Thighs Wide Shut

Bare with Peabs, it’s been awhile. Obvs, you’ve missed me.

My third consecutive year in attendance, I had learned from past experiences in order to best the previous year’s trip. So far, so good. In 2004, while battling the heat and subsequent hallucinogens, I survived with many a battle scar, poised for the next year with the knowledge that Peabs would fucking own Indio. Schmobvs, I did, and in 2005 myself and my merry band of misfits (Glenn Danzig and Rodney Roo included!) managed to top 2004 – a year that included my favorite all time band, no less. So how could I possibly manage to make 2006 the best evs? Simply put – I’m fucking amazing and everything I do should be envied and cherished and scripted permanently as though it were a fucking relig. Lick it.

So here it goes, my recap of year three – 2006. Yet another amazing year, only to be followed with many more. Dude jones.

Day One (Thursday, April 27)
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I had played a show the night before (I’m a musical prodigy, suck my fucking D™, you effing momo cockring), so Peabs was a tad hungover at work the day I was to leave for CA. Being a superhero with a liver only comparable to that of Mookie Wilson after a week-long binge of scotch and hot flaming gay buttsex, my sheer excitement and superhuman powers got me through the morning until noon, when I was to leave for the airport. It also helped that on my morning drive into the office that I mainlined some Chyna Phillips into Euphrates, my left testicle. Ain’t nothing says “Good morning, Peabs” like a needle fulla smack in your fucking gargantuan D™. Bovs. Oh please, don’t act like you’ve never shot horse into your genny-wennies before hitting the place of employment. Oh, you haven’t? Then kindly take my Uncle Festicles in between your lippy-poos and suckly-duckly on ’em like they was a newborn duckling guzzy-wuzzling Cold Duck with Tom and Huck, you effing handjob motherfucking assbob. Mars.

Arrived in Ontario, CA, after many pre-flight drinks with Doc and Coz and proceeded to meet Agent Jack Bauer in the men’s bathroom for a fancy dinner of tossed salad with fat-free spedunkadunk dressing; filled me up quite nicely and not unlike my fat cockadoodledoo filling up your Shaq-Diesel stankonia with a steady as she goes stream of Premium ooh-jah. Boo-jah boo, Bodney Sue!!! Anyhoots, Palm Springs was in our sights for the following morning, so we opted to get some shuteye. And by shuteye, Peabs really means meth-fueled threesome with a box of Krispie Kremes and a copy of King Missle‘s “Happy Hour”. She mars Dick Smothered all over your motherfuckin’ druthers, Peaches! Regalia en this! BOW!!!!!!!!!

Day Two (Friday, April 28)
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As if you didn’t already know, Peabs is fucking loaded. What with all the philanthropy, drug-dealing and supermodeling yours motherfucking truly has done throughout the years, this should come as no surprise to thee. So it was decided that myself and my procol harum would blow whiter shades of Yo-Yo Ma in a private condo – owned by two gay dudes. Best.

Now, normally I don’t jump to any conclusions regarding ones sexuality, and by no means do I chastise anyone for their particular persuasion. Look at Peabs for instance. I’ll buttfuck just about anything (and I have; I’m looking your way, Divine!) if I’m feeling Glenn Miller about your snatchakins. Be that as it may, I prefer to rent houses/condos from gay men. Why? They’re fucking neater than my morning glass of scotch. Plus they typically stock their place full of crystal meth and Crystal Gayle records. Ratzo!!!

You can pretty much guess how I spent the rest of the day. And yes that includes a group singalong of “Too Many Lovers” and tongue-jacking the shitbox of the poolboy, Hector. Mmmmmmm, Mexican ass. Makes me wanna fist Cesar Chavez with a buckle full of table grapes and a head full of bad memories. Obvs.

Day Three (Saturday, April 29 – Festival Day 1)
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I had been up all night freebasing a hybrid of Snap, Crackle and Pop, wango tango mangos and a vial of Tsitsi Dangarembga‘s flappityfloofloo, so I elected to treat my friends to a morning flex before we were to head to the Polo Grounds in Indio.

