Here a Love, There a Love, Everywhere a Love....

GAME FOR SOMETHING NEW?

Don't let the same old stuff have a monopoly on your board-game fun.

by Emma Dawson

They don't call 'em board games for nothing. Yes, they're usually played using a brightly colored board, but you also have to be pretty bored to yank one out of the closet and say, "Anyone for a feisty game of Yahtzee?"

Despite their corny reputation, board games are an important staple of family entertainment during the holidays, when relatives with virtually nothing in common are required to spend the evening together. This year, instead of dusting off that old Scrabble board, try riling Uncle Joe by suggesting a new version of an old favorite.  Here's one of them:

Trivial Pursuit

20th-Anniversary Edition

(Hasbro, $30)

You haven't used algebra since 10th grade, but your knowledge of Pac-Man sure comes in handy now and then - especially when you're playing Trivial Pursuit.

The game as you knew it: Players move around a game board, answering trivia questions in six categories (usually People and Places, Entertainment, History, Science, Sports and Wild Card) and collecting little wedges to fit into pie-shaped game pieces.

New and improved: In the Trivial Pursuit 20th-Anniversary Edition, the questions have changed a little. Instead of answering questions about "I Love Lucy," Richard Nixon and German philosophy, players are now tested on their (usually worthless) knowledge of the events of the past two decades - "Survivor," the O.J. Simpson trial, the Thighmaster.

Here's a sample: What "Party of Five" star prompted Mademoiselle reporter Suzan Colon to gush: "She let me feel them, they're real, end of discussion"? (Answer: Jennifer Love Hewitt. To which everyone I was playing with screamed, "Yeah, right!")

Also, the usual cardboard trivia card containers have been replaced by a space-age card dispenser, which looks sort of like a DustBuster. And the game board is round and decorated with spooky-looking ovals instead of pictures of Tiny Tim and the Pentagon.

User comments: This game was fun until my friends and I realized we haven't been paying attention to anything for the last 20 years. But even when we didn't know the answers, the questions usually had some relevance to us. I mean, we've all heard of Tiger Woods and the Beastie Boys, right?

Story: © 2002 The News-Sentinel, a Knight Ridder-owned newspaper. All Rights Reserved.

A HOLIDAY GIFT GUIDE TO WHAT'S HOT THIS YEAR

by Julie Ahn and Ryan Quick
Staff writers

When shopping mall parking lots turn into war scenes, the twinkly lights of decorated homes blur night into day, and Elmo becomes the one-word mantra of small children, it can only mean one thing: the holiday season is here.

With just days until you can tear away at the festive ribbons and reindeer-decorated wrapping paper, our gift guide will help you make sure your gift lives up to it's packaging.

Our list includes the most-wanted toys, like the newest evolution of Elmo ­ as a chicken ­ to gadgets, like a watch merged with a Palm Pilot, to a few of the hottest new clothes and beauty products around.

So get ready to shop because, despite a sluggish economy, retail experts say consumers look like they're ready to spend more than last year.

Return those boring boxer shorts and dull scarfs and get a gift your friends and family actually want.

Bratz Stylin' Salon and Spa, MGA Entertainment, $49.99. With their low riders, pouty lip-glossed lips and platform boots, the Bratz dolls are the figurines for a whole new generation of savvy third-graders. Already a cult favorite with young girls, it has also crossed over as a favorite of celebrity starlets, like Jennifer Love Hewitt, who is reported to be a big fan. This salon, which comes with Dana, the latest Brat, is replete with leopard-printed chairs and miniature mirrors. Accessories, which include real make up, are sold separately.

Story: © 2002 Gazette Newspapers. All Rights Reserved

HOW TO GIVE A GREAT GIFT

byy Karen Rabinovitz

Joey & T boy briefs (for girls)

Low-waisted hip-huggers have been around long enough that they've moved from trend to fashion staple. But for those who aren't fans of G-string cleavage, these boy briefs are a great option. Designed by two of Britney Spears' stylists, these underthings are cut like tightie-whities and have a cute, colorful and thick elastic waistband that looks as wholesome as a waistband can when it's peeking out over your pants.

Celebs who wear them: Heather Locklear, Britney Spears, Estella Warren and Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Story: © 2002 NYP Holdings, Inc. All rights reserved.

Jonathan Gerhart
Gustine football

HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETES OF THE WEEK

Jonathan Gerhart, Gustine football

Gerhart, a senior fullback, rushed for 129 yards on 15 carries, scoring six touchdowns in the Redskins' 52-6 win over Calvary Temple in a Sac-Joaquin Section Division V semifinal Friday night. Gerhart and Gustine will play Central Catholic for the Division V section and state title Friday night.

PARENTS: Bob and Debbie Gerhart

FEELINGS ON THE BIG GAME: "I've waited for this game my whole career, and we've got to come out and run it down their throats."

