AMEN

CHANNEL NEVERFAILS: THE SUMMER MOVIE SEASON STARTS NOW!

CHANNEL NEVERFAILS: CAT POWERED

ABOUT A GIRL

With pinpoint accuracy, I know where I was when I first saw the video for "Smells Like Teen Spirit", because it's intrinsically linked to one of the great obsessions of my teen years; an Italian-American princess, three years my junior, who was both a card carrying member of the International Thespian Society, in league with the JV cheerleading squad AND a total Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio doppelganger, circa The Abyss.

Ahem. A total babe.

I was laying in a hotel room outside of Pittsburgh, a collegiate freshman on winter break, whose travels had taken him to a darkened room whose only illumination came from the tele tuned to MTV. I was actually trapped under the covers, as I had turned in for the night to only find myself minutes later talking to this beauty, a girl who I had so long pined for while walking the halls of Ridley High, who had somehow coerced entry in order to - of all things - talk to me. Me, who by trapt I meant adorned in tighty whities, and still all Catholically repressed, knew in no way, shape or form could this virginal entity perchance a glance, because goddamit, I wanted her to think me worldly, and by that I meant...well, I wanted her to think me a boxer man.

And just at that moment where I knew a connection was indeed being made - along with "the other sex" history - there came those opening chords, and for the next five minutes, we both lay as if in rapture, gazing at something that looked and felt like nothing else on MTV. Me, with that half-assed attempt at skateresque hairdo I had post-high school. You remember this? And her...her looking like Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio, if Mary Elizabeth was all of sixteen with a Delco poof. We only talked and stared, with befitting tones both stupid, yet contagious. With the lights out, so not dangerous.

I can remember how on the ride back East, the single seemed to suddenly be everywhere on the radio, and we tuned about the dial trying to get a second, third, fourth listen. I also remember completely blowing it with this girl not more than a month later, for reasons I still don't quite understand. And still yet, I remember that day a little more than two years later, when Phish descended on State College to jam while my music geek brethren argumentatively mourned, how I thought about Mary Elizabeth for a fleeting moment, and the way her teen spirit smelled.

APRIL 8TH, 1994: THE DAY THEY REPORTED THAT THE MUSIC DIED

The Daily Collegian, 4.12.94 - Like many, shock and an immeasurable sense of loss rang through me when I heard the news Friday. Sitting in complete dumbfoundment watching MTV's retrospective for two hours only made me sadder.

To me, Nirvana was the only American band around today worth listening to. Stone Temple Pilots? The Lemonheads? Phish? Please.

Cobain's suicide has left an incredible, unfillable hole on the music map. There have been many who compared Cobain to John Lennon, and rightfully so. But for a generation that matured after Lennon's death, he was much more than that - he was one of us.

In an era when Generation X and Reality Bites have tried in vain to pinpoint our generation, Cobain's most popular work, "Smells Like Teen Spirit," perfectly captured the silliness of it all. No matter how many times I've heard that song, it still strikes a chord - it's a song about me written by someone like me.

Through some of the most deeply personal and profound songs to emerge during the last several years, Cobain's voice spoke a sad, heartbreaking truth that his suicide only has added credence to. While there's no point in justifying his actions, should it have been that big of a surprise?

In retrospect, Cobain's fate was written all over his music - "Aneurysm," "Rape Me," "Blew." Cobain sold millions of albums, but nobody really listened. If we had, Friday would've just been the start of another weekend. The only comfort now is that he left us with four great albums, plenty of memories and a trunkload of grief.

CHEESE OF THE WEEK: FELLATING PAT BURRELL, ONE CHEESY '80s POWER BALLAD AT A TIME

As reported by Team Illadelph, Pat Burrell was granted a final curtain call at CBP on Saturday, and while initial reports focused entirely on the use of Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is", the fact that this monumental testament to every Delaware County prom held in either '85 / '86 is at least tempered by a little Tom Petty. But oh, when Lou Gramm's white soul kicks in, so does my inner girly man. GUSH!

Truth be told, the entire Phillies organization should be ashamed that they tried to top YouTube user TheJMan927's impeccably produced ode to The Bat. Just for a minute, picture this projected high atop the jumbotron...

And just when one's thinking there couldn't possibly be a cheesier melding of Phillies, man-love and video tributology, well...you obviously didn't get this invite in the mail today.

GENUFLECT: ALL HAIL ZAIUS!

RELATED: There is No Fool Like an April Fool (With Sprinkles)

CHANNEL NEVERFAILS

I know what you're thinking...after a weekend spent going on and on and on about just how classic that Steel Panther video is, that today's Channel Neverfails would in fact be just that video. And that's your first mistake of this fine Monday, cochise!

But then again, I did watch as my Hammer shed sweat pregnancy tears over that mighty fine Anvil trailer, and before I can say "smell the glove"...oh, frig...who am I kidding? Roll it, Tonto!