Most people eat breakfast. Not us (especially me, robvs). I chopped up a kilo of mannitol and sodium bicarbonate and we collectively blew eight-ball sized rails off of my rippling Abby Hoffmans in preparation for the long, hot day ahead.

Peabs has done enough babbling. On with the actual review of the performances:

First act we caught was a solo, acoustic performance of Rob Dickinson, formerly of the late, great Catherine Wheel. His new album is inconsistent but he managed to play the three best tracks off of said album, along with old Cat Wheel faves “Crank” and “Black Metallic.” Hearing “Crank” made me a little frisky-wisky, so I excused myself and used my VIP privileges to get backstage and hunt down the singer of White Rose Movement (who we planned to catch next). I take full blame as to why their performance was a little “off.” And by “off”, I mean this brosnan was so cranked out of his Dr. Mindbender that he couldn’t even step up into the micodin. Fucking lightweight. Mars.

Moved on to catch the Walkmen on the main stage. Peabs had seen them before in a club setting and it was far better. Would’ve been much better in a tent, or if I had been less agitating and itchy from all of the effing speed in my system of a down. Duh.

From there we hit the beer tent, originally planning to purchase a frozen lemonade for bovs reasons. Alas, their marketing was slightly deceptive and we chose to slam one or twelve Hennies and check out ‘hard-on-of-the-week’ Wolfmother. Too many people crowded the tent so Peabs and Coz hung out stage left, dancing like effing Mike Gordon wearing a granola strap-on and fucking the filthy Moe-Moe anus of a hippie hippie shamrock shake. Spread your panic wide! MUHHHH!!!! Anyway, for those of you who haven’t seen Dr. William H. Cosby and myself dance, I highly suggest scheduling an appointment with a box of Kleenex™ and a mug of cobalt and ferric chloride and we’d be glad to give you a private, discreet session (read: I’ll jerk off in your face and clobber your skull with a copy of Men’s Fitness). Robvs.

All that dancing made us want to check out the Sahara Tent, where the electronic acts were performing. Joey Betram was DJing, so Cosby and I popped a half a jar and rubbed our respective Lester Bangs all over the flopp
y-joe joe tees of the super-cougars desperately trying to relive the days of yore at Studio 54. The E must’ve been laced with some potent Cialis®, because I had a Pinnochio rockin’ the size of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, causing yours truly to uncontrollably masturbate for all to watch in wonder and amazement. You’d have been proud, Peter North!! I knocked over an unsuspecting slooty-sloot with a moneyshot that hit her square in between her eyes. Call me Isaac Fucking Newton and I’ll shit in your mouth and call you Sierra Madre. I’m a treasure.

Speaking of “shitting in your mouth,” we then moved on to catch some of Animal Collective. Umm, yeah. I’d rather watch Sophocles spanktropita his cucumber sauce all over my gyro appendages and feast on my lamb-limbs like a platypus on blotter acid.

From there we checked out Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah!, who were actually quite good. Helps when your name forces the audience to, well, clap their hands and say yeah. Coz actually Jacked Off His Kids and Said “Flazzum,” which is pretty much exactly the same thing. Hogsviously.

Last minute addition Kanye Best Ever was next, as well as My Morning Jacket. Luckily they were on the two parallel outdoor stages. And what separates them? Yep, the aforementioned beer tent. Doc, Coz and yours effing truly made our way to the alcoholic oasis and started pounding beers, shmears and bloody hymens. We also learned that if you stand in the appropriate spot you can hear each act on their respective stage equally. With a combo of “Jesus Walks” in one ear, “Off the Record” in the other ear, and gallons of dutch bovness in your Liv Tyler and Injuns, the result sounds a bit like hot man-on-man copulation between Liberace and Halston. Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sigur Rós, a huge mchugerson favorite of mine, was next and I found myself to be the only one able to sing along. Why? Because I’m brilliant and actually created the Icelandic language. Duhvs. Dude, shmeariously – just fucking lick it.