FAVORITE MOVIE: "'Forrest Gump.'" It's about a nobody that came out of nowhere and was able to get recognition."

IF I GO ON A DATE WITH ONE PERSON: "Jennifer Love Hewitt."

IF I COULD INVITE THREE PEOPLE TO DINNER: "Jesus, Gen. Stonewall Jackson and John Steinbeck."

DREAM CAR: "A midnight blue 1969 Pontiac GTO with a 455 high-output engine."

FAVORITE HOBBIES: "Hunting big game and fishing with my family and friends."

SOMETHING PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME: "A lot of people see me as just a jock, but I'll hang out with anyone."

NOTABLES: Nathan Adams, Calaveras football: Rushed for 190 yards and TD in win over Hughson in D-IV semifinal. ... Jonathan Daly, Turlock football: Caught three passes -- all for touchdowns -- in South Division I semifinal win over Merced.

Mulder, a senior, had 32 kills in two Northern California Regional Division V playoff wins over Marin Academy and Valley Christian.

PARENTS: Ed and Cheryl Mulder

FAVORITE SPORT: I really enjoy playing basketball, but I think volleyball is my favorite. There isn't as much running.

FUTURE PLANS: I want to play volleyball and study business at a college in the west. Where that is, I haven't decided yet.

PREGAME RITUAL: Our team all gets together and sings some uptempo Christian songs like "Amazing Grace."

Lynae Mulder
Ripon Christian volleyball

FAVORITE ATHLETE: J.T. Snow, because he's a good player and really cute.

FAVORITE MOVIE: "10 Things I Hate About You." (That movie was directed by GIL JUNGER who is directing Jennifer Love Hewitt in "IF ONLY")

SOMETHING PEOPLE DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME: I come off as a real tough, but inside I'm a softie.

FAVORITE MUSIC: A lot of country, especially Keith Urban.

NOTABLES: Dallon Williams, Atwater cross country: Finished seventh in the Division I state cross country meet. ... Amanda Moreno, Escalon cross country: Finished 11th in the Division IV state meet.

Story: © 2002 The Modesto Bee. All rights reserved.
Images: Copyright Control. All rights reserved.

'VIEW' FINDER Ling is ditching her day job to become a reporter for National Geographic

CASTING COUCH

Here's who should replace Lisa Ling on ''The View.'' Caroline Kepnes offers ABC producers six choices to fill the talk show's highly-sought twentysomething slot.

Wanted: twentysomething woman to bring a dose of attitude and a modern age philosophy to a daily roundtable dish on politics and culture. Must swoon-with dignity over male celebrities and worship the ground that Barbara Walters walks on. Pays well.

That's right. On Dec. 5, fans of ABC's daytime estrogen couch trip ''The View'' must bid farewell to Gen X ambassador Lisa Ling. Given the show's turnover rate (Anyone remember blondie Debbie Matanoplous?) we figured they could use a little help on the casting couch. Here's who we'd pick.

Sherry Evans You don't know her by name, but this African American, full-bodied sass-factory steals scenes on ABC's ''Less Than Perfect.'' So, if she can outshine boisterous Andy Dick, imagine what she could do to Star ''I'm a lawyer!'' Jones. Granted, Sherry's not fresh out of college, but the fact that she toughed it out as a side player on NBC's ''Emeril'' kind of kicks up her crazyoung factor a notch.

Pink They could get rid of that muzac intro with Babs' voiceover and replace it with ''Lets Get this Party Started.'' Pink would send the attitude-o-meters off the charts. And, she'd bring a refreshing vibe of spontaneity after the excessively professional and mannered Ling. Finally, mugs of coffee would be replaced by 40s of malt liquor.

Kathy Lee Gifford Right now, we all live in fear of Cody's mom's return to pop culture radar. If she joined ''The View,'' we wouldn't have to be scared anymore. And her kids could have cook-offs with Meredith Vieira's tweens. Culinary segments aside, whether or not you like Kathy Lee, you must admit that the girl can gab. And her Nantucket-meets ''tacky-cruise-ship'' sensibility would undoubtedly spice things up.

Jennifer Love Hewitt Don't go bashing your computer. Just think about it. When you look up twentysomething silliness in the dictionary, this Neutrogena touting, Wonder Bra of a wannabe pop star jumps from the page. She would cow tow to Babs in all matters political, turn Meredith green with envy, do a keen job of masking her outrage at Star's waistline, and pretend to understand Joy's jokes. The ladies of ''The View'' would love to hate Love. Bonus: Full time daytime gig = no time for recording albums destined for the $5 bin and picking up laundry with John Mayer.

Robert Evans So the legendary Paramount producer can't bring a twentysomething perspective, but I bet he beds a lot of twentysomethings, and that should count for something, right? This kid stayed in the picture, but I'd like to see the gravel voiced lothario stay in the coffee talk with the likes of quick-witted Joy Behar. And Bob can be depended on to hit on guests and skew every conversation back to his Ali Macgraw-lovin' heyday in the '70s. I'll drink a martini to that.

