Out soon or now or sometime are Eagle vs Shark and Superbad.  The former stars Jemaine Clement from Flight of the Conchords, the greatest comedy since Arrested Development, and the latter stars Michael Cera from Arrested Development.  They also both had hands in writing I think.  Yeah, go see them.

Sorry for my lackingness of late. But I am rubbish. Really rubbish. And it’s hard to keep up with music what with being incredibly busy and hot. So I give you this instead. Life changing stuff.

Natalie Imbruglia at the Secret Policeman’s Ball.

Stick with it. It is mildly amusing.

His Girl Friday

If your area is anything like mine, your local Blockbusters is now a cheap mall called ‘Kwality Goods.’ Presumably, they don’t sell a spell checker in the mall. As a result, I have to find movies that I want to watch online. I figured that if they are not pirated new movies, I’m in the clear. Also, Cary Grant is lovely and everyone should have access to him, regardless of what their Blockbusters was replaced with.  

Alberto Gonzales resigns and hopefully recalls this memory on Monday morning.

Yay.

From the conservative magazine, Weekly Standard, in 2004 (yes, I’m aware that this is a bit late), something that was pointed out to me:

“President Roosevelt waited until after World War II to put in place a commission to investigate what mistakes led to Pearl Harbor.”

It’s a bit of a trick asking you to spot the mistake, because technically there are two. The less egregious one is the fact that the sentence is itself false; President Roosevelt actually set up a commission to investigate Pearl Harbor almost right after the event itself, skewering May’s claim that it’s somehow unprecedented and slightly unseemly for the executive to be immediately held accountable for mistakes and errors that have been made.

But there’s an even bigger mistake than that, amusingly.

 So, coming from Crooked Timber, who’re having a nice barney about whether or not it is a statistical impossibility that men and women report, on average, different numbers of sexual partners (Answer: Probably not, and it seems this is just another case of the press being sloppy when it comes to statistics, although of course this is fairly innocuous compared to previous statistical fuckups, such as the cool response over the Lancet papers, as Tim Lambert of Deltoid has wearingly noted over the past few years), I was working my way through links about the above study when I came across this blog, whereby somebody mentions in a comment, offhand, snarkily, ”secondary virginity”.

I’ve heard the term before, but as a connoisseur of the human capacity for denial of reality and vicarious self-loathing (it tastes like sweet, sweet, strawberries), I did what I normally do, and started trawling google for links to a little known but mildly irritating subculture.

Jackpot.

So, never fear, anyone who has had an unfortunate drunken fumble, or any Christian who has fallen out of favour of the grace of God due to a stray penis flying about the place (they do get everywhere, don’t they?) Your virginity can be assured, simply because you say so! Hell, you can go out an be debauched as you want, as many times as you want, as long as you’re suitably self-flagellating and contrite about the experience. After all, the last thing we would want you to do is enjoy sex. So get out there and fuck like hell, you miserable, sinful wretch.

I know, I know. I’m mocking people who’re just wanting to make a fresh start. Maybe they did think they made a mistake, or maybe they needed to show their new-found faith in some symbolic (if ostentatious) way, and it’s terrible I’m making fun of it and probably shows the deep-seated insecurities which cause me to deal so cynically with everything, as well as casting a withering light on the long, dark, bitter night that is my twisted excuse for a soul.

But we all knew that already, and I admit that, and at least I’m not pretending that suddenly, like I was in the playground, that I had my fingers crossed the whole time when I got laid so it suddenly doesn’t count any more. Is it just me who believes that there should be no “take-backsies” when it comes to fucking? Okay, so you made a mistake, you weren’t ready or you were drunk, or you didn’t mean for it to happen. Deal with it. Don’t pretend that suddenly your hymen has magically grown back or that you’ve never been involved in some penetrating discussions with a lady friend. Because, remember, every time you claim to have renewed your virginity, God sodomises a kitten. And Mr. Tickles will not get his back.

Animal Collective are one of the worst bands in the history of music.  That is all.

Apologies for my abscene from these pages of late. I’m afraid I have been busy. Fretting mainly, but busy nonetheless. And lacking in ideas. Lots of ideas. I divulge however (actually, I don’t - those apologies and explanations were necessary to make you, the loyal reader, feel like I care about your life and how my writings affect it. Or is that ‘effect’? I’ve always had trouble with that one. Like with Fleetwood Mac and The Carpenters. I always get those two mixed up. Anyway, this is definitely divulging now, so back on with the show). MORE!!!!

To all those who know me in some level outside this artificial plane, you will know that I depart for Syracuse in New York in that big country to the left there. I do this for many reasons. Well, two. I like flying and I like packing. I really do. The former as it’s just astonishing knowing you’re thousands of feet (or metres for any fans of the metric system reading), in the air travelling at hundreds of miles an hour on your way to some foreign, mysterious land where nothing will be as it was before - no Irn Bru, no HP sauce, no Jimmy Hill. Imagine that. No Jimmy Hill. Gosh.

