Christ, has it been a year already? A whole fuckin’ year? What have I been doing with my life…
Well, to commemorate the anniversary, I figure I might as well let you in on the background behind the seemingly non sequitur moniker of ye olde blog.
Most people would probably take “Landshark” and “Sandwich” as two separate phrases, but in reality, the name is an amalgamation of “Landshark” and “Shark Sandwich.” Think of that “Before & After” category on Wheel Of Fortune where they take sayings, phrases, names, etc. that are linked by a common word, and create a hybrid phrase based on them. Example, they could take “Alexander the Great” and “The Great Wall of China” and come up with a homoerotic conquest of the Far East by a bisexual Greek teenager.
Actually, it’d work out to “Alexander The Great Wall Of China.” Silly example, but it serves our purposes here. So the question remains, what the hell is a Landshark, and why a Shark Sandwich? Allow me to answer…
Landshark comes from the classic Saturday Night Live bit from ’75 that parodied a possible sequel to Jaws (bear in mind that this was ’75, so we hadn’t yet encountered any piss-poor sequels to this great film). Basically, Chevy Chase played the shark, Dan Aykroyd played Chief Brodie, John Belushi did a phenomenal Hooper, and the cast for the sketch was rounded out by Lorraine Neuman, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris and guest host Candace Bergin.
Hard to believe Candace Bergin was hot at one point. Anyway…
The skit ran like an excerpt from the then-hypothetical Jaws II in which the main antagonist was no longer a Great White, but rather a “Landshark, the most dangerous species known to man.” The Landshark, or Landy for short, stalked young single women by knocking at their door and posing as repairmen, mailmen, and the like. Example:
*Knocking at door, young woman goes to answer door. By now, the classic “dun dun dun dun dun dun” Jaws theme is playing.*
Woman – Yes?
Landy – Mrs. Arnoldsberg?
W – Who?
L – Miss Sabitowitz?
W – Who is this?
L – (pausing) Plumber.
W – I didn’t call for a plumber.
L – (pausing) Telegram.
W – Telegram? Oh, OK…
From here, the young lady would unlock and open her door only to have a giant pair of foam jaws come crashing down on her head. Funny shite, especially for ’75. So that explains Landshark.
Shark Sandwich comes from another classic bastion of comedic fun, that being the mockumentary known as This Is Spinal Tap. For those of you who don’t know, the film plays out as a documentary being filmed about a once-legendary British hard rock band known as Spinal Tap. The band is befuddled constantly by botched stage shows, smaller venues, and a long line of rapidly expiring drummers. The main players are documentary director Marty DeBergi (Rob Reiner, who also directed the film itself), lead singer/guitarist David St. Hubbons (Michael McKean), lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer).
In one classic segment, DeBergi is interviewing the band and reading them reviews of their albums. Their opus titles are so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. For example, Intravenous De Milo and The Gospel According To Spinal Tap are among the items in their catalog (it should be duly noted that the band is at this point in time touring to support their upcoming release, Smell The Glove). DeBergi comes to one album named Shark Sandwich. Marty informs the band that the review consists of only two words:
“Shit sandwich.”
So there you have it. The etymology behind my blog. Now get the fuck outta my house.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/28/2003
11/24/2003
Kids, I’ve been to a lotta damn concerts in my life. Over 50 to be precise. But I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen a more overrated, overblown, underwhelming piece of trash band… than Kiss.
And with that comment, I can feel the millions of infuriated grease-painted stares looking my way. Yes, I have thrown a direct blow to the Kiss Army. It’s put up or shut up time, Kissies, so put away your Kiss dolls and condoms and coffins and pregnancy tests and tampons and mood rings and retainers and hubcaps and crack pipes and adult diapers with Paul Stanley’s star on them.
I saw Kiss perform this summer with Aerosmith, and I gotta tell ya, Boston’s finest made the “hottest band in the world” look like a bunch of amateurs with pyro. Essentially, that’s all Kiss is and ever was. A mediocre band with make-up and pyrotechnics. Don’t like it? Well, that’s the bottom line kiddies.
Remember when Kiss took off the make-up in the 80’s? Remember that? Remember how far they plummeted until they put it back on in ’96? Ever wonder why? No, it’s not because Peter and Ace were gone at that time; their career had already begun to flag before any departures. Here’s a simple formula.
Kiss’s music – make-up and stage shows = generic hair metal personified.
And that’s just the sad fact. The Kiss Army (or “Spineless Lemmings,” as I like to call them) have been blinded by huge explosions, long tongues, and fake blood for thirty years. So much so that they’ve been unable to realize that the band they worship is frickin’ horrible. Peter and Gene can’t sing for shit (I won’t even begin to get on Peter Criss’s rendition of “Beth” at this summer’s concert), and musically, they can play, but that’s about it. They’re not spectacular, and save “Rock And Roll All Nite,” “Shout It Out Loud,” and a few others, they have never had a knack for good solid hard rock hooks. And at this stage in the game, all that pseudo-mime make-up is a goddamn blessing. When Peter came out for “Beth,” his face looked like a damn burlap bag.