Story: © 2002 Entertainment Weekly and Time Inc. All rights reserved.
Image: Copyright Control. All rights reserved.

WINTERS OF MY CONTENT

By Greg Davis

I had just started shovelling my driving Sunday evening when he almost took me out.

He almost made me do a full Bobby Orr over him as he flew cross the path and rammed the snow bank at the bottom of the slope - no Stanley Cup ring though for my heroic dive.

"Sorry man," he muttered as he got up and ran past me without bothering a glance while his friends laughed at his and my expense.

No time, man. Gotta get to the hill.

Can't blame him. When you've waited for snow to cover the decent verticals in your area, there's no time to waste.

I stood and watched the boys rush across O'Connell Drive to their sliding spot behind C.C. Loughlin Elementary. There were only three of them, two on Krazy Karpets, and one on that thing with the mini-skis and the steering wheel. I could picture them going up and down the hill, side byside, into each other, over each other.

I was jealous.

Life has no better age than 10, no better time than the first snow, no better ride than a Krazy Karpet, and no better place than Your Hill.

My buddies and I had "our hill" in Port aux Basques located in Grand Bay behind the new elementary school - Dummies Hill. It was dubbed this because only fools would attempt to slide down the steepest decline when it was a sheet of ice and smoother than a pick-up line at a night club. A rather long hill that went on forever (a kid's forever, anyway).

Our hill was pure perfection. Several stories high, shrub trees lining either side, with an incline steep enough to scare you on an icy day, and send you halfway across the open frozen bog. If you really managed to get good speed, straight out into the cove at the bottom on a hard-packed track.

After school, we lived on that hill.

It wasn't a single sport - it was a bunch of them: races down, races back up, individual time trials, carefully judged freestyling off the jumps, distance events (who would slide furthest out onto the field at the bottom, "and no pushing off the snow for a few extra feet at the end, ya cheater!") and full contact suicide runs ("Last guy still on wins!").

We had names for our winter vehicles. There was the Green Machine, the Red Devil of Destruction, Super Slide and the roomy built-for-three, red and yellow bananna-shaped Davis Demolisher, or Hulk Hogan's slide as a couple of my buddies dubbed my ride.

"Whatcha ya gonna do when the Davis Demolisher runs wild on you brotha?" as I flexed my eight-inch pythons prior to a start of a race. If I had said my prayers and eaten my vitamins I might have earned a few more victories.

Of course we also had Krazy Karpets. Has Mankind (the species, not the wrestler) ever come up with anything better than the Krazy Karpet? The way it would perpetually roll itself up into that easy-carrying cylinder, except for the ride down when it was as flat as you could lie, for as long as you could hold on.

On a Karpet, you felt every inch of the hill. Each little bump was a legitimate threat to future procreation. To this day, I bet guys look at their sons or daughters in wonder, and give thanks for the extra-padding in their snow-pants.

Of course, there were advantages. By Grade 6 or so, when the occasional girl would tag along, we'd go doubles. If you sat at the back, and hit a bump just right, you made second base instantly.

I've always loved the Karpet better than those big metal battleship toboggans. Likely because once, under a sea of snowsuits and humanity, my face somehow got lodged under the front-end, where it remained for the duration of the run over a hard crusty snow (insert your mandatory "that explains a lot" thought here).

When we all got up at the bottom, my friends gave me that 'Jennifer Love Hewitt When She Sees The Psycho Killer With The Giant Fishhook Behind Her In The Mirror' look.

Seems I was a dead ringer for Leatherface. My mug had been marked all over in these bizarre inch-long lines, reminiscent of Gerry Cheever's old goalie mask. I still referred to the following days as my awkward mutant phase.

One Christmas, my parents bought me pair of cross-country skis. Since I felt cross-country skiing was only for Norwegians and sadists, and particularly Norwegian sadists, we mostly used them on our hill.

We would build a jump two-thirds down, and then take off from the top, make believing we were Eddie the Eagle (I'm guessing there aren't many kids today pretending they're Britain's beloved Olympic hero). We'd get about a second of hangtime, and then thrust both arms in the air when we nailed the landing.

We gave out more Olympic medals on that hill than in pairs figure skating - no Russian mafia needed around these parts.

Of course, more often than not, we landed like the "Agony of Defeat" guy on the opening of ABC's Wide World of Sports.

These were the winters of my content.

Up and down our hill. Sliding, screaming, scrapping, leaping, tumbling, laughing.

And finally, when it got too dark to see the bottom, and dinner was ready an hour ago, and one mitt was lost somewhere under the snow ... we would do 10 more runs.

Then we would head home, trying to step in the same Cougar boot prints we'd made on the way there, our faces and toes so numb we couldn't feel anything.

Except pure bliss.

Story: © 2002 The Humber Log. All rights reserved.

