Top Ten People I DO NOT TRUST

If you're like me, you have a knack for assigning unflattering, negative qualities to complete strangers. You can't always explain it, and your friends (all 2 of them) can't understand, but somehow, you just know it: that guy across the street is going to fuck you over. It's like having a spider-sense, except instead of acquiring it through the bite of a radioactive spider, it's fueled by paranoid and irrational fear that stems from years of childhood trauma. Join me!

Top Ten People I DO NOT TRUST

10. Robert Kiyosaki

Robert Kiyosaki is the author of the bestselling motivational book Rich Dad, Poor Dad, which tells the story of his two fathers (haha);"Poor Dad," his biological father, and "Rich Dad," the stage name for the guy "Poor Dad" met in a bar. According to the book, Kiyosaki's father was a hardworking man who ended up having very little net worth, whereas "Rich Dad" was supposedly his friend's successful and wealthy dad, a man that Kiyosaki decided, at a very young age, to emulate. Take that, regular dad.

As a rule, I simply do not trust any financial guru in general, the exception to the rule being Suze Orman, because she reminds me of Ellen. However, with Kiyosaki, my bullshit meter is on red alert. It's not the fact that he's Asian, or looks Asian, or whatever (if you were thinking that, you're racist, not me. I know he's Hawaiian), it's just who he is and what he stands for in general; the exact same copied and pasted smile, the suit, and the fact that his forte is money. He's a bestselling author, and statically not everyone that bought his book is rich. There's no way his methods can work for everyone on the planet, and on a semi-related note, I don't think the global economy could handle everyone being rich and successful. That's just way too optimistic for me. There has to be poor people, right? So I guess the question I'm asking is: Why does Robert Kiyosaki hate the needy? Does it have to do with something "Poor Dad" did to him as a child?

While my intense distrust for Kiyosaki may come across as irrational, my instincts were, unsurprisingly, validated by a bunch of people I've never fucking heard of.

9. John W. Scherer ALIAS: "Video Professor"
Remember him? He's the guy that gives away the free computer learning lessons!

I know what you're thinking, because I have a freak talent that allows me to see into your brain: "But here's a guy whose trying to help some of us, perhaps specifically the elderly or the mentally challenged, understand technology, and after all, knowledge is power!"

Correct, which makes the Video Professor™ a very powerful man indeed. He is not to be trusted. Furthermore, never, ever trust any product given to you for free. Remember all those free AOL CDs? They were everywhere-at the grocery store, at the post office, at Planned Parenthood, at church-and proved as inescapable as the Bubonic Plague, not to mention about as useful. Do you or anyone you know still use AOL? No. If you said yes, you're lying to me, just to spite me. I can tell. I can read your mind, remember? Fuck you.

Watch this Video Professor™ ad. You'll notice that he quickly adds the disclaimer that he's not guaranteeing you'll get rich. He's doing this to gain your trust, because he KNOWS you're thinking "bullshit this guy isn't trying to fuck me in the ass eight ways from Sunday." Plus, his company offers way too many different programs for me to believe they do one correctly. He has to make up money somehow, so don't give me that "free" baloney; there has to be a catch involving a vital organ or indentured servitude. The icing on the cake is when he says "try my product," like he's begging you. What he meant to say is "For the love of God, try my product. I'll do anything for your money." I can see it in his eyes.

8. Samuel Howitz a.k.a. Shemp Howard

The dishonest eyes, the slicked back hair, the penchant for tomfoolery: it has to be Shemp, a man so thoroughly capable of evil and so completely hated that Curly had to have a stroke for anyone to want him around again. Not to mention he was once voted the Ugliest Man in Hollywood, and as we all know, ugly folk can not be trusted under any circumstances, but especially when asking for directions.

