I stopped eating meat a while ago but I still feel a tad guilty looking at the mangled carcass and thinking “leftovers”.

So we are officially in a recession and I wonder which of my friends will become “the leftovers” and when will I join them in the quest to avoid freezer burn. I guess America stopped being Rockwellian long ago but we were too busy shoving cranberry sauce into our collective pie holes to do much about it, I’m sure we may have even laughed at some of the penis sketches. Now I find my self asking what next? As well as the following questions:

• Do I abandon the dinner table and go to a different one?
• Maybe there will be more turkey and if so who will get rid of this one?
• Maybe there will be dessert, oh I hope it’s pecan pie, will there be pie?
• Why the hell does my father in-law keep pouring me scotch, does he hate my liver?

The only answer I came up with was let’s go to Sarasota. We did. It was grand. So I guess this is not the game over many men in suits and ties claim it to be. It’s more like, reset. I’m cool with that. Florida isn’t that bad of a place if you have a car and I always wanted to write a book.

Here’s what I thought of them back then:

This pretty unoriginal rap-rock band from L.A. sounds like Rage Against the Machine with a bad case of laryngitis. Unlike Rage, the mediocre songs carry little more of a message than “teen angst is cool.” These four chaps produce music that sounds too lame to be rap and too repetitive to catch my interest. True, the lead singer can scream, but so could the guy in Carcass, and do you know where he is now? Probably pumping gas for a Citgo in Wyoming. The screechy Korn guitars try to emphasize just how unoriginal this band is, but even that is overpowered by the lame-osity of Hotwire.

Now I don’t I am not referring to Hotwire.com: Discount flights and cheap airfare nor Hotwire Blues, Rock, And Country Delivered With Heart & Soul (which I’m sure is also fan-fucken-horrible), nor do I mean to tarnish the musical prowess of this Hotwire: with these douchecabibbles:

Here’s the band’s website: good luck and god speed with it.

With a song like “Motherfucker from Hell” it’s next to impossible to be a shitty band. I recommend checking this band out but then again, I also recommend not brushing your teeth, so what the fuck do I know. Go fuck yourself.

Note: So I wrote this about 4 years ago and as it turns out the Immortals were in fact not. They stained the world with a 6 track E.P. the faded into oblivion like one of those hypercolor shirts but leaving less of an impact than the hyper color shirts did. They blamed their record label for lack of listeners but I tend to think they needed to look inwards. So where are they now?

The guy who formed this unsavory concocktion pursued his music career and formed the Brand Name Importables with John “I love monkey balls” Mayer, and Steve “Buy My iCrap” Jobs.

The bassist is now in Train, a band that makes middle age Italian woman weak in the knees and me weak in the bowels. That shitty band with that shitty song about “drops of Jupiter” which I swear is a veiled reference to the lead singer witnessing his mother get her face spooged on by some dude named Jupiter. If that wasn’t proof enough that a career in the music biz isn’t as rewarding as many a tragically dressed teenager would have you believe, this douche is also a temp. in the reality T.V. band Rock Star Supernova, a temp for christ sakes.

As for the other two, one dude (mohawk guy) was a temp and is never again mentioned as for the drummer he’s probably some drum tech for some band he wishes he could drum for but will never be allowed to since his little brand new immortal fiasco.

It’s awkward and ugly.

If by Whirlwind Heat they mean anal vapors and by being a band they mean making horrible noise alone with stupid shouting like the song whose lyrics consist only of “1,2,3″ then they are a band worthy of the name. What the fuck, this ain’t Sesame Street and you ain’t the Count. First off, they have no guitar except for one song and then you realize why they have no guitar. And don’t get me wrong, you don’t need a guitar to have a successful band, but you do need something to fill that void. And their Moog and drum sample only makes the void more noticeable. You know what else pisses me off about this band? It totally fucks my rule of 3 people in a band equal good music theory. If I may I’d like to use a quaint simile to paint a more colorful portrait of this band. Here goes, as a whole, this band is like shit and its members are like the corn kernels embedded within it. Definitely not Iggy and the Stooges as the singer would have you believe.

Note: I wrote this review about 4 years ago and this band is still in existence as a band and not as managers at some guitar store so perhaps they have matured and stopped being such crap. I will make a note of seeing them again when they tour around here and may very well recant and ask for forgiveness from the gods of all things metal.

If you want to check them out, here:www.whirlwindheat.com.

Well, no more will such dilemmas leave you soured and nonplussed at the end of a 12-hour shit-shoveling shift. No longer need you purchase beer and malt beverages in a state of babe-like ignorance. Now me guide you in your search for the perfect carbonated adult beverage. Yes, your prayers have been answered. No need to thank me – just sit back and enjoy!

Modelo Especial

Yellow Mexican pisswater. Tastes like watered-down Corona. It’s a lightweight, like a great Mexican boxer refusing to go down. Daddy likes. Oh and it’s Mexican… mee, hee, cannnn.