MAG HAGS: WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE STATE OF
MUSIC JOURNALISM -- HOW TO FIX IT

by Rob Harvilla

"American music magazines suck."

Rolls off the tongue, don't it? These days it's rolling off everyone's. Saunter down the length of a magazine rack and scowl at the teen-pop hoochie starlets, the drooling trend-pigism ("The Strokes! The Hives! The White Stripes!"), the outrageously vapid rock-star puff pieces, the gutless corporate-blowjob CD reviews. No innovation. No passion. No balls. No brains. No heart.

No shit. Is this obvious? Is this fair? Is this mindless whining? Has it really gotten this bad?

If you honestly think so, you've only yourself to blame.

Revolver magazine launched in May 2000, declaring nothing short of a music-mag revolution. It promised intelligence, humor, depth, insight and a sense of history, typified by its first cover subject: Jim Morrison. It kowtowed to the sounds of now (second cover: Fred Durst) but balanced that out with epic biographical overtures on Big Star and the Pixies. It promised to innovate and succeed where old, rusting warhorses (Rolling Stone, Spin) were failing. It guaranteed no dunderheaded starlets on the cover, no fear or mercy in its criticism. Enough depth and archival intelligence to snag diehard rock obsessives, enough pop savvy to finger the pulse of mainstream sheep, enough flash to reel in the casually interested. The best writers. The freshest angles. The wittiest puns. Something for everybody, and everything for anybody. As the cover proclaimed, it was the "The World's Most Wanted Magazine."

This concept lasted five issues.

Two-and-a-half years later, Revolver has evolved into "The World's Loudest Rock Magazine," focusing exclusively on hard rock and nü-metal. For the January/February issue, the worthless, gone-in-60-seconds Slipknot-biting clowns in Mudvayne graced the cover. Porn-star bimbo models writhed on motorcycles or covered an exposed breast with one hand and fingered a Fender jazz bass with the other as part of the "XXX-Mas!" holiday gift guide. And the editor's note featured a photo of the editor-in-chief posing with two additional porn-star bimbo models (one naked, dignified only by a strategically placed Christmas wreath) grabbing for his crotch.

The original Revolver concept didn't sell well enough. This one does. And you know what? It stacks up just fine against the competition. You get the government you deserve. Music journalism follows the same logic.

Do American music magazines suck? Not exactly: That's generalized, sensationalized, oversimplified, cynical, bitchy and mean-spirited. But so's 90 percent of music journalism. And now that there are more music-mag options out there than ever, and now that the mother of them all, Rolling Stone, has a new editor in chief, a new design, a new attitude and a new unofficial slogan ("Run for your lives!"), the time has come to take stock of the rock rag. What's good? What's bad? What's ugly? And what the fuck happened?

The Godfather: The November 14 issue of Rolling Stone -- featuring a mostly naked Christina Aguilera, clad only in knee socks and supine across a red silk sheet, the first "I" of her first name very nearly penetrating her, a guitar she has no idea how to play draped across her bare torso and barely covering her left nipple, an amateurish come-hither glance flashing across her face --represents everything wrong with modern American society not related to terrorism.

Music snobs have beaten Rolling Stone like a gong for years. The mag's 35 years old now and brutally denounced as a culturally irrelevant, out-of-touch dinosaur act reminiscent of the band that shares its name -- except that the Stones still sell out arenas and the Stone still represents the industry gold standard, which explains the resonant terror generated by the Aguilera cover story, in which a coquettish teen idol raves about the piercing between her legs and says a bunch of really dumb shit ("I don't like pretty. Fuck the pretty.")

Old-timers still whining that RS has passed its glory days of Woodstock and Hendrix and Hunter S. Thompson and fearless cultural leadership should shut up, go home and pop in Almost Famous, if it's bright-eyed revisionist nostalgia they're after. It's naïve to hold the mag to a standard that doesn't attract readers or make money anymore. Change was overdue. But when Ed Needham -- a former helmsman for the laddish, loutish men's mag FHM -- signed on as Rolling Stone's new managing editor and de facto creative overlord, the old-timers groaned. Needham talked about shortening the articles. Punching up the 'tude. Jazzing up the graphics. Dialing up a ton of quick-hit sidebars and blurbs and other "points of entry." And ensuring that no one utters the accursed phrase "your father's music magazine."

Ed has succeeded. Rolling Stone is now your eight-year-old brother's music magazine.

Needham's reign kicked into high gear with the September 19 issue, and in some ways it promised business as usual. Lo, it's super-cute more-Cutting-Crew-than-cutting-edge rockers the Vines on the cover, blessed with the headline "ROCK IS BACK!" Good gravy. Within, we got a taste of what the phrase "points of entry" actually means: Every page veritably bursts with headlines and paparazzi photos and graphics and charts and yelping pull quotes and doofy little cartoons and the disembodied floating heads of your favorite rock stars.

