after a while, you would dream about and seek out the fountain of death.

What would be the meaning of a life that doesn’t end? With the absence of time, there would no longer be a use for goals, short-term or otherwise. Carpe Diem? What for? You’ll have infinite days to seize, so take it easy. We need deadlines to motivate us (pun intended), as evidenced in school, work, etc., and make no mistake, death is the ultimate deadline to get us to live.

And who’s to say you would even have the means to do everything you’ve always wanted?

Where will the money come from? You would still have to work, still make a living. Let’s say you were to drink from this mythical Fountain of Youth today, what would you do tomorrow? Well, I guess after you’ve calmed down and thought about it, and realized nothing has really changed, you would probably go to work. Life goes on. And on. And on. Some think just because they’ll have all the time in the world that their lives will magically transform into a better one, but immortality doesn’t guarantee you happiness. They confuse immortality with Godhood. Gods don’t have to pay rent, you do. Forever.

Having said all that, after carefully weighing the pros and cons, I would love the chance for eternal life. I could make it work. I’m a patient man. And lazy. I could lie around all day and do nothing. “I’m not being lazy, I’m just pacing myself,” is what I would say. There are a million things I want to do, and I would be fine if it took a million years to do them. I’d be okay with that. I’m sure I’d go through a depression era somewhere in there but that’s when I do my best work. Think how prolific my writing would be! But all that doesn’t matter. Because after a few thousand years, I suppose mankind would be destroyed by either machines, apes, aliens, or zombies, and I love all those things! Loved all those movies! So a toast! To immortality! Cheers!

– Tom Day

They killed Optimus. And made us watch as he decomposed.

Superman was crippled and, after a long fight, he died, broken of body if not spirit. Ali and Michael J. Fox are still here, shivering shells of their former selves.

“They” got Bruce Lee before my time. That’s OK. I was around when “they” got his son Brandon, 20 years later.

Jack wiped off the Joker smile and rode off into the sunset. He’s still alive. The man who would fill his clown shoes nearly two decades later is not.

The King of Pop is dead. Its Prince has sworn to his god to keep his sword sheathed, and hasn’t sworn since. Tipper Gore’s patience pays off. Rest in peace, Darling Nikki.
(PS – Fuck you, Tipper. I’m playing “The Filthy Fifteen” right now…)

Flavor Flav has slowly killed his dignity before our eyes for years. Ice Cube does family films. Ice-T is a cop. Eyedea. Jam Master Jay. All of the Bigs (L, Pun and Notorious). Pac. Eazy Motherfuckin’ E. Shit. Maybe Nas was right…

Andre The Giant was the first to fall. And despite the saying, he hit the ground more gracefully than those to follow. Jake “The Snake” Roberts is a crackhead. Mick Foley took so much punishment he can’t get on his knees to play with his kids. If The Undertaker doesn’t retire, someone will be giving him a tombstone soon. Hulk Hogan, walking the same road as Flav, has gone too far. The Ultimate Warrior’s too far gone. And now, at the age of 58, The Macho Man Randy Savage has gone up to the top rope. Only this time, he ain’t comin’ down.

No more flashy capes and robes. No more weird-ass sunglasses and bandanas. No more crazy-ass appearances on Arsenio Hall or fighting Spider-Man. No more Flying Elbow Drops. Well, according to this picture, there is apparently one more elbow to be dropped…

The cocky Savage was the first man to step up and match Hulk’s fusion of power and charisma (both in the ring and on the mic), forcing him to share the stage. When Hogan and Savage came together to form The Mega Powers at the end of Wrestlemania IV, I was freshly nine years old. I had become a fan four years earlier, when my dad, older brothers and Biji (aka my grandma!) watched the first Wrestlemania with me. Each year I got more hooked. This was like a live action comic book, capes and codenames and all! Good vs evil! Damsels in distress! Mr. T! High flying power moves, none more awe-inspiring at the time than Macho Man’s Flying Elbow Drop. And now he formed a tag team with fuckin’ Hulk Hogan?! This was like a Marvel/DC crossover, GI Joe and the Transformers coming together, Magic and Bird teaming up!

Their initial promos, where Hulk talked about “Hulkamania” and “Macho Madness” (the terms applied to the adrenaline and hysteria that pumped through their respective fanbases) coming together to form “the most powerful force in both universes (?)” I was like, “YUP!”

I spent the next year, eyes glued to that TV, fucking invested in the rise of the Mega Powers. Yelling at the screen, jumping up and down with every near-pinfall, Biji telling me to get the hell off the couch, which, after adjusting my headband and elbow pads, I would oblige by running the length of the couch, acrobatically avoiding tripping up in my (chuckling) dad’s legs, and giving her a Flying Elbow Drop! Take that, Biji! (Don’t worry. She usually caught me mid-air and proceeded to swat me upside the head with her Punjabi newspaper, so justice prevailed and shit.)