On to the Gobi Tent to catch the last few songs of hippie wacko Devendra Banhart. Brosnan smokes a lot of pot; all I can really say. Followed that up with a taste of Cat Power, which was as yummy as being face down in Indira Gandhi‘s vaggie-vag.

Depeche Mode was next and they were effing tigs shats to the boombies, pardon Dave Gahan‘s attempt at showing me up for best body in Indio. Shmears. Get back on the smacky-wacky and then maybe we can talk about whose ‘ceps are more mantastic. Schmozzle.

It was at this point in which I received a text from myself reminding me that Coz and I were going on in the Sahara Tent promptly at 11. Few know this, but Peabs and Bill Cosby had been creating phenomenal disco-techno for the last name under the monicker Daft Punk, and pretending to be French robots. Robvs.

Needless to say, we were simply amazing. Perhaps it was the speedballs we snorted before going on, but I’d go so far to say as we were the highlight of everyone’s weekend. Duh, that’s about as bovious as Peabs is endearingly obnoxious and self-referencing. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. Peabs is pretty. BOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Day Four (April 30 – Festival Day 2)
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After an overall bovsworthy day one, it was going to be difficult for day two to compare. In preparation, Peabs attempted to sleep for the first time since 1997. It didn’t work. Coz thought it would be funny to replace my Soma® with asparagus, fried beet ooh-jah booj and special K and I found myself flipping out ten kinds of Shasta McNasty. It was only comparable to a gerbilized caramel blumpkin and slice of pumpy-wumpkin monkey-dunk! Isn’t that right, Coz?

“Y’seeeee, youuuuuu’ve gots to know that Rodney Roo flizzum-flazzumed the chism-chasm-jism-jazzum puddy-wuddin’ cuz Coz is bovs and the Rascally Wabbit is Dizzie and fizzy like the Honky Tonk Man!! Bozzle!!!!!!!!!!!”

Schmobvs.

Our day opened with Brit dance-rockers the Infadels. You can have your Franz, Killers and/or Bravery – Peabs will take these guys anyday over them. They had more energy than Bodney Sue with an ass fulla glass and a pouch fulla marmalade Meprobamate. Probe this fucking asshole, you fucking handjobs!

Speaking of Australians and other people who don’t matter much, we managed to see most of Youth Group‘s set on the main stage following the sheer hotness of the Infadels. They were the Walkmen of day two; should’ve been in a tent. Regardless, YG still sounded good, but we were all so effed up on mushrooms and 714’s that we needed something either crazed or Canadian.

We opted for the latte
r and headed to the Mojave Tent to catch Montreal’s the Dears. They were rather spectacular for both my ears and my overall buzz; and maybe I was just tripping, but the singer looked black from where I was standing. Is that your broshay, Dr. Bill Cosby?

“Y’seeeeee, yooooooou’ve gots to know that I am his father, much like Theoooooooo!! Flazzum!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Managed to catch part of Mates of State and Ted Leo after our Mojave excursion (each rad brad and rigatoni roni roo!), and then prepped ourselves for Metric by getting to the stage early. Huge mistake, since James Fucking Worst EVER Blunt was on beforehand. I swore we were all of the sudden transported to a fucking Hollister store at a New Jersey strip mall. Listen, James. I know I’m fucking beautiful. I tell myself on a minutely basis. I needn’t have your trite fucking white-ass telling me as well. Bovs.

moving forward, Metric followed the pusbag frat party and they were fucking bozzle bop. The things I would do to Emily Haines can only be described using the words “hot,” “carl” and “Abe Lincoln.” It was clear she was begging for Peabs to tea-bag her as though her name was Lavender Verbena. Spooky!!!

Waited around for even more Canadian hipster indie rock by way of Wolf Parade, but they went on way late. Being from Motown and accompanied by an African-American, we made the decision to check out Jamie Lidell in the meantime (Spacehog-stizz). He combined the best of both world by being white and sounding black. ‘Twas rather hot, if not somewhat awkward watching a man sing and beatbox over his own beats. Not that I had never seen that before; John Wilkes Booth made a living out of it in the roaring 1850’s before becoming a professional hitman. But that’s common knowledge.