Delightful, maybe, but not revolutionary. Nonexistent reader attention spans have forced every major magazine outside of The Economist to embrace this Las Vegas-style visual excess, and the Tiger Beat treatment can only aid the Stone in shaking its rockin'-grandma image. Nonhysterical readers also welcomed Needham's enlargement of the reviews section --101 discs went under the knife (albeit a dull butter knife) within the Vines issue. A no-brainer: Any mag pursuing "official arbiter of taste" status should arbit its taste on everything.

Of course, that didn't fix one of Rolling Stone's most glaring weaknesses: biteless reviews. Critically, the mag's exhaustive but no more opinionated; even a negative two-star write-up spills beer all over itself issuing qualifiers and caveats and kind words designed to soothe publicists just in case LeAnn Rimes' new record turns out to be a hit and a salivating/dunderheaded fashion spread is called for.

Equally disturbing is the "Ooh, Mick, please let us do your laundry" factor -- certain "heritage" artists are more likely to spontaneously combust than endure a discouraging word from Rolling Stone. Thus Bruce Springsteen gets a fawning cover and a once-rare five-star "classic" rating for The Rising, a feat of glad-handing that unfortunately pales in comparison to the five-star slobber treatment RS publisher Jann Wenner himself foisted on Mick Jagger's truly awful solo bomb Goddess in the Doorway last year.

We hope Mick liked your review, Jann. Until you stop caring about his opinion, it's hard to care about yours.

Therefore you can count on Keith Richards' prune-face countenance gracing Rolling Stone's cover from time to time, just as you can count on the utter catastrophe that will befall our nation's collective libido as a result. The flip side to that equation is even more inevitable. The magazine delights in hunting down our society's most attractive and winsome young starlets (Natalie Portman, Kirsten Dunst, Jennifer Love Hewitt) and slapping them on the cover in garish makeup seemingly applied by a drive-thru car wash.

Sex sells, and Rolling Stone will always sell it. But the mag has never looked sexy doing it. And loading another goddamn "Women in Rock" issue with rockin' tight-pants cheesecake shots of Britney Spears and Shakira will only result in high-pitched hoots of derision and Joan Jett's foot up your ass.

But we're used to all that. Instead, media critics intent on savaging Needham's maiden RS voyage savaged the "good ol' boy with a giant boner" strain that instantly infected the mag's writing. Public enemy number one was a story from the Vines issue described on the cover as "Bound, Gagged and Loving It," in which a writer engaged the services of a yuppie business that literally "kidnaps" you and subjects you to all sorts of physical/mental/sexual anguish, the details of which you specify ahead of time. Published responses ranged from amused ("... likely marks the first time the phrase 'big black dildo' has appeared on that page twice") to enraged ("one of the stupidest, most worthless pieces of journalism you'll ever read in a national magazine").

Rolling Stone will always roll starlets through the hoochie-makeup car wash and mindlessly chase musical trends (the Vines indeed) and slap George W. around mercilessly with its consistently biased political coverage. But it's this sort of big-black-dildo-waving prurience that critics fear will characterize the Needham era. But what's truly telling about the infamous kidnapping story is the magazine it really should've appeared in.

The Sneering Contender: "Bound, Gagged and Loving It" undeniably felt like a Maxim piece. Financially, that's a compliment. Maxim is without question the industry success story of the past ten years, a men's-magazine empire that shoots from the hip and aims at the boobs. It's the official magazine for dudes, which means celebrity babes in bikinis on the cover and all manner of guy stuff (sports, beer, gadgets, wise-ass jokes, what-the-hell-is-that-about features and more celebrity babes in bikinis) on the pages within. Testosterone personified. Crass and base as it is, a true master stroke that's cleared the way for a virtually identical spin-off title (Stuff) and -- yes, indeed -- a music mag. Blender's the name, and it's the hottest competition in town.

Two things become immediately apparent when one cracks open Blender. First, it closely resembles, both in design and attitude, the two British mags that most true music snobs now turn to when they get sick of Rolling Stone: Q and Mojo. Second, a mere twelve issues into the game, Blender has had a similar influence on its own American competition. Shorter articles? Smarmy captions? Flashy, almost childlike graphics? Gimmicky features? (Blender recently surveyed "The Most Disastrous Albums of All Time," declaring Mariah Carey's Glitter the winner). Exhaustive review sections? The general feeling that this whole magazine was written and produced during an all-night frat party? If Blender stole its game from Q and Mojo, the regal RoSpin guard is now liberally stealing from it.

It's a wee bit disconcerting. Sure, November's Blender cover story really consists of a salivating/dunderheaded LeAnn Rimes fashion spread. But the "disastrous albums" thing is pretty great, and these clowns are actually serious when they present "33 Things You Should Know About Tori Amos." Factor in the mother of all review sections (240 discs reviewed, including, for no apparent reason, every solo CD John Lennon ever made), and Blender proves it can slap a topless LeAnn Rimes on the cover and still behave as intelligently, creatively and respectably as any of its "professional" competition.