	Brooklyn Pilsner Ugg. Thick, wheaty and gross like I bit into grandpa’s armpit. The only good thing to come out of Brooklyn was the F train to Delancey.
	Peroni    It smells like skunk farts and tastes like muskrat vomit and both for me are strangely appealing yet still appalling. Stupid fascist beer.
	Bacardi O3    It’s like going to Newport Beach and meeting this blonde California girl and she’s not smart but you fool yourself that you’re being overly judgmental so you indulge her back at your hotel or motel or friend’s bedroom and afterwards you tell her you’ll call her and you never do, and all you have left is her hair on your pillow and the smell of oranges and her saliva on your fingers and you taste it and I bet it tastes just like Bacardi O3.
	Birra Moretti    Buy this beer for the sad little drunken Italian man on the label wearing a green Mafia suit and a reverse Hitler moustache. It tastes pretty good – a tad nutty, which may get annoying after a while, but good enough for the Italian leprechaun who just caught his wife cheating on him with Pepito the sausagemaker. If you’re sad and want to die this is your brew – if you want to snort coke and listen to British Sea Power all night, pick up something lighter.
	Presidente    If there’s a good reason the Haitians hate the Dominicans, I suspect a large part of the blame falls on the fact that Presidente cerveza is crap in a green bottle. Even the graphic on the label sucks, so you can’t look cool if you’re drinking it. Said label states that the contents are made with “a fine selection of malted barley hops and corn grits…” what the fuck are corn grits?? This beer is bitter and flat and watery. I’d rather drink the dregs of someone else’s forty.
	Beck’s Not good, not bad, just Beck’s. The name says it all: “Beck’s,” like a fart that doesn’t stink. You know it’s a fart but it doesn’t smell like a fart… that is a Beck.
	Tsingtao As soon as one of us round-eyes tasted this beer we were like “Uh, what the fuck is this?” At first there was a peculiar aftertaste of blood (just keep telling yourself it’s rust) Then you go into the weird-ass taste of it and your tongue goes “fuck it, I give up,” and everything tastes funny afterwards.
	Molson Canadian    This beer is like a Canadian runway model. The packaging is awesome, the first taste is refreshing, but once this canuck opens up her mouth and that horrific accent spews out, you’re all like, “She’s hot but I can’t get over that accent,” but then you make the beast with two backs anyway because you figure you’ll get used to it and just deal with her sounding like the Kids in the Hall.
	J.W. Dundee’s Honey Brown Lager    Remember going to those family picnics? Your aunt would make some kickass potato salad and your dad would pop open a nice cool lager, but then the honeybees would come and shit in it or drown in it. But he wouldn’t notice, and you’re all like, “Drink it! Drink it all you fucker!” Because you’re hoping he’ll swallow a bee and it’ll sting him in the uvula. Well, I bet that beer tasted great, ’cause this one sure does. Who would’ve thought bee shit and beer would be a winning combo?
	Harp Lager Harp’s good. I bet Harpo would drink it all the fucking time, then go out all shitfaced and piss people off by honking his horn/walking stick at them or pickpocketing them and filling their pockets up with mashed bananas or ostrich eggs and then grabbing the ass of some fat chick that Groucho was making a pass at. “That’s-a so nice, Punchy.”
	Smirnoff Ice    It’s Fresca and Vodka, yay! It reminds me of those hot Russian girls that live on Brighton Beach and carry fake Prada bags and wear too much eyeliner and go clubbing way too much and make your life harder than a loaf of government-issue bread. But it’s all worth it because all those ladies know how to party.
	Anheuser World Select Beer for corporate dorks. It’s like taking some poor white trash guest from the Jerry Springer Show and dressing him up in H&M clothing and maybe fixing up his grill but underneath all that great looking cotton is still a man who dumped his 200lb. girlfriend for a 300lb. transvestite. Be good to yourselves and each other and don’t buy this swill.
	Old Speckled Hen What a weird name – it reminds me of an old guy’s balls, all saggy and stained with liver spots. This ale is bitter like a British streetwalker, or the Queen Mother. But you get used to its stern taste when accompanied by some greasy grub. Still, I don’t dare drink this every day. It’s a definite “right time and place for everything” kind of brew. It smells like the amalgamation of several spilled beers on the hardwood floor of a New York concerthall and tastes like a soul kiss from Prince Charles.
	Tiger I’m the guy that takes one for the team. That is to say I drink the beers that make the beer drinkers cry. Most of the time my tastebuds curse me. However, there is that rare occasion when what I think will be the beer that will be the end of me turns out to be a great beer. A fucking stellar beer brewed in Singapore, I found this one way in the back of a Bangladeshi deli’s fridge, behind all the Molson and Sam Adams. The label had a menacing tiger on it and the cap was rusted. My expectations at an all-time low, my biggest concern was about the possibility of contracting lockjaw. I was surprised and relieved to find a good-tasting lager. Amaze your friends by buying a beer they would never have the balls to try, and they will forever be impressed with your knowledge of obscure alcoholic beverages.
	Elephant    I, King of Danes, hereby proclaimeth that Our Royal Hamlet of LaBatt shall set about the procurement of the most vile-tasting of malts and the most odiferous of barley in order to create for Us a Libation so awful that none of Our enemies and foes shall ever venture hither forth and kick the living bejesus out of thy Asses, for fear of being compelled to quaff such a disagreeable Concoction whilst remaining within the Borders of Our noble Land.
	LaBatt Blue Light Pilsner LaButt makes bad beer. This one tastes like Bud Light but slightly sweeter and makes your burps smellier. If Bud is the King of beers this is definitely the Princess. Three cheers for LaButt: hip hip, you suck, hip hip, you suck, hip hip, you suck!