7. My Neighbors

As a precaution, I distrust anyone in my immediate vicinity, and you can't get more immediate on a more regular basis than your neighbors. A suburban block is close quarters, and in a society increasingly divided into the haves and the have nots, life is a battle for resources and commodities where your only chance of survival is to attack the competition like a bloodthirsty cannibal. Your neighbors are your biggest threats, and what's worse, the less you see them, the worse it is. That neighbor on your block that you never see, whose car is always in front of the house but the doors and windows are seemingly welded shut? Don't be fooled-that house is a stronghold of Willy Wonka proportions. I once had a neighbor who tried to be all nice and shit, and he ended up being a pedophile. I saved myself years of denial and counseling by just writing him off as an asshole from the start.

6. That Guy Who Says You Can Trust Him

Whenever I ask someone to do me a favor and they tell me I can trust them, I immediately stop trusting them, though it's especially disturbing when I haven't asked them to do anything at all. I trust these people as far as I can throw them, which is not far on account of a degenerative muscle disease. If you were really my friend, you'd hide these substances in a body cavity at the airport.

The Guy Who Says You Can Trust Him always comes across as friendly and unassuming, and often appears ready and willing to help, but did you know many murders are committed by complete strangers? It's true, because somebody I know told me once.

5. Adolf Hitler

OK, I know it seems like an obvious choice, but remember that back in the day, Hitler was the shit. EVERYBODY thought he was cool. Not me. I never thought Hitler was cool.

Look at him, but try to forget about the Holocaust and basically world history in general for a second. Does he come across as anyone you can even remotely trust? I wouldn't trust Hitler doing a crossword puzzle, let alone running a country. He dropped out of art school and killed himself, just like Van Gogh.

So nice try Hitler, but you're going to have get up pretty early in the morning and also be born approximately 50 years later to pull one over on me. Can you believe somebody out there called him "uncle" or something? That's fucked up. "Uncle Hitler."

4. Matthew Lesko

Holy FUCK! Free money that the government is just hiding??? Sign me up!

That's right, it's Matthew Lesko, the crazy guy in the Riddler suit who promotes his phonebook sized tomes of "free" money programs and grants. He seems friendly enough, and free shit is good, right? Wrong.

Lesko is the classic case of the guy who overcompensates in one area because he is seriously lacking in another, which in this case is what he's advertising. Like I said before, the word "free" is an instant red flag. Most "free" things in life come with a catch, while others are things you don't want, like terminal illnesses, plagues of locusts, and clothes for Christmas. So when the words "free" and "money" are in the same sentence, you can bet my bullshit meter is at DEFCON 5. Observe.

If there's one thing everybody should know about advertising, it's that the more aggressive it is, the less you can trust it. Watch this ad for Lesko's book 1001 Best Free Stuff, then take a pregnancy test, because the bullshit that is streaming from it is fucking potent. Did you catch Lesko saying you don't even need to be a citizen? 10 grand to work on your pointless invention? Free horses?!? Did he seriously just say that? Give me a fucking break. The best part is when he says "If this was a lot of bullshit, I'd be outta business long ago!" which does less to validate his business model and more to confirm that America is filled with stupid, stupid, stupid people, as if that was a surprise.

If that ad didn't persuade you to ignore Lesko, you could always read this, this, this, this, or this. If you're still not convinced, then by all means, enjoy your food stamps.

3. People in Cults

Remember, never, under any circumstances or in any situation, should you take advice from someone in a cult. It's time honored, handy advice that I follow every day of my life. When someone asks if you want to be in a cult, tell them to kill themselves. You will both pause from your daily routines to laugh at the inevitable. The top three most dangerous cults in America are Major World Religions, the Westburo Baptist Church, and Detroit Lions fans.

2. Richard Milhous Nixon a.k.a. "Tricky Dick"

This one is a no brainer. First off, I never trust anyone whose first name is Tricky, so if you think I trust Richard Nixon, you are dead wrong. Nixon is possibly the only president America has ever had that could have just as easily passed as a used car salesman, and like them and their ilk, is a master in the art of assholery. Nixon wouldn't just sell you a lemon, he'd hide a body in the trunk and then stick a pipebomb under the whole shebang, all with a straight face. Nixon would do your mom and make you watch. Nixon would kidnap your dog and use it as a negotiation tool for procuring she-male pornography for J. Edgar Hoover. If you think I'm joking, well OK, YOU get fucked by Richard Nixon, because it's NOT gonna be me.