The Maxim/Blender empire allegedly consists of drooling, boob-obsessed, knuckle-dragging jock idiots. Now they've got the big boys running scared. What the hell is going on here?

The Nerds: Perhaps the old guard has gotten too intellectual for its own good. Here's what Spin has to say about the new DMX tune "Fuck Y'All Niggaz": "The fact that we're not playing this every hour on the hour is disturbing. Should be a total no-brainer, except that it's a total no-brainer (not in a good way)."

There's a certain primal delight in writing shit that even you can't understand. Spin occasionally revels in it, with CD reviews that read like philosophical dissertations and features that strive for deep cultural significance ("When the tapestry of alienation becomes the status quo, disaffection merely becomes fashion"). But if you've got the time and inclination to decipher statements such as those, they do cut deeper than Jennifer Love Hewitt whack-off interviews.

Spin does plenty of pandering, listing the 50 greatest metal albums of all time and so forth. (Rolling Stone has recently discovered this "piss off your readers on purpose" trick.) And the mag illustrates the let's all-pass-around-the-same-editorial-ideas concept: Everyone's tried the "advice column hosted by a smart-ass rock star" thing, and everyone's asked the Eddie Vedders of the world to list their favorite albums and prattle on about 'em. But at least Eddie doesn't prattle on about getting his schlong pierced.

Don't look for the word "schlong" to appear in Magnet anytime soon, either. For the elitist indie-rock record-store clerk in all of us, nothing beats the thrill of reading, "It sounds like Elkas grew up listening to April Wine and graduated to Sloan, while Gunning was force-fed a steady diet of the mysterious studio group Klaatu (purported to be the Beatles undercover) before finding his way to the likes of Zumpano and the New Pornos," and understanding, oh, 40 percent of it.

Magnet is designed to make you feel dumb. Clueless. Inferior to your fellow Yo La Tengo-loving man. It specializes these days in exhaustive retrospectives on whole genres -- power pop, shoegaze -- that allow the editors to drop obscure band after obscure band on your feeble ass. The Summer Suns! (Bam!) DMZ! (Thwack!) But it's probably the most prominent American mag not obligated to report on Justin Timberlake, and it's funnier than nerd-bashers give it credit for. First question to Aimee Mann: "You used to record for Epic. As a black man, were you frustrated with how the devils there treated you?"

The Niche Artists: Lord only knows whether Revolver's original aspirations to greatness would've ever panned out, but its rebirth as a party-hearty metal mag suits it just fine. Lord knows the heshers deserve it, and nonheadbangers can flip open an issue, smirk at all the "No, really, I'm totally badass" poses and maybe even learn something -- you feel better as a person when you know that "suicide metal" is an actual genre. Alternative Press (to which the author contributes freelance CD reviews) also emulates Revolver's hard-rock fetish and adds Magnet's exhaustive lust for punk and indie-rock trivia superiority.

Hip-hop heads have a far more elaborate network: Vibe, The Source and XXL serve as rap journalism's Huey, Dewey and Louie -- cute, noisy and essentially interchangeable. Everyone lands the big-deal features with the LL Cool Js and Toni Braxtons and Jay-Zs of the world, but no one really gets much out of 'em. Plow through the interviews in all three mags in quick succession, and it leaves you a bit numb: Everyone's street, nobody's takin' bullshit from anybody, everyone's got something to prove, nobody gives a fuck. (Furthermore, everyone's still riding the Neptunes' nuts like they're the teacups at Disney World.)

Hence, the fun you have is directly proportional to how much rope the interview subject gets. Fat Joe: "My whole life I've called women bitches and hoes. This album, I'll probably still call them bitches and hoes, but I've got some songs defending women who aren't bitches and hoes. That's a first for me."

All three rap mags dish up breezy, stylish reads, but just like their general-interest brethren, pure innovation is in short supply. Take the white-hot "Who Killed Tupac Shakur?" controversy -- every mag on earth runs a reaction to Chuck Philips' September Los Angeles Times stories linking the Notorious B.I.G. to Tupac's murder, but it's a cover-your-ass affair nearly devoid of fresh angles. The formula's depressingly clear: Rehash the Times articles. Deliver the rebuttals and denials from B.I.G.'s camp. Speculate as to the potential strife and violence it could exact on the hip-hop community. And end with Philips' ubiquitous "I stand by my story."

Of every publication that trots this pony out, only Vibe throws in a true screwball -- an independently researched timeline that checks Philips' facts, essentially asking whether Tupac's killers could've mobilized and executed the murder according to the chronology the Times stories established, what with traffic and other contingencies. No, concludes Vibe. Now there's a strong, definitive, independent statement. Unfortunately, it's a rare one.

