Hamza Get Your Gun OR My Personal Musical

This post is going to piss the hell out of me later and blow my street-cred to Hades (if I had any to begin with). So (deep breath) here it goes.

That stupid little blind, naked kid shot me with one of his arrows and I'm afraid I've lost my edge. It's funny how the most vindictively vicious people (spelled H-A-M-Z-A) can turn into doe-eyed dumkopffs when this happens but, my friends, I've lost my edge ever since it did. I can't even make fun of ugly people anymore (woe is me). The worst thing is now I can understand those big overblown ballads all of a sudden and some of them even *choke* get me teary-eyed (Oh Al Green you poor misunderstood creature).

(Being the geek that I am) I naturally thought of how lucky telepaths (and god) are when it comes to love because they have the benefit of knowing if they're wasting their time or if their paramour actually feels the same. Still, there's nothing I (or in Say What You Want below, Texas) can do short of hiring a private investigator or buying a pair of binoculars and renting a room with a view of mon cheri's window.



I wish I could say love was all pure emotion and PG feelings but then I would be compromising my unflinching integrity (I can't have that now can I?). A lot of it, in my case, has to do with waking up in the morning with a boner (I don't know whether the timing or the physical reaction applies to women or other men for that matter) and a desperate need to reach the person my body then proceeds to cry out for (after certain dextrous ministrations). But instead of boring you with the fine details of how pathetic I've become, I'm going to embed a little song by Mousse T which I'm sure any warm-blooded sentient being can empathize with (I'm sorry frogs and snails. I know you contributed to my genetic make-up but you're exempt).



Never say it's impossible to end the most wishy-washy schlop on an upbeat note. Mousse T's Horny still rocks in 2007!

Fine Wines Aren't Always Aged

There are times in everyone's life when they've felt like what the song below is saying (unless they happen to be one of those annoying people who never do anything wrong. God I hate them!). I just wanted to share this amazing song in the desperate hope that the majority of the world's population is just as fucked up as I am. This was the story of my life last summer and who better to sing it than Amy Winehouse whose voice was probably preserved in a bunker from the 50s while the twin nuclear blasts of big money and over-production reduced most contemporary voices to synth-heavy cacophonies of unparalleled crapitude (if that's not a word, well, then, it should be! So there).

So, Mesdames et Messieurs, the incomparable Amy Winehouse with Rehab (wild applause).

Pleasurable Guilt

I've always prided myself on being musically pretentious but even the most cursory glance at my playlist would prove otherwise. I'm just a 90s boy and no matter how hard we try, we just can't resist the mainstream. Especially when the pop artist in question is Amerie. I've got a weakness for dark chocolate and Korean barbecue and these two delicacies came together and broke the mold when the powers that be came up with Amerie (read the end of that sentence just right and you'll be rewarded with a little jingle of my own creation). Some people might say it's the ultimate vanity to prize, over all others, the features that you possess yourself (yours truly just happens to be mocha-skinned and squinty-eyed) and those people are exactly right. I love myself. With all my heart (To the wunderkinds who thought that was a euphemism for excessive masturbation: I salute you. You are all national treasures. Now get back to working on that cure for cancer).

Take Control of the video below. (The song really launches after the annoying little intro. Don't let it discourage you. The sinfully addictive guitar riff after it is worth the wait)

If You Got A Fifty-Kilo Ass Put Your Hands Up

I may go on and on about stuff I like (and hate) but I felt my blog desperately needed something that really hits close to home. So I'm getting personal with a dedication to all my heavyset homies and monstrous mamis (you've got to have cried at the end of Shallow Hal to be a member. What? You thought we had to be inclusive just because we're fat? Think again). Mostly because I used to be an actual founder member of the tubby-club (Ladies, the operative word here is "used"). Although I might be more underwear model than Chris Farley now that doesn't mean I've forgotten my roots (my thick juicy tubers). To loosely quote one of the most asinine lyrics in the world "don't be fooled by the stones that I've lost, I'm still (I'm still) chubby from the block".

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about healthy lifestyles and all that new age crap but I have to remind all you lovely people that none of that gives anyone the right to hate. It would be too utopian to expect all the schoolyard taunts and behind-the-back sniggering to stop but at least Beautiful South know's what I'm talking about. Perfect 10, below, goes out to all my plus-size players. So, put down the extra-large bag of chips and give this one a listen.

Have Your Cake And Eat It Too

Posting about the American show Friends would be a mortal sin without mentioning Britain's brasher and more intellectual answer to it - Coupling (the circular logic that TV executives operate on forced them to make an American version of this too but trying to watch it is about as enjoyable as trying to tweeze out hairs from your big toe).

There are four main things which are likeable about BBC's Coupling and they are :-

1. Jeff,


2. The inventive dialogue about relationships and sex,


3. Jeff,


4. and the theme song Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

So there's a reason why I'm including Cake's tongue-in-cheek version of this timeless classic below (but no reason why I should be nominated for a Nobel Prize but that doesn't mean that's not going to happen either). Please press the pretty pink play button.

Hello Old Friend

I wanted to be the first to blog about Courteney Cox's new show, Dirt on FX. Matt LeBlanc had his chance with Joey but it turned out to be such a crapfest that the name Joey instantly became a synonym for anything bad and/or unwatchable (e.g:- The TV show Supernatural is SO joey. Or. Jay Leno, that joey bastard!). Matthew Perry went under the radar with Studio 60. I'm still waiting for it to turn into a real cult favorite before watching it (like Arrested Development) but I won't stop the clocks or let a cake rot in the background (never expected a Great Expectations reference didja? No matter how forced or unnecessary to the context). But good old Monica Geller just hit pay dirt (which will be my first and last wordplay with the title of this show).