Also, I like packing, for similar reasons as to why I like washing up, showering, brushing my teeth and general cleaning, in that there is order, there is cleanliness, there is organisation, I can listen to music when I do it and concentrate effectively on both tasks, and there is immediate and noticeable (now that just don’t look right. Is it noticable?) job satisfation. So woot.

As such, I leave for four months for some hopefully enlightening times with some Jesuits and straight edge kids and bunk beds. Yes, I get to share a bunk bed.  Woot again.

Sorry for all this, it was just meant to be a little explanation as to why I won’t be able to update on Friday as I’ll be too busy sorting things and maybe being in a tent. So I’ll do it here instead as The Patch seems to have been deserted of much of its content of late, and there’s plenty of space going. Apologies to all Patch fans for that. And onto some relevance.

MUSIC! NEWS?

Music is still fun to listen to.

MUSIC! PREVIEWS?

I imagine music will still be fun to listen to in the near future. Unless you go deaf. *

MUSIC! FEATURES?

Music is comprised of notes. A note is also something you can write to remind yourself of an event or anniversary of sort. Maybe Mussolini’s death. Or the first chip pan fire in Wales (it killed 75, and gave a delicious crunch to 103).

MUSIC? REVIEWS?

Yes, I can indeed do a review, as I went to my first proper live gig in a good ages donkey while. Who was it? Can you guess? I’ll give you a clue. She’s a member of a popular gothic punk duo. She plays the piano, very well. She likes stripey tights. She has very flexible legs. She also likes ukeleles (ukelele, Ikelele, we all kelele). And she is my future wife. No it wasn’t Barry George. It was the beautiful, wonderful, glorious, blissful, oh so talented Amanda Palmer, one half of vaudevillian eccentrics, Dresden Dolls.

The scene? Well, where else but the wonderful city of Edinburgh in the middle of festival season and its most intriguing of all venues, the Spiegeltent. Or Mirror Tent if you don’t speak German. An apt name, due to the many mirrors. I can’t think of a joke to insert here to make that statement less boring. More apologies (oh, you’re really getting them today. I hope you feel duitifully apologised to. If not, complain to your mum. It’s probably her fault for raising you wrong and ungrateful.)

There were seats and they were wooden and I was quite near the back which disappointed me in many ways. Mainly because I love Amanda Palmer. But for other reasons too. She came on, she got applause and sat down at the keyboard. And I shall call what happened from thenceforth the ‘gig’.

This ‘gig’ was good. Even if most of the early set comprised of relatively unknown songs she was working on for her solo record (produced by Ben Folds), it was never anything less than utterly captivating. Our voice is one of very few that manages to deal with both humour and heartbreak at an equally extraordinary level, with her little quirks and looks to crowd never failing to cause a mirthful chuckle among the crowd, yet still commanding their respect and solemnity when the occasion occurs.

Her attire is pleasingly in accordance with the burlesque tendencies of her chosen venue, with her suspenders and white shirt combo emphasising the sense of fun she can so easily bring to an event. Similar remarks could be made upon the theatrical posse she has assembled to weave through the aisles and join her own stage to provide even more visual pleasure to the already ample aural delights on offer.

One such theatrical friend.

However, all the initial set, as pleasing as it is, seems just foreplay for what is in store. The new songs make way for an old favourite in Coin Operated Boy as some familiarity is brought to the set. And though that was the only Dolls song to be heard tonight, she goes on to make her closing covers her own, and raise a very well decorated roof.

Material Girl, though an annoyingly brash Madonna anthem, is turned into a sneering attack on the Paris Hiltons of the world as Mandy (as I like to call her) slows down proceedings and adds some rather worse for wear party girls to the visual spectacle.

Paris Hilton?

And what else could follow that, but the incredible spectacle of Mandy and her cohort miming to Umbrella whilst shaking their pert behinds off. Complete with ukelele.

Sweet.

The ukelele remained the instrument of choice as a singalong version of Radiohead’s freaky cheek anthem Creep was given an enthusiastic airing as Mandy departed from the stage to weave through a dapper audience.

She’s singing.

But it was back to her grand piano to close a dazzling set with a tender I Will Follow You Into the Dark which made Death Cab sound like Fall Out Boy. And we got free candles.

I bet you’re thinking “Het Tom, that was a bloody excellent review that. So good in fact that I stopped breathing just so I could give reading my full concentration, so now probably have severe brain damage thanks to you. But I can’t help but feel there’s more to this evening of Miss Palmer?” And you know what, you’d be right. You lucky, lucky reader. So less breathing, more reading. Not this sentence you moron, the paragraph below.