There. Better.

SUBURBAN HYMNS: REMEMBER HAIL

Within the last year, I've beheld two hail storms, and both times I've noted the same, ultrafresh scent in the air, as if Mother Nature just scrubbed the shit out of her atmosphere - or if nothing else, the surrounding plant life.

It's a smell I never experienced in the years spent in South Philly, mostly due to the fact that I can't remember a memorable hail storm during that span, but probably because there was so much more to smell. The majority of it invigorating; a pizza oven here, the Vietnamese bakery over there. Concrete, the neighbors pasta making, the other's exuberant weed toking.

Sure, it was the city, so every now and again the pungent smell of piss, and the sweet odor birthed from the molecular breakdown of alcohol in a stash of emptied bottles. But all of it wonderfully varied, joyously alive.

On the other hand, the suburbs have no smell. Here, it's merely fresh after a hailstorm, and stinky after I fart. Before last weekend's deluge, I hadn't even considered the lack of scent. Now, I contemplate an aromatic sea change, led by buckets of hail, with a cleansing force reminiscent of Indy's fabled ark.

"Don't look at it, Marion. Just keep your eyes shut!"

BECAUSE WE'VE OPTED FOR COMPLETE REPLACEMENT OF OUR LIFETIME WARRANTIES...

...we've recently dusted off our copy of "100,000 Baby Names", which bills itself as "the most complete, fascinating, and helpful name book you can find" - to which, I offer up something fascinating.

Colon. A boy's name. Latin, meaning "he has the beauty of a dove".

Color us contemplative.

F-STOP: WOOK WATCHES THE WATCHMEN, ENJOYS POPCORN MORE

Is there no greater proof of one’s commitment to a spouse than the fact that The Hammer actually agreed to see The Watchmen this weekend? I think not, even when one takes into consideration that the deal was brokered without one party coming clean on the film’s 160-minute length. Off the top, I can think of at least fifteen things she’d rather have been doing as we expended valuable babysitter time, and none involve spandex, bad make-up, wooden performances nor stale popcorn. But more surprising than the omnipresence of blue cock – the fact that The Hammer seemed to fancy the film more than I.

Perhaps it was an appreciation of the omnipresence of blue cock.

Truth be told, I entered with reservations, all of which were proved correct in one way or another as the film ramroded its way into hour #2. It wasn’t horrible, nor disrespectful to its source material. And in retrospect, there are some sequences that have lingered in memory memorably. Yet it’s telling that my current highlights – the origin tale of Dr. Manhattan, the case that cracked Rorschach – are sections where director Zach Snyder actually allowed the work a chance to breathe, a fact that supports the notion that Alan Moore’s classic was never adequately destined for compression.

DIME IN THE JUKEBOX: ALKALINE TRIO

On a morning survey of the holdings in The Manhole, I actually have three Alkaline Trio albums, but truth be told, I can only recall ever listening to three songs. This is the one I played air guitar to more often than not near the turn of the century, and the accompanying video proves shoestring budgets tend to showcase bands at their most approachable. It also captures perfectly the feel of getting lost in a song - be it while on the shitter, in the car, or in the backyard, playing air guitar with friends.

These are the other two tracks I adore, performed by those who have moved past the air guitar, and into the realm of utter awe:

And I quote..."We censored the lyrics because we go to a Catholic School."

Frickin' pussies.

WORLD PREMIERE: DJ KOOL VS. CONGRESS

Jimmy Fallon may have The Roots, but I will always have DJ Kool. Clear your throat, genuflect, turn up the synth, homegirl! A Wookified Video Mash, starring Barack Obama, John McCain and Steven Seagal.

GENUFLECT: IF YOUR PHONE CAN FART, YOU ARE PART OF THE PROBLEM

The expenditure of political viritol in '08 had left me in a rather passive state these last few months, obviously not helped by the fact that (a) "we" won and (b) the oh-so poorly timed break Real Time took right before the election cycle wrapped.

To which nothing gets the pilot light back to the on position quite like Bill Mahr's absolute disdain at our culture.

To which I ask...Bill, does it count if the Snuggie was gifted?

CHANNEL NEVERFAILS: BRING ME THE HEAD OF RICK MORANIS

Because I too often ponder what became of Rick Moranis, promise myself to investigate, then totally forget mere minutes later. In that respect, The Vulture drops some additional knowledge, admirably.

"GUILTY" BECOMES THE FIRST CASUALTY OF SNOW DAY 2009

Today's closing arguments by Team Fumo get pushed a day, meaning this whole thing just might see Easter yet, and, by proxy, the regurgitated vendetta against Councilman DiCicco by one "wascly wabbit".

2007: Pink wabbits were sooooo in!