1. A Three Way Sausage Train Tie Between Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, and Bill O'Reilly.



Jesus Fucking Christ I hate these guys. Don't even TRY to fucking tell me these guys can be trusted. Fuck that noise. The combined douchebaggery of these three newts form a Lament Configuration of bullshit. Just LOOK at them. Beck looks like Toad from X-Men, while Hannity appears to be constipated with evil. Bill appears to have gotten his loofah confused with his falafel. Goddammit I hate them. If you did something bad to them, I promise I won't tell anybody. There's not much else I can say. I'm going to go sit in my garage with the car running.

Runner-Up: Rylan Getzalf

Sometimes, when I watch sports, I find myself pretending that the other players are the bad guys, and forget that they have wives and children. Ryan Getzalf, however, has neither; he is hellspawn. He was created with the blood of virgins and children, and his soul is comprised of the carcasses of murdered clowns. He hates birthday cake, toys, and Super Mario. His best friend is a serial killer. His pastimes include stealing old ladies' medication, mutilating puppies, and reading manga.

Honorable Mention: Everybody. Including Suze Orman.

Where is Harumi?? The Search for the Lost Psychedelic Troubador─Part 1: Hello

New York, 1967. Tom Wilson, man behind the mixing desk for such legendary artists as Bob Dylan, Frank Zappa, The Velvet Underground, and Simon and Garfunkel, has persuaded Verve Records to sign and fund his newest project for distribution on their Forecast imprint. Unlike the other acts that Wilson helped shape into the defining sounds of an era, this artist will barely make a mark on history. His name is Harumi, he's from Japan, and he creates a psychedelic pop album that would eventually be heralded as everything from lost classic to hopelessly frazzled to Holy Grail among squares and psych-heads decades later, but not before he manages to completely disappear from the music industry and into the void of complete and total obscurity.

There is very little known about the man named Harumi, if that's even his real name (and it's debatable, as "Harumi" has female connotations in Japanese). Virtually every source-every blog, every website-has the exact same information on him: He came from Japan to New York to record an album, and disappeared. Did he remain in America to take part in the flower power movement? Could he have returned to Japan, sealing the fate on his obscurity by becoming a salaryman? Presumably, nobody outside his family knows. He could be anywhere in the world. He could be dead.

The actual album itself only adds to the mystery. Recorded between 1967 and 1968, it was a product of its time: a psychedelic gem released at the height and in the heyday of the genre's popularity and ubiquity. A double LP with a gatefold sleeve, its richly colored artwork (courtesy of "Sherri Berri") stands out even considering the acid-and-sun soaked milieu of the time. Inside, though, there is little information regarding its musicians. Harumi does indeed seem to be the singer's name (as evidenced by the strange side story written on the back end of the sleeve), but aside from the usual professional credits such as Producer (Tom Wilson), Arranger (Larry Fallon, Harvey Vinson, and Harumi), and Engineer (Val Valentin), there is nothing regarding who played the actual music.

Which, of course, is the most mysterious and intriguing part of all, akin to coming to the center of a maze only to find a completed puzzle with the center piece missing, nowhere to be found. Opener "Talk About It" sounds like Sgt. Pepper-era Beatles trying to play classic Motown as Harumi searches for his mind instead of his girl. "First Impressions" switches between spidery guitar lines and blaring horn calls. The gently trippy "Don't Know What I'm Gonna Do" (apparently known as "Love Song" on the original album sleeve) adds sweet strings and subtle vibraphone (there's tons of both on the record) to an already irresistible "La la la laa" refrain. Acidic hippie anthem "Hello" was sampled by hip hopper Edan on his Beauty and the Beat album and "Sugar in Your Tea" has a great drumbeat and phased vocals (One of Wilson's favorite tricks on the album, there's liberal amounts of phase everywhere), ending with an almost holy organ solo. "Caravan" (once again seemingly under a different title on the original sleeve, as "I Took a Ride (in Your Caravan))" has got some smooth guitar lines and prominent organ following its slow, heavily phased intro. "Hunters of Heaven" brings back the string and horn sections, rushing and sudden, and features spooky echoing vocals in the middle. "Hurry Up Now" and "What a Day For Me" are both laid back jams, the former with a vibraphone solo towards the end and the latter a thinly veiled tribute to a day trip on acid; our hero even seems to forget a line or two. Rounding out the first LP is "We Love," an idealistic semi raga, and "Fire by the River," another great organ and guitar tune with a catchy, wordless chorus.