Indeed, this was not the end of a wonderful evening of music. After leaving the tent, dear Mandy was whoring herself out (only for photos and autographs unfortunately) so I got this taken.

Yeah, I’m hot. Get over it.

And from there, I received word from my valuable music contacts, i.e. people on the street, that Mandy was doing another little set at my beloved Forest Cafe. So off I went with a hoppity skip to see the highlight of the evening.

Upstairs in the converted attic she was, to perform on a mighty organ some rare Dolls piece that chilled your very spine. From there, it was back to ukelele for another rendition of Creep, performed standing on the vacant seat that was directly in front of my own. Unfortunately, standing on this seat meant that her dress caught fire (I say ‘caught fire’, I mean it was burning a little bit) on the candle on the table, but luckily, I had the daring instinct to put out the (very few and small)flames with my hands. For I am great. Anyway, Creep was even better here as nobody had an ego and so everyone joined in unlike at the Spiegeltent where some people thought it would be cool to add their vocals, even the ‘You’re so fucking special’ bit. Twats.

Just moments before the fire tragedy.

What else to close the whole evening but a stripped down ukelele funk version of Umbrella? And it was fab. Even fabber than the mimed one in the tent. Mandy has a better voice than Rihanna you see. Fun it was. Most fun.

FUN! Most bands don’t remember to make their shows fun anymore. This disappoints.

I finish the review with two more photos because I really like them. The first because the fan just to Mandy’s right has the most wonderful expression. And the latter as it was when Mandy was with one of her lackeys just behind me and pashed him all over his face. And that made me happy.

Record of the Week

What else but the spackingly great No You Didn’t, No You Don’t from this bloody fucking fantastic lot. The Courteeners are the next big thing. And deservedly so. So very deservedly so. Greatest sound I’ve heard coming from Manchester since the first Stone Roses album. Magic. Seriously. See them now so when they’re all big you can go, ‘oh, but I was there at the beginning’ and people will think you’re cool. You know, like Arctic Monkeys and Libs fans do. Of course, the morons will come along as soon as they get Radio One airplay and say they’re shit and sell outs like the many Monkeys haters out there. But life is full of tossers, and we’ve got to live with that. In the mean time, forget any visage of cool, and just bounce along and smile to glorious pop music. The Courteeners are aces.

*Remember kids, don’t use in-ear earphones (seriously, they fucked me up right bad), don’t use cotton swabs (again, seriously, they are incredibly bad for your ears) but if you do fancy giving your ears a little clean, there are plenty of over the counter ear cleaners that can be used effectively and simply, and almond oil is also useful. Syringing your ears is a right painful piece of buggery though and should only be used as a last resort. I’ve had it 3 times, and each has got progressively worse. The feeling after is wonderful though. You can hear!

It’s been a while. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, doesn’t it? And a change is as good as the rest, so they say, which is why, dear Patchers, the wind of change is about to caress The Patch. Cliches aside, we have decided to try a different approach in our reporting in the hope that we will return to our former 7-days-a-week-baby glory, filling your lives in ways only we can.

In laymans terms, there will be no ‘days’ for particular subjects anymore, nor will us Patchists be confined to reporting one subject. And we’ll see how that works.

Me, I fancy revisiting my old haunt, Celebrity, today, because Amy Winehouse is troubling me.

I like Amy Winehouse. Yes, she’s a chav of the highest degree, but I loathe to admit that I find the music catchy and enjoyed seeing her the other week supporting the Arctic Monkeys. Plus, y’know, her private life is entertaining enough too, marrying people with funny names and missing gigs and generally being ‘rock-n-roll’.

She’s admitted to hitting her husband to get her own way. The feminists rejoiced, the Domestic Violence Groups cried abuse. She appears on TV shows and at gigs as drunk as an Irish man after a trip to the Guinness factory and people worry, bemoaning the downward spiral of a talented singer. Me, I just admire the gaul she has letting herself be seen that way, whilst still managing to put on a good performance. Indeed, when I saw her, she was clearly smacked off her tits, if you’ll excuse the colloquialism, but still managed to sound alright.

Anyway, ramble aside, what makes me write about her today is that this week, she was rushed to hospital suffering a drugs overdose, and is in the News of the World today claiming she doesn’t know what into her (err…a few too many grams of coke and a load of horse tranquiliser, Amy love).

She has vowed to change, but don’t they always? Anyone who knows who she is could have predicted it would end up like this, and nobody really tried to stop it. Because the media likes a troubled artist. Look at Pete Doherty. I don’t like him, but the tabloids report he’s off the wagon again with sickening glee, and that just seems a bit wrong to me. His constant misfortune is almost what’s expected of him, so why try to change, when nobody believes that you won’t just do a Paula Yates and not wake up one day? And they’re doing the same to Amy Winehouse, reporting her misfortunes greedily, hoping that the next time she’ll die so that they have something interesting to write about.