Further down the niche chain, Urb is 100 issues old now, a hip-hop/dance-music scion pumping through the same nothing-embarrassing-nothing-special vein, though constant anti-rave legislation gives it an easy way to mobilize politically. And CMJ New Music Monthly wisely includes a CD to combat the "what the hell are you talking about?" factor, but otherwise it covers indie rock with an attitude more reactionary than critical -- it's a tip sheet for college-radio programmers who want hot names but not strong opinions. The mag's "Recommended If You Like" review format is oft copied, but even the negative reviews simply teach rather than preach.

The Lemmings: The biggest problem is that everyone's following and copying and emulating and vying for the same advertisers and demographic hot buttons, but no one's trailblazing. CD reviews are virtually indistinguishable from one mag to another -- everyone writes them adequately, but no one writes them well. Newspaper obituaries require more creative thought. Primarily reviews are 100-word blurb jobs: Name the band, toss in a few influences, spotlight a few tracks, launch a few pun-loaded torpedoes if it sucks, wrap it up, collect $25. Read (or write) enough and you'll read right through 'em, until they're practically invisible or might as well be.

Everyone pisses; everyone moans; everyone complains. How can American music mags bitch-slap their readers back into line? Stop sounding like publicists. Ditch the "celebrity rockers and the cars" brand-name-a-thons. Call windbag interview subjects on their bullshit. Piss people off. Innovate. Dig. Write coherently but critically. And have a fucking opinion. Fed-up readers sure do, and for now, the reviews truly read like obituaries.

Story: © 2002 New Times. All rights reserved.

BUBBLEGUM AND POP KORN

By Craig Albrecht
Staff Columnist  

The state of popular music is absolutely appalling. The commodification of music — the increasing equivalency of pop music and Pop Tarts — is an affront to music lovers everywhere.

The state of popular music is absolutely appalling. The commodification of music — the increasing equivalency of pop music and Pop Tarts — is an affront to music lovers everywhere.Consider Smashmouth. I have never been a huge fan of the group, but their arrival on the popular music scene in the late ’90s was encouraging. The hoarse vocals and infectious dirty organ riff of “Walking on the Sun,” the band’s first single, seemed to be a revival of 1960s garage rock like the Seeds and the Mysterians.

But all Smashmouth is good for anymore, it seems, is cover songs for animated movies (“Shrek,” “Ice Age”) and Jennifer Love Hewitt vehicles. Thankfully, now that Hewitt has released her own (surely virtuosic) album, these erstwhile garage rockers might be on their way out.

It is not only Smashmouth. It is MTV’s “total request” canon and its reluctance to take a chance on vanguard bands. It is the incessant news of that guy Lance from NSYNC — and I am utterly ashamed that the media has hammered his name into my memory — riding into space with Russian astronauts. Is this a bad episode of Scooby Doo?

But I have hope for the future of music. And it depends on an obscure and slightly pretentious theory of the music market.

Some music critics have posited that the quality and originality of mainstream music derives to a large extent from the state of the economy. In a thriving economy, corporate monoliths like EMI, Geffen and Warner / Reprise have the confidence to manufacture, package and promote musicians to a national market. This economic theory of music further asserts that the disposable income engendered by fiscal prosperity broadens the music market. People of limited musical literacy may be more inclined to purchase albums during these cycles, particularly if they are marketed well.

Consider a few examples. Prior to his frightening metamorphosis, Michael Jackson was an extraordinarily marketable, commercially impeccable musician. During the same late-’80s period, the boy band pioneers New Kids on the Block capitalized on memorabilia, cartoons and other tie-ins. Of course there were countless brilliant musicians recording music during this period (indeed, many of my favorites), but they garnered negligible mainstream appeal.

Beginning in the prosperous late ’90s, a host of crooning poster boys and cola-pitching pop divas has illustrated a similar trend of high profile if low-quality musicianship.

Dampened economies, in contrast, may transplant the locus of sonic entrepreneurship to regional, independent labels and music markets. When the American economy stumbled during the early ’90s, a single geographic region came to exert an enormous influence on popular music: the Pacific Northwest. The fiscal interpretation of popular music contends that a dour economy partially limits the purchase of music to people with more discriminating tastes. The suggestion is that people who love music will buy music even in a bad economy.

Of course, the economy does not merely affect popular music in terms of demand. Mass discontentment can serve as the very inspiration for the music itself; as Camus wrote, “There’s nothing like insecurity for stimulating the brain.”

The birth of punk rock gives testimony. This genre — a vulgar, elemental species of rock ’n’ roll — sprung from the resentment and malaise of the British working class and poor during the mid-’70s. Bands like the Sex Pistols and the Clash sang of anarchy, violence and revolution. The Pistols recorded what many consider the first “hardcore” song, “Bodies,” a song rife with revolting imagery and gratuitous expletives. It is unlikely that heavy metal and hardcore rap groups would be enjoying such lyrical license were it not for the precedent set by their English forebears.