Jazzed and flizzum-flazzed, we went to the Sahara to unce out to the fugly Paul Oakenfold, whom was as fucking ugly as ever. But he wasn’t all starry-eyed surprised; he was like Tranceport Oakey, which is Ma-Ma-Ma-Mars Blackman in my Humble Pie. 45 minutes of candy-flipping later and we went to go check out Gnarls Barkley. Maybe it was the rather healthy mixture of glutethimide and Midol®, but Peabs is damn sure they came out dressed like the Wizard of Obvs. Mars she all over your effing Barkleys, Cee-Lo. Mars she, indeed.

Better-than-Interpol/Joy-Division-soundalikes the Editors were next and they were one of my top three performances. Raw energy, tight. It reminded me of a hot, sloppy, lubed-up HJ from Keith Hernandez. Man, I’d love to ride that mustachio with a pint fulla pistachios! Roo!!!!

Our festival shelf-life was nearing the end. Madonna, the second most famous Michigander ever (besides Peabs, duh), was next. Not only was she late but also about a mile away from where we were standing. Therefore, my perception is a tad skewed, no thanks to Rodney Roo! That damn ‘roo-jah boo boo convinced me to inject some Burmese kit-kat and liquified 69’s in between my toes and I suddenly thought I was turning into Hans Eysenck! “Arousal would be analogous to warmth, inhibition analogous to moisture!” NUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We closed out the festival with Massive Attack and a collective syringe full of Horsey Sauce. ‘Twas a wonderful way to come down from a glorious and rather excessive weekend. Marzipan.

All in all, Coachella gets better every year and 2006 was no exception. Of course when you live in this body, everyday is fucking incredible. I’m a sage, a demigod covered in demigloss. Lick my penis and call me Susan Sarandon. Surrender your inhibitions to Peabs, for I love you all.

Oh, wait, what was that? I’m sorry, but did you say this was long-winded and self-aggrandizing? Well pretty please with Sugababes on top, be the angel to my dirty sanchez all over your fucking mizzle-mazzle, you uneducated fuckstick. I still love you.

Forever Obvs™.

The Treatment
The Wizard of Id, Ego, and Superego
Trailer
US Release Date – unknown, but better effin get one!

While I depplauded Comeback Season for being too simple, I will applaud The Treatment for the same reason. So why does it work here and not there? The T is a smart and rewarding romantic comedy that isn’t dumbed down with impossible contrivances, like pretty much every single one released by Hollywood that either stars J-Lo, Diane Lane, Mitch Jessica Parker, Kate Throwherinthe Hudson, or Reese Witherpoop. And one of the reasons that it doesn’t fall into that trap is cause the focus is on a man and not a woman. I think it was Niels Bohr who came up with the theory, Woman + Romantic Comedy = Kill Me Now. Luckily our man here is Whit Stillman’s witty muse, Chris Eigeman, who plays an unlucky in love prep school teacher that falls for a upper crust widowed mother of 2 (the always ravishing Famke Janssen), much to the dismay of his Freudian fused psychiatrist (Bilbo Baggins, who sadly hasn’t been nominated for an Oscar since 1982!). I hate romantic comedies, but I loved this one. And someone, please take Chris Eigeman on as yer muse, as it seems Whit has become the new Terrence Malick. Where the fuck have you gone Man of Still? We miss u and yer pretentiousnessnessness.