While the first LP is all accessible, colorful pop, the second disc consists of only two songs, each a side long. The first, "Twice Told Tales of the Pomegranate Forest," is a strange meditative piece that consists of Harumi and "Rosko" (by some accounts Wilson himself, by others a prominent New York DJ) engaging in what would be a stretch to call a conversation. Harumi is almost certainly out of his mind (you can tell by his giggles) while Rosko/Wilson/whoever is completely trapped inside his (you can tell by his woah-dude narrative). Beyond that, there is a the constant beat of a tabla and the wandering notes of a koto, a vibraphone, and possibly a cello. Atmosphere is everything for the track, and it's perfect for a late night listen. The other song is "Samurai Memories," a full out acid jam where Wilson turns a blind eye to the proceedings and lets anything go, even spoken appearances from Harumi's parents and sister. Both tracks are quite long and usually warrant overlooking in favor of the great pop songs, but both are worth it and make for a great complete listen in context with the rest of the album.

Harumi isn't perfect, but in its imperfections it creates a certain charm and allure completely unique to itself. Harumi sounds like Your Friendly Neighborhood Acid-Head (though psychedelic blogger/uberenthusiast Dr. Schluss likened him to "a stoned cosmonaut," which actually seems to work pretty well as a compliment, I guess) and the album itself plays out as such; innocent rock, folk, or soul filtered through the lysergic brain of a Japanese expatriate and the adventurous producer willing to capture it all on tape.

Harumi does deserve the praise and cult following its gathered over the years, and the title of "lost classic" is well earned. In fact, if it hadn't been for Fallout Records, it might truly be lost; copies of the original double LP are rare and go for upwards of 50 dollars, and that's considering someone is even willing to part with their treasure. As we'll see, though, Fallout was deserving of its name, and in bringing it back, they ultimately only contributed to the murkiness surrounding the album.

And the search hasn't even begun...

Merriweather Post Pavilion

To write any more about Animal Collective's newest album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, would almost seem like a complete waste given the dozens of reviews already out there, but there's something about the record that draws you into it; you can't help but feel so excited, exuberant, and exhausted by the albums space-age Beach Boys harmonies and bassy, cyclical beats that you are left little in the way of recourse except to write about it on an weblog that less than a dozen people will read. The record is so infectious and inviting that it's almost impossible not to grab the nearest friend and twirl around the stereo despite the fact that they may have told you, like, a million times that Animal Collective just isn't their thing, man.

Accessibility, then, has always been the central issue of Animal Collective. With each album, they progressively become easier to stomach to the newcomer, evolving from loose, noisy freak folk (I use the term disparagingly) to tighter, more electronic centered pop. Many reviews make the case that Merriweather is the most immediate and accessible album from the group to date, and while it might never be easy to convince your buddy that this one is totally different from the one where they bang on pots and pans and yell into the microphone while doing handstands for an hour, the album is admittedly very poppish, and possibly their most unabashedly at that: case in point, the lovely, shining, grooving, perfect ode to domesticity "My Girls"- maybe the best thing they've ever done-is as addicting and instant as anything that's come out in the last few years while still managing to make the case that perhaps being a dad and husband is cool after all. It's the kind of song that only Animal Collective could have done, its brilliant (sampled?) synth arpeggios, harmonized vocals (they've everywhere on this record) and potent bass bursts spinning around lyrics that recall the love-and-relationship centered Feels with perhaps a dash of John Lennon circa Double Fantasy if Sean had been born a girl and everything had worked out.