Speaking of Peter Criss, I never thought I would see a less talented “big” drummer than Charlie Watts, but Peter proved me wrong. How can this guy be rated up there with the likes of Neil Peart when it took him a full 30 seconds to start “Rock And Roll All Nite.” He looked confused, like he had never sat at a drum kit before.
Peter! It’s snare, high hat! Snare, high hat! I’ve sat at a drum kit twice in my life, and I can play that beat!
I guess someone forgot to wind up the key in his back when he went offstage prior to “Beth.”
Then there’s Paul Stanley, the hairy-chested Starchild. Y’know, Paul subscribes to every sad classic rock cliché imaginable. Paul’s between-song shuck ‘n jive consists of, “Are you ready to rock, Hartford?!” “It’s time to rock, Hartford!” “Let me hear you, Hartford!” “Who wants to rock and roll in Hartford tonight?!” I wish I was making this up. But his most absurd comment came in something so ridiculously asinine, it makes Poison look like Bob Dylan:
”Y’know Hartford, there a lot of bad stuff going on in the world these days. Every night on the news, you see it, turmoil all over the world. But we can save the world. We can save the world with rock n’ roll!”
I’m amazed no freelance snipers have aimed for that black star on Paul’s face yet.
How can you be so insipid to make a comment like that? What is this, ’73 all over again? Paul, it’s almost 2004! Get with it, for Chrissakes!
Then, of course, there’s Gene Simmons. The long-tongued butt-ugly self-proclaimed sex god who sleeps with Shannon Tweed and her three cousins on a mountain of cash every night. I do believe Gene has a slightly better voice than Paul, but that’s only because Paul’s voice shakes and quivers like Katherine Hepburn on a fuckin’ mechanical bull. Gene didn’t have much to offer at all, save the requisite fire-spewing/fake blood vomiting. And, of course, he flew. That’s right. He flew with the assistance of a harness. You know who else flew in concert, Gene? The New Kids On The Block and ‘NYSYNC. Rock stars do not fly, you ugly prick!
I can’t really say anything bad about Ace Frehley. The man is a talented guitarist, probably on the level of Joe Perry. And he was smart enough to get outta dodge while the getting’ was good. That being said, Tommy Thayer, while a solid guitarist, couldn’t hold a candle to Ace if he wanted to.
And Aerosmith blew them outta the water without so much as a hint of pyro.
So kids, take it from me, put away your Kiss dolls and stop slobbering over your Kiss boxer shorts.
They suck. Always have, always will, period.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
And with that comment, I can feel the millions of infuriated grease-painted stares looking my way. Yes, I have thrown a direct blow to the Kiss Army. It’s put up or shut up time, Kissies, so put away your Kiss dolls and condoms and coffins and pregnancy tests and tampons and mood rings and retainers and hubcaps and crack pipes and adult diapers with Paul Stanley’s star on them.
I saw Kiss perform this summer with Aerosmith, and I gotta tell ya, Boston’s finest made the “hottest band in the world” look like a bunch of amateurs with pyro. Essentially, that’s all Kiss is and ever was. A mediocre band with make-up and pyrotechnics. Don’t like it? Well, that’s the bottom line kiddies.
Remember when Kiss took off the make-up in the 80’s? Remember that? Remember how far they plummeted until they put it back on in ’96? Ever wonder why? No, it’s not because Peter and Ace were gone at that time; their career had already begun to flag before any departures. Here’s a simple formula.
Kiss’s music – make-up and stage shows = generic hair metal personified.
And that’s just the sad fact. The Kiss Army (or “Spineless Lemmings,” as I like to call them) have been blinded by huge explosions, long tongues, and fake blood for thirty years. So much so that they’ve been unable to realize that the band they worship is frickin’ horrible. Peter and Gene can’t sing for shit (I won’t even begin to get on Peter Criss’s rendition of “Beth” at this summer’s concert), and musically, they can play, but that’s about it. They’re not spectacular, and save “Rock And Roll All Nite,” “Shout It Out Loud,” and a few others, they have never had a knack for good solid hard rock hooks. And at this stage in the game, all that pseudo-mime make-up is a goddamn blessing. When Peter came out for “Beth,” his face looked like a damn burlap bag.
Speaking of Peter Criss, I never thought I would see a less talented “big” drummer than Charlie Watts, but Peter proved me wrong. How can this guy be rated up there with the likes of Neil Peart when it took him a full 30 seconds to start “Rock And Roll All Nite.” He looked confused, like he had never sat at a drum kit before.
Peter! It’s snare, high hat! Snare, high hat! I’ve sat at a drum kit twice in my life, and I can play that beat!
I guess someone forgot to wind up the key in his back when he went offstage prior to “Beth.”