The dearth of quality, original music on MTV — the bubble gum dispenser of cable television — and nü metal’s monopoly on action movie soundtracks have prompted the emergence of a new group of musically literate people: the obscurati.

The obscurati revel in any opportunity to describe obscure bands in terms of cross-genre characterizations (“It’s surf rock meets post-grunge alt-country.”) and hybridizations of other bands. (“Imagine that Milo from the Descendents sang for an Abba-tinged Superdrag.”) Sadly, I find myself making these statements, as if to affirm my own musical sensibility.

The capacity of record companies to determine what people hear and when and where they hear it, irrespective of musical talent or originality, becomes troublingly clear in the case of Wilco, a country-influenced Midwestern rock quartet. Following a series of albums that garnered critical praise and moderate commercial success, Wilco was dropped from their label, Warner / Reprise, when the tracks they recorded for their new album did not prove sufficiently “commercially viable.”

Eventually the band was signed by Nonesuch Records (ironically, a subsidiary of Warner / Reprise) and “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” was released in early 2002. Wilco’s period of contractual limbo was documented in the film “I am Trying to Break Your Heart.” The album and the film both fared extremely well in, naturally, a foundering economy.

Nobody wants our national economy to suffer, of course. Still, you might find consolation in the thought that diving stocks might just herald the end of formulaic rap-rock, pubescent divas and, I can only hope, Lance.

Craig Albrecht owes virtually everything he knows about music to his brother Barry (thanks, dog). E-mail Craig at craiger@stanford.edu.

Story: © 2002 The Stanford Daily. All Rights Reserved.

The actor who played "Guy in the Toilet" in "The Tuxedo"

From Jewsweek Magazine - December 3, 2002

PERLMUTAR IS A FUNNY NAME

Jewish comedian Perry Perlmutar goes through many permutations.

by Dave Gordon

Stand up comedian and actor Perry Perlmutar is a man of many faces. That might explain why people might not readily recognize him in his various character permutations.

Perlmutar, along with five other comics, recently used humor and levity to bring Jewish and Muslim groups together with the Mideast Optimist Jewish Muslim Comedy troupe. The result was a show starring the six comedians which garnered effusive reviews in The New York Times and the Toronto Sun. The group performed in New Jersey and two shows in Toronto.

In addition to being half of the popular comedy sketch duo Nugmutter, he's a familiar presence on television, having done commercials for CIBStar Choice, Buick, and Molson. "I go to those auditions where they call for a twenty-something white skinny guy," says Perlmutar. He's played a wacky coffee server, a hippie and, of all things, a stand up comedian.

He can be currently seen at Toronto's Second City in Tony and Tina's Wedding, playing Michael Just, the uninvited wild ex-boyfriend of the bride. Donning shades, jean jacket and a huge attitude, Just's antics contribute to the hilarious wedding gone-awry.

From stage to television to film, Perlmutar has recently been accumulating parts in Hollywood films. He acted in select scenes in the recently released movie The Tuxedo, starring Jackie Chan and Jennifer Love Hewitt. "I spoke to Jackie a lot. He tells a lot of stories and he's friendly and super nice," Perlmuar says of Chan. Although, he says if parts of his scene ends up on the cutting room floor, Perlmutar promises he'd replay the scenes in his sketch show but "only if Jackie Chan and Jennifer Love Hewitt come in for scene support."

Perlmutar also plays a frat boy in the soon to be released film Till Death Do Us Part starring Michael Douglas. "Michael came up and said hi, and he came to chat for the scene with us. He's really cool."

Acting was a natural choice for Perlmutar, who never really saw himself pursuing another career path. "My plans in high school were to be either a football player, a musician, or an actor. Being 130 pounds I wasn't really expecting football to work out as a career. I started to take acting seriously five years ago. It turned out to be the only thing people will pay me to do," says the 29-year-old Jew.

As for being a comedian, the humor bug caught him at a very early age. "I'd watch the beginning of the Muppet Show and see Fozzy Bear tell a joke, then I would go into the kitchen and tell the joke to my mom. That was one of my earliest memories of joke-telling and performance."

Perlmutar, who has done stand-up with his sketch duo Nugmutter was nominated for the Tim Sims Encouragement Fund Award in 1999 -- a Canadian award for comedic excellence. All the hard work has paid off, but it comes from constantly honing humor skills.

"A joke isn't truly written until I've done it a few times. I could, out of nowhere, come up with a different ending for a joke, and it works better," says Perlmutar. "It's not that fun in the beginning. It's a lot of work. It's not like people wake up one day and start playing for the NBA. The same thing with acting and being a comedian."

Despite the unpredictable jobs and the precarious nature of being a working actor, Perlmutar loves what he's doing. "I'm a pretty happy guy. I regret nothing; not even the bad choices. For that reason alone, I wouldn't change a thing."

Story: © 2002 Jewsweek Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
Image: © 2002 Perry Perlmutar. All Rights Reserved.