Anyways, that year was EPIC! The Mega Powers took on all comers and laid waste to them, even toppling the Twin Towers. But, back to the point: nothing lasts forever. Using their “manager” Elizabeth to drive a wedge of jealousy between them, the slow burn build-up very quickly became a lit fuse feud, as friend became foe, and the main event was set. The Mania vs The Madness, at ‘Wrestlemania V: The Mega Powers Explode!’ (My now 10 year old mind followed suit.) I remember three things about the night I watched the match. I remember all that was going through my head in the minutes leading up to the main event was “holyshitholyshitholyshit.” I remember not knowing who I wanted to win. Until Hogan kicked out of Randy’s deadly Elbow Drop. And then, I remember yelling “BULLSHIT!” which lead to me realizing I was rooting against Hogan for the first time ever. Thanks to the out loud cussing, it also lead to another swat upside the head with a newspaper.

But that was then.

I was sitting on my deck in the sun this last Friday after I heard the news. Listening to music. Smoking a cigarette (like father, like son – cliché for a reason). Thinking about yet another piece of my childhood dying. As I flicked through a Facebook Newsfeed overflowing with dudes my age mourning Macho Man, OutKast’s Aquemini came on:

“Even the sun goes down heroes eventually die / Horoscopes often lie and sometimes “y” / nothin’ is for sure nothin’ is for certain nothin’ lasts forever / But until they close the curtain / it’s him & I, Aquemini”

Heroes die. They may be larger than life, but they aren’t larger than death. They killed Optimus! There is no Krypton. There is no Santa Claus. Biji’s gone. One day, my dad is going to die. Wake up, kid. Heroes are human, and humans fucking die. Super, Macho or otherwise.

Rest in peace, Randy Savage. You were absolutely right. “The cream of the crop… always rises to the top!“

Alright. You guys keep the Macho Madness alive and watch the Mega Powers Explode below. Me? I’m gonna go call my dad. In lieu of Biji, I think he’s long overdue for a Flying Elbow Drop…

“Oooooohh yeeeahh!”

– Nuv

One month to the day after this article was published, Nuv’s father Shiv passed away.
Living up to his tough-ass name, he was sharp to the end.
R.I.P. Pops…

Worst, you’ve wasted all that time reading the damn thing in the first place, and if you factor in the fact that, you think you know something based on having read it but you completely misquote or misinform because you can’t fully remember, I postulate that reading can actually make you more ignorant!

Now before all you librarians and Oprah book-clubbers gather outside my door with nooses and pitchforks, allow me to investigate further.

The idea for this article came about when a colleague of mine, an English Lit major, was discussing the paper he was writing on Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. Having read and studied that play in high school, I confidently asked him what his thesis was. As he started explaining to me the central themes of greed and religion, I quickly realized I hadn’t a clue as to what the play was about, aside from some guy named Shylock – Shakespeare’s version of the loan shark. Pathetic. Inwardly horrified, I still managed to nod along knowingly, concluding my approval with, “That’s cool.”

After that reading fail, I mentally audited my bibliography of books read and found to my dismay that I could scarcely remember anything I’ve read from ten years ago, and in some instances, as recently as last year. And we’re not just talking about trite fictional indulgences here, like The Da Vinci Code for example, which for the record, I have not read (but if I had would best be forgotten), but everything from beloved classics to educational books with historical and social relevance. I used to devour history books like an all-you-can-eat buffet, capable of giving answers to trivia, but now I’m purged in the brain like a bulimic. I could have told you everything you needed to know about the Cuban Revolution and Che Guevara, but now all I’m left with is the Bay of Porky Pigs. Instead of explaining to you the chain of events that led to Hitler’s rise to power, I’m reduced to chronicling Darth Vader’s rise to power. University textbooks, once so painstakingly scrutinized, have long served as kindling – along with alcohol – in the grand firestorm that engulfed my brain cells. Even the cherished books from my angst-filled youth like The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, and On the Road, are now mere ghosts that mock my mortality. What I’m left with is a mish-mash mélange of misinformation that makes me pretty good with crosswords and idle chatter but useless when it comes to debates or conversations that require “facts.”

This realization is especially painful for me because I love to read. And write. It’s disheartening that something someone struggles to set in ink is so easily read and forgotten. With the bombardment of information that comes with the Information Age, we’re trained now to only retain what we need to know – what they tell us to know. And with all this knowledge at our fingertips, we’ve been seduced by shortcuts and reduced to short-term intellectuals. The Google generation: a whole generation on Coles Notes. If people who don’t read (and when I say read I mean a book, not a blog or tweets) can appear smart through Wikipedia, how can we actual readers hope to compete if we spend all that extra time reading and not remembering?