Then there’s Paul Stanley, the hairy-chested Starchild. Y’know, Paul subscribes to every sad classic rock cliché imaginable. Paul’s between-song shuck ‘n jive consists of, “Are you ready to rock, Hartford?!” “It’s time to rock, Hartford!” “Let me hear you, Hartford!” “Who wants to rock and roll in Hartford tonight?!” I wish I was making this up. But his most absurd comment came in something so ridiculously asinine, it makes Poison look like Bob Dylan:
”Y’know Hartford, there a lot of bad stuff going on in the world these days. Every night on the news, you see it, turmoil all over the world. But we can save the world. We can save the world with rock n’ roll!”
I’m amazed no freelance snipers have aimed for that black star on Paul’s face yet.
How can you be so insipid to make a comment like that? What is this, ’73 all over again? Paul, it’s almost 2004! Get with it, for Chrissakes!
Then, of course, there’s Gene Simmons. The long-tongued butt-ugly self-proclaimed sex god who sleeps with Shannon Tweed and her three cousins on a mountain of cash every night. I do believe Gene has a slightly better voice than Paul, but that’s only because Paul’s voice shakes and quivers like Katherine Hepburn on a fuckin’ mechanical bull. Gene didn’t have much to offer at all, save the requisite fire-spewing/fake blood vomiting. And, of course, he flew. That’s right. He flew with the assistance of a harness. You know who else flew in concert, Gene? The New Kids On The Block and ‘NYSYNC. Rock stars do not fly, you ugly prick!
I can’t really say anything bad about Ace Frehley. The man is a talented guitarist, probably on the level of Joe Perry. And he was smart enough to get outta dodge while the getting’ was good. That being said, Tommy Thayer, while a solid guitarist, couldn’t hold a candle to Ace if he wanted to.
And Aerosmith blew them outta the water without so much as a hint of pyro.
So kids, take it from me, put away your Kiss dolls and stop slobbering over your Kiss boxer shorts.
They suck. Always have, always will, period.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/19/2003
11/14/2003
My friends, genius comes in many strange forms. Sometimes it’s enlightening and inspiring. Sometimes it’s misunderstood and confusing. Sometimes it’s radical and frightening.
But when my friends and I exhibit genius, it’s nothing short of twisted and disturbing.
Case in point… my friend Blue and I were recently discussing a mutual friend who recently tied the knot. Now our bud Moby works a 9-5 a good 45-minute drive away, and on occasion shoots hoops after punching out. When he makes it back to the homestead, he attaches his ass to his beloved recliner, and vegs out for hours on end before his TiVo-enhanced entertainment center. In fact, the only time he detaches from said seating apparatus is to get a brew or hit the commode.
This gave us a brilliant idea.
Imagine, if you will, a combination recliner/toilet bowl. Oh, I know, Homer Simpson developed a similar device in one episode of The Simpsons, but Blue and I have made some modifications to the design.
First off, a universal remote that operates every possible electronic device/component imaginable built into the armrest. Furthermore, a refrigerator built into one side of the recliner for the old man’s brew of choice. Moreover, a T.P. dispenser on the other side of the chair (gotta be sanitary, folks). Did we mention built-in air fresheners (gotta love that new car scent)? And of course, massaging rollers in the seatback and ass. Everything so that the average alpha male never has to leave the comfort of his favorite recliner again. Our name for this contraption?
We have christened it the “La-Z-Bowel.”
Now some of you female types might get a bit miffed for fear that your man will become an overweight, uninspired shell of his former sexy self. And you have right to be scared, lassies, ‘cause these mothers’ll sell like frickin’ hot cakes. So what’ll you do when you needs yo’ lovin’? What’s the solution?
I’m still single ladies.
Goodnight, and have a La-Z tomorrow.
But when my friends and I exhibit genius, it’s nothing short of twisted and disturbing.
Case in point… my friend Blue and I were recently discussing a mutual friend who recently tied the knot. Now our bud Moby works a 9-5 a good 45-minute drive away, and on occasion shoots hoops after punching out. When he makes it back to the homestead, he attaches his ass to his beloved recliner, and vegs out for hours on end before his TiVo-enhanced entertainment center. In fact, the only time he detaches from said seating apparatus is to get a brew or hit the commode.
This gave us a brilliant idea.
Imagine, if you will, a combination recliner/toilet bowl. Oh, I know, Homer Simpson developed a similar device in one episode of The Simpsons, but Blue and I have made some modifications to the design.
First off, a universal remote that operates every possible electronic device/component imaginable built into the armrest. Furthermore, a refrigerator built into one side of the recliner for the old man’s brew of choice. Moreover, a T.P. dispenser on the other side of the chair (gotta be sanitary, folks). Did we mention built-in air fresheners (gotta love that new car scent)? And of course, massaging rollers in the seatback and ass. Everything so that the average alpha male never has to leave the comfort of his favorite recliner again. Our name for this contraption?
We have christened it the “La-Z-Bowel.”
Now some of you female types might get a bit miffed for fear that your man will become an overweight, uninspired shell of his former sexy self. And you have right to be scared, lassies, ‘cause these mothers’ll sell like frickin’ hot cakes. So what’ll you do when you needs yo’ lovin’? What’s the solution?
I’m still single ladies.
Goodnight, and have a La-Z tomorrow.
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