She made the right decision not bringing in any baggage from Friends (we're still waiting for Jennifer Aniston to get out of character). This show isn't politically correct, it's not warm and fuzzy and it doesn't pretend that the United States of America consists of only good-looking, white heterosexuals who never have sex in front of a camera (and for those of you who are wondering, yes that is Spawn's cape Cox is wearing in the picture and no she isn't anemic, she's actually a vampire!)

So all you extremely unpathetic and sexually fulfilled people out there who are valiantly keeping the faith that six middle-aged men and women will once again sit down at Central Perk for a rousing chorus of Smelly Cat, I'd like to wish you a very happy upside-down-day. Throw a hat on me and call me mad already (I'm on fire with the lit-refs today).

**UPDATE** - Here's a little something for anyone even remotely interested in this show.

Dirt S01E01 - http://d01.megashares.com/?d01=c3d5eb9
Dirt S01E02 - http://d01.megashares.com/?d01=a16fe92

In the immortal words of Christina Aguilera - "Gonna get dirty..".

Vagina Envy

Confusingly provocative title - check (a possible interpretation of which might be that I am planning to be a transsexual. There I said it before anyone else could). However, that's a whole other story. I just wanted to follow up on a comment I made on Athena's blog (I hear she can induce erections in blind 90 year olds) about the bad rep that female artists get (female, not feminine. Prince, Little Richard, Boy George and David Bowie are respected enough). So here's a small list of some contemporary maestras that deserve more attention than they get.

Tori Amos

The grandmammy of them all. She personifies musical mastery. She also uses a L'Oreal exfoliant every morning for that fresh, clean look that teenage girls are supposed to have (enraged pimpley chicks, I feel your pain). A Tori-licious sample of her work below.



Fiona Apple

Beatles...who? That's what you'll think when you check out her cover of Across The Universe I've so generously provided. Fiona was named after her famous apple crumble which won her many national baking awards.



KT Tunstall

A veritable octopus of a musician. Don't understand? Video proof at your service, courtesy of Youtube in the form of a live performance of Black Horse and a Cherry Tree. Incidentally, KT says Victoria knows the Secret to a happy marriage (you know what she's talking about don't you girls?)



Worth a mention: Alanis Morissette, Tracy Bonham...Oh wait instead of me trying to impose my hegemonic will on others, could someone else come up with some more great female artists? (and no Ashlee Simpson and Avril Lavigne do NOT qualify)

In 24 Hours We'll Be Laying Flowers

Sunday, January 07, 2007 -

10:21 AM - 24 is back!! More Jack Bauer. More fast-paced neurotic suspense. Of course, season 6 will be better than all seasons before it and season 7 will trump season 6 and so on and so forth. Right now Jack and co. share the topspot of the pinnacle of my affections with Battlestar Galactica.

10:23 AM - I've got to find the right picture with all the counter-terrorist chutzpah.

11:02 AM - This real-time thing doesn't work as well in real life when you get interrupted in the middle of posting on your blog. I wonder what Jack Bauer does when he has to take a dump or someone messages him on MSN. Anyway watch 24 for the time of your life. Get it? Time? Comedy thy name is Hamzah.

Girls & Their Dreams

I watched Dreamgirls this week and damn me to hell but I liked it. I mean Chicago was annoying and managed to make Catherine Zeta Jones look like a man (they should show Martin Scorsese how to work that black magic on Leonardo Di Caprio) and Moulin Rouge was just plain scary at times (the thought of 40 year old whores being the norm in Paris was too much to bear. French pimps should have more rigorous hiring standards).

But try as I might I couldn't hate this musical. So there's no denying it. I must be gay (I apologize to all the families of women all around the world who slit their throats when they saw this). Still can't seem to think about buttfucking or getting poked by a dude without throwing up but that's the necessary next step. I'll have to find a way to get it done. Maybe pass out drunk on Santa Monica Blvd and wake up to find myself sodomized. That's relatively less nauseating. But wait Beyonce' was in it! Oh stop reaching Hamza you know you were actually in it for the scene where Eddie Murphy dropped his pants. Now you know the real reason why you watched Shrek three times.

Watch trailer below. Warning: Might cause irrepressible homosexuality.

Like They Did In Babylon

The first thing 2007 has given me is writer's block (bad year! Naughty, naughty!). The New Year's eve bash and the fact that I had my morning-after experience at 5 pm today might have something to do with it (although its just a theory). So I've been medicating myself with music such as Madeleine Peyroux's version of Leonard Cohen's Dance Me To the End of Love (listen to it below please, so you can all go ga-ga over how mature and sophisticated my musical taste is for my age).



Although I felt obliged to mention that prolific but gloomy Cohen wrote this beautiful piece of art he might as well just strike his name off the record and hand it to Peyroux. No offense to all you originalists but this is a woman who can sing in perfect French and, at the tender age of 32, sound like jazz greats such as Billie Holiday in their prime. This song is hers. Listen to Cohen's version and compare if you don't believe me.

Ah music. It's my crack. Some of you may laugh at this comparison but rock & roll, rap and even tame old Jazz have been outlawed in their time and consequently forced underground. So by relation drugs might not be all that bad (I can already see the invitations to speak at seminars pouring in). Maybe Amsterdam and Rastafarianism have got it right.

By Jove, eureka and gadzooks! I've just decided on New Year resolution number one - get dreadlocks and move to the Netherlands!