Recommended for those who like: Robin Colcord, the part of NYC where the Thigh Master resides, and Sex & The City‘s opening credits, kinda

Possible Porno Name: The Breath Mint I Left In Your Throat Called My Love Juicy Juice

Unsatisfied with this? Netflix the other movie with a main character named Jacob Singer, and in general, one of my flav’s, Jacob’s Ladder [trailer]

Apt MPupil3: ‘Self Esteem’ by The Offspring [d]

IMDb Sweeney: Marceline Hugot has played either a nurse or a doctor in at least 5 movies and TV shows, including this one

TFF Thighspotting: I totally saw Mike Wallace taking a leak. I think it took him all of 60 seconds, not Minutes, to do his bidness

John Grisham’s Jizzum (aka Verdict): Greatestist thing I ever did see? No. Breast In Show? Sure, why not?

I have 8 movies to see this weekend. Don’t eggspect 8 reviews by Sunday night, but do eggspect your mother to tell you some hot and bothered stories about how I flazzle flizzled my willy in her nilly. Bozzle!

[for you newbies or douche-Bs
click each pic for even mo fun]

Martin Freeman Is Rembrandt, NOT THE TOOTHPASTE

Jennifer Ellison’s boobs are opening a restaurant

Bob Ross Video game developer TALKS (in words)!

The next dames & knights of the realm: Summer, Seth, Julie, and Sandy

5 days lates, but still loves me the Norman Chad NFL Draft recap

Clowns Without Borders

[Guns n Rosenthal]

GO CINCO DE MAYO!!

Pee Es – And I don’t care what our friends from across the pond think or what you think, cause Mischa Barton is probably the mos beautiful girl in the world… hispecially when donin’ a a schoolgirl outfit or when slurping my jimmy jazzum [wish both were NSFW]

PS2 – I bee leave that this is the 1st ever review of a Lily Allen show, from last nite’s shazzle at YOYO

Comeback Season
More Like GO AWAY Season
Trailer
US Release Date – can u say straight to video the rubbish bin?

Comeback Season plays a lot like the Father of the Bride series, cept they replaced Steve Martin with Ray Liotta and Diane Keaton with Martin’s Dirty Rotten co-star Glenne Headly. And once you’ve done that, yer jokes simply won’t fly, even if yer script was written by 1/5 of the Kids In The Hall, not that anything in his oeuvre as a director/writer has been anything to make note of. No disrespect to Mr Liotta, who owns the world’s breast/wurst cackle, and to Ms Headly, who is one of the mos underrated actresses around, and bythegay, is forkin smokin fly at age 51, but Comeback Season is excessively long, excessively lame, and is way too simple to even be considered a movie. But I guess I should say something nice. OK, Shaun Sipos has the illest name since Nick Kypreos, and could probably take any role that Nick Stahl or Kip Pardue turn down. Also, keep an eye and a thigh on Brooke Nevin. Her cheeks are so chipmunk that I want to fill them up with my sack of nuts! If you thought that that was funny, you’ve already laffed about as many times as I did during this screening boo-fest. If you didn’t lick my sack of nuts!

Recommended for those who like: Sears, Roebuck and Co., stoopid road trip games, and Tori and my’s HS rival, the Churchill Bulldogs

Possible Porno Name: Cum On My Back Season, which is not to be confused wit On Your Knees Season, although together they would make a great double (fisting) feature!

Unsatisfied with this? Take yer aggression out by Netflixing PS2ing GTA: Vice City, starring Mr Liotta, and a scummy cast of thousands five

Apt MPupil3: you’ve made my ‘Shitlist’ by L7 [d]

IMDb Sweeney: The mos random resume has gotta belong to Cinematographer Jamie Anderson. Bless the soul of anyone who got to work on Tron, Back To The Beach, AND The Girl Next Door, and of course, a zozen mothers ghetto klassics

TFF Thighspotting: with nary a sole in the audience, it was slim pickens, but I did spot a woman who looks like Dwight Schrute’s special lady friend, and the bastard who was responsible for this

John Grisham’s Jizzum (aka Verdict): Slit Your Eyes Out Repoopulous

(Mo)lest we forgets that Lucas shat upon our childhoods much earlier than Epsiode I. Wilford Brimley and those Ewok m4tv flicks anyone? Pass the oatmeal, mudderflickers!!!

[spanks Mr For Hire]