The answer is simple: it’s not the reading of the words, but the learning of what it means. I may have forgotten the details, but I haven’t forgotten how to think. And here’s where Google becomes your friend – by filling in the blanks. It doesn’t help you to think, that was hopefully accomplished through the actual reading and analysis of the material. A simple Google search on The Merchant of Venice reminded me that, “All that glitters is not gold,” and “Hath not a Jew eyes?” and a wealth of other lessons I had already learned from my original reading of it. Upon further searches I remembered that Jay was the Great Gatsby’s first name, that Holden Caulfield liked using the word “phony,” that Sal Paradise viewed Dean Moriarty as the “Western kinsman of the sun.” But any half-wit with a computer and an internet account could have told you that, even without reading the books. I realized then that none of that shit mattered – it’s just semantics. What they couldn’t tell you was how reading those books made them feel. How those books have influenced or changed their lives and continue to do so. And if they never read those books, how they would be deprived of something valuable. Something much more valuable than the time they saved from not reading it.

Truth is, if you’re an idiot, no amount of reading’s going to save you, because well, you’re an idiot. And if you’re smart, you’re probably going to keep reading anyway. So to answer the question, “Does reading make you smarter?” Who the fuck cares! To quote my favourite writer, “We should read to give our souls a chance to luxuriate.”

– Tom Day

“Got two minutes for Human Rights?”

Poof. Idea gone. “Umm…no, sorry…”

Motherfucker. Not only have my thoughts flown to the skies, now, walking away with the condescending words of, “Okay then, have a great day!” trailing me, I’m left wondering how I could have come off as anything but a heartless douchebag. Got two minutes for human rights? “Fuck human rights!” was what I implicitly said. But am I a heartless douchebag? I hope not. Do I have two minutes for human rights? Of course I do, but not here, not now. And that’s my problem with these righteous sidewalk brigades: they try to guilt you into stopping for their little cause by posing a question that can only be answered as a “yes, I’m a good person” or “no, I’m Charlie Sheen,” and I resent anything that tries to coerce me into doing something out of guilt. Save that shit for the Catholics.

It doesn’t even matter what good cause they’re peddling – and that’s the point. As soon as I see one of them on the street with their silly vests and clipboards all wreathed in smiles, I’ve already made up my mind to ignore them. They might as well be begging for change. It’s an ineffective way of raising awareness because all they’re doing is annoying people by ambushing them on the street where they’re most vulnerable. And that’s exactly what we are when we’re walking on the sidewalk – vulnerable, because we’re all sharing the same personal space with no escape, and they know this, which is why they employ those dirty tactics. But it’s not working. Or is it? How can they still be adopting this archaic strategy after all these years? What are we, still in the days of newsboys on street corners yelling, “Extra, extra read all about it?” It’s fucking 2011 for fuck’s sake! Newsboys were replaced long ago by cold inanimate boxes for drunks to kick over. I say we do the same with these guilt peddlers.

The technology is there. Last time I checked, Unicef has a great website, with secure, easy methods for donating and comprehensive information on what your money can do for the organization. So what’s wrong with that? Why did they have to have some cute girl stand on the street asking if I had “time for a chat?” Sneaky bastards. People nowadays don’t even like being interrupted by a phone call, preferring the less intrusive, less personal, all-mighty text over the commitment of actually having to speak, so what makes them think people want to stop for “a chat” with a total stranger about the Red Cross or Unicef or what have you, when I can’t even get my friends to chat with me on the phone?

It’s like that poor sap who wears a sandwich board: you’re not looking at the ad, you’re looking at him – at the humiliation – wondering just how low he had to sink to be doing this fucked up job, a job that a perfectly capable sandwich board is already doing! It’s all superfluous. And ironic. The intention is to have someone canvassing on the street to shake people out of their apathy when really they’re inadvertently making people ignore them. Both the stroll troll and the sandwich board guy are doing a job that a well-placed ad could otherwise have done, and done so more effectively. Don’t feed the stroll trolls!

Who knows, maybe I am a heartless bastard, but back in the day I used to volunteer at Unicef (although at the time I did it to impress a girl – but that’s beside the point), and I donate to the Red Cross periodically and generally treat my fellow human beings with respect and kindness, and maybe this is all just a clever ruse to get you to donate at the above links, but don’t let those things fool you. If I don’t have two minutes to spare for a chat while I’m out for a walk, it must mean I’m an uncaring asshole.

– Tom Day