That’s the problem with celebrity. Because we are all jealous, we’re just waiting for those in the spotlight that we all crave to fail. So it worries me, because as long as Amy Winehouse is in that spotlight, she won’t be allowed to change, because it’s too easy to fall back into the habits that are expected of her. She might not even want to change. Most probably her appearance in the News of the World is an attempt by her record company at damage control, so that parents will still let their kids buy her records. There is no mention of help, infact she says she’s going back to work on Monday. When what she really should be doing is saying “Yes, yes, yes” to Rehab for once.

Oh, come on, you knew it was coming.

From tigrismus, a commenter at Sadly, No!, comes the single most boneheadedly stupid thing I have ever heard, ever.

Witness Stu Bykofsky, a man who is willing to say the things that other people won’t say, because other people would consider them nasty, shallow little ghouls who care about nothing but their petty little ideological agendas, and his column for the Philadelphia Daily News:

“To save America, we need another 9/11.“

I shit you not. Not content with the possibility of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi dead, for the sake of some nebulous “unity” (by which Mr. Bykofsky means “people will once again line up under Bush to go and bomb some brown people who didn’t actually have that much to do with the attack, whilst we can demonise those who dissent as traitors again”) the man is wishing, almost orgasmically waiting for Al-Qaeda to strike again, at perhaps places like “The Golden Gate Bridge. Mount Rushmore. Chicago’s Wrigley Field. The Philadelphia subway system. The U.S. is a target-rich environment for al Qaeda.”

Who is it that hates America, again?

The most infuriating thing about libertarians isn’t that they have an unfortunately pessimistic view of humanity and government, or that they are applying the dictums of basic economic theory which only apply in specialised conditions to more complex market structures, or, much like the Leninists of old, the belief that the system can never be failed, it is some nefarious outside force that is corrupting the pure scientific and natural outcomes. These are all exceptionally annoying, but not the worst. It is the belief that it is only government power we should worry about when our lives are getting regulated and catalogued, our personal freedoms violated, but the corporate power to do that is just fine and dandy. Libertarians, so high-and-mighty when it comes to the protection of our freedom of speech, so wonderously fighting for the little guy when the government comes calling, go strangely quiet when our employers try to silence us. Well, that’s not true, actually, they don’t go quiet. They start loudly fighting again, but for the the large corporation’s “right” to poke, prod, snoop, anywhere it wants to.

Take, for instance, Clarian Health, a US hospital system, that is going to start fining people for being unhealthy:

“In late June, the Indianapolis-based hospital system announced that starting in 2009, it will fine employees $10 per paycheck if their body mass index [BMI, a ratio of height to weight that measures body fat] is over 30. If their cholesterol, blood pressure, and glucose levels are too high, they’ll be charged $5 for each standard they don’t meet. Ditto if they smoke: Starting next year, they’ll be charged another $5 in each check.

Clarian has been making headlines for its aggressive and unusual approach to covering escalating health-care costs. Rather than taking the more common step of giving employees incentives for merely participating in its wellness programs, such as joining a smoking cessation group or using a health coach, Clarian is actually measuring outcomes. And unlike most employers, it is penalizing workers for poor health instead of rewarding them for taking healthy steps.

[...]

At Clarian, employees who have blood pressure that’s above 140 over 90, blood glucose levels over 120, low-density lipoprotein cholesterol over 130, or a BMI over 29.9 could be subject to the paycheck deductions. Of the company’s 13,000 employees, about 8,000 are enrolled in the company’s health plan. The company estimates that as many as 34% of its employees will meet the definition of being obese, while it expects lower levels for other health measures. About 26% are tobacco users. The fines are waived for employees who can provide a doctor’s note stating it’s not advisable for them to try to meet the benchmark — employees will be able to submit new notes from their doctors quarterly — and that they are complying with the proper diet, exercise, and treatment plan.”

Work! Be happier, fitter, more productive! Do what you are told! Feel good, or you shall pay! Smile, or you shall be thrown out into the cold! Don’t say anything about what you might see that is unfair! See, this is the bait-and-switch that the libertarians pull. Far from being rebels against an unfair, dictatorial system, man, libertarians support one unfair, dictatorial system over another. Although in this system, you can’t at least choose the boss that’s fucking you over. Oh, well, I suppose you could go and get another job, but in this market? And what about the benefits you’ve already accrued? And of course, it doesn’t matter where you get a job if they’re all doing it, like the article suggests may happen in the near future.

This is the real problem with libertarianism; the refusal to acknowledge that private interests can have as much power over a person and violate their liberties as much as government can, and that this power is far less democratically controllable.

Fuck you, libertarians.