Many of the songs are built around repeating drones and pulses, which lends it a little less variety on a song by song basis than last year's Strawberry Jam, but electronics manipulator and fellow member Geologist manages to create sounds so textured they're nearly tangible, physical things. "Bluish" has a bubbling backbeat with piano lines that somehow pull themselves above the surface while "Lion in a Coma" (in)famously resurrects the jaw harp and didgeridoo. "Daily Routine"'s quick synths recall Jam's "#1" and "Summertime Clothes" is keep aloft by its percussion and likable chorus. Opener "In the Flowers" starts off deceptively quiet before exploding into a mash of voice and sounds. Cheeky buggers.

Still, despite the increasingly pop-oriented leanings, it's still up for debate as to whether or not Merriweather Post Pavilion is Animal Collective's most accessible record, which leads me to my only complaint: the sounds, while undeniably fantastic, can be somewhat repetitive. When they work (see "My Girls" or "Bluish"), they work, and do so in such a way that leaves you reaching for the previous track button on the stereo or media player, sometimes before the song is even over. When they don't quite click, it's noticeable, but forgivable. There are times when the band might stick with an idea for too long (I'm looking at you "Brother Sport." Why couldn't we get more of that intro hook???) without allowing enough variation. Perhaps I can learn to love it.

Perhaps we all might have to. After all, this might be the future of pop music. While some detractors ("Their old stuff was way better") might complain that this just isn't the same band who did Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished or Danse Manatee or even Sung Tongs or Feels, they have to realize that this band is evolving and not looking back. Is this the future of pop? I'm not optimistic enough to give mainstream music that much credit. Will Merriweather Post Pavilion elevate itself to a decade-defining album next to Kid A or...well...it's too soon to say, isn't it? The only thing that's certain these days is the present, and presently we've been presented with a pleasing pop album that some are saying is the album of the still young year.

Ah, but there I go again, looking forward when I should be concentrating on the now. Let's worry about the future when we get there.

The Plague of the Zombies

John Gilling's The Plague of the Zombies, a product of the influential Hammer studio, is probably one of the more overlooked films both within the zombie genre itself and when placed next to its Hammer contemporaries, for whom this was their first and only zombie outing.

Released in 1966, two years before Romero's genre-redefining Night of the Living Dead (more on that later), Plague is the other 1960's zombie movie, was nonetheless often in the shadow of Romero's film despite being a strong picture in its own right. One reason for this, I suspect, was probably due to the fact that Plague was missing key Hammer actors Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee, whose names are synonymous with a Hammer bill.

Furthermore, the zombie film in general was largely being ignored. The genre had stayed true to its voodoo roots for the most part from 1932's White Zombie on (though there were some exceptions) onwards, and with the ushering in of the atomic age and the Cold War and fears of Communism both home and abroad hot on its heels, the zombie of voodoo lore just wasn't frightening anymore. Moreover, vampire (particularly Dracula) films were more in at the time (the aforementioned duo of Cushing and Lee starred in many of the Hammer Dracula pictures), and despire Plague's double billing with Dracula: Prince of Darkness, it somehow slipped through the cracks of time.

While it sticks to the old school roots of voodoo magic, Plague has some unique touches that make it well worth the time. As opposed to many zombie films that were set in Haiti or Africa, Plague takes place in a Cornish town in England, where it mixes the best of both worlds: voodoo dolls and zombie rituals combine with the ghostly, empty moors of the English countryside. While not as unforgiving and socially relevant as Romero's film two years later, The Plague of the Zombies is nonetheless a strong entry in the genre, powered by good-to-great performances all around and a neat dream sequence where the dead rise from their graves. It's a real shame then that Hammer never made another zombie film; as the genre began to gain steam and reach a fever pitch in the 70's and 80's, Hammer could have given the Italian gore maestros a run for their money.

Buy it here, here, here or here.