*Special Report* RADIOHEAD: KING OF LIMBS

This is it. Released even a day earlier than expected, it's the newest album from the biggest name in Rock and Roll. Here at The Revolting Blog we have gotten our advanced copy and listened to it now 7 times on repeat! We are far more qualified to tell you about this album than anyone else on the internet. Ever.

The first thing you should know is that there are only 8 tracks on this album, for a total runtime of less than 40 minutes. Come on, Radiohead. That's a little weak. I am sure there will be a barrage of B-sides to come our way, and with this particular band that's nothing to scoff at. Nonetheless, after all this anticipation I would appreciate at least a double digit track-count to sink my teeth into.

Let's make no mistake about it: this is Thom Yorke's Radiohead. King of Limbs has the electronic-laden proclivities of his 2006 Eraser album. The first sound we hear is a lonesome piano riff, paving the way for an unsettling tone from eery rumbles of dark electronica. Slowly building, a synthesized drum beat intertwines with the steady pulse of distant bassnotes.

Enter Yorke.

Radiohead is music for a broken world and Yorke is the unyielding harbinger of all our many fractures. He sounds as melancholy and subdued as ever, delivering his trademark haunting falsetto throughout what I guess you could call the refrain of Bloom--the appropriately titled opening track.

The sonic landscape here is bleak and barren. Somewhat akin to what we experienced when listening to their 2000 gamechanging masterpiece, KID A. Perfect soundtrack to the impending Zombacolpyse that--as Radiohead music has a fantastic way of reminding us--is always right around the corner.

The disorienting riff and accompanying drumbeat that underpins Morning Mr. Magpie is difficult to identify with. There are a lot of layers here and several conflicting instruments are vying for my attention. I really don't know how to feel about this song after the first listen. The third track--Little By Little--is immediately catchy and stands out as an initial gem. Some middle-eastern type twangs coming from the guitars, which are more audible here than they were in the opening two numbers. I wish they were more prevalent throughout the entire album, but it seems as if guitarists Greenwood and O'Brien have been constrained by Thom Yorke's desire to take the band in a more techno-melodic direction. As a result, a number of the tracks wound up sounding repetitive and at times even redundant. One thing remains certain, however, the production value of King of Limbs is second to none and you can clearly hear the methodical, meticulous dedication that the artists bring into the studio. Perhaps it explains why Radiohead took the better part of a year to put the finishing touches on this album.

If you're looking for upbeat numbers to make your body rock, you probably should be listening to a different band. LCD Soundsystem's most recent album for example would satisfy this requirement. As for King of Limbs, I only came across three tracks that immediately generated a little movement: Separator, Lotus Flower, and Little By Little, all feature more conventional beats, albeit accompanied by ethereal melodies that are bound to grow on you. Give Up the Ghost seems destined for possible inclusion on epic playlists of the future.

As a friend put it, this album feels more like a follow up to Yorke's Eraser, and less of an evolution from Radiohead's most recent In Rainbows. It certainly is a complex, if somewhat dreary, statement that is not entirely accessible to the masses. By the end of my first listen, I was eager to repeat it all over again from the beginning. My impression of this album will undoubtedly mutate upon subsequent exposure, as is the case with all great forms of art. And at the end of the day, love it or hate it, you're gonna have to own this album. It's Radiohead, ya bloody wanker-the Biggest Rock Band In The World.

We will return soon with a review of the internet's newest sensation: The Facebook.

Guilt-Free Recreational Drug Use

The "War on Drugs" has been going on for quite some time now.

Like, a realllllly lonnggg timmme....

And even though virtually all great art is written under the influence of some sort of adulterant, far, far too little is written in the defense of--and about--the overwhelming benefits of recreational drug use. Please notice how I italicized that word--and once again, recreational. I would hate to be seen as advocating any sort of debilitating disorder or crippling addiction. I don't. And I'm not.

Crystal Meth, Crack, Heroine, a little dust?!

These substances are far too time-consuming to ever be considered 'recreational.' When was the last time you went out and played pick-up basketball that lasted 16 fucking hours!!!!?

I'm clearly speaking about drugs that can be used for a good time for a few manageable hours--minutes even-- and then you happily recede back into the welcoming arms of sobriety. You know--drugs that you can go out to the store and buy, like booze...or weed:

Or a whole cornucopia of pharmacopeia...And the list goes on and on (you know how you are), and eventually you go from stores to shady darkened alleys.

But the point here is that these kind of innocuous day-to-day enhancers relieve our stress, assuage our pains, and make really shitty music tolerable to listen to.

And aside from just the careers of Lady Gaga and the Disco Biscuits, recreational drug use also supports your friendly local neighborhood bartenders, three-fourths the GDP of Columbia, and Charlie Sheen's hooker proclivity.

It magically turns the dorkiest of men into rock gods...

...And the nonsensical abstract art they create epically epiphanic in nature...

It makes cryptic phrases sound cooler than the Fonz, like when Dali said he didn't have to take drugs because he was drugs. Or when Ram Das said, "Be Here Now." So hip without saying anything really.

The reasons to engage in recreational drug-use are seemingly endless. In fact, we may never know the full extent to which recreational drug use benefits both society, culture and the economy alike. The stockmarket itself is driven by armies of daytraders that are only operational when given unreasonable amounts of fine Peruvian cocaine.

Lets be honest...who would eat any of this shit if it weren't for the munchies? Without drugs, this pictures starts to look somewhat nauseating, and where would the disgustingly-overbattered onion-ring industry be today if there product was making people dry heave? Get a hold of yourselves.

And jellyfish? Don't even get me started on jellyfish. Not a day, not ONE day goes by without National Geographic posting some trippy ass nature pictures that just wouldn't even make any sort of cosmic sense if you weren't heavily, heavily dosed. Again, through the sober lens, this picture begins to take on a sickening quality. There are creatures like that on this earth? Fucking gross.

And as for downside? What's the worst that could happen? Oh shit...That.

Well, if you were on unsafe amounts of drugs you would have a perfectly reasonable explanation for looking like this. And just remember, at the end of the day...it's all about having fun. If you're not having fun anymore then clearly it's no longer guilt-free, nor recreational....or maybe you just need to increase the dosage.

Up Next: The Facebook

The Pliny Premiere

Beer is absolutely delicious. Nobody would try to deny that. But imagine if you could find a beer that is more delicious than any other beer on the planet? If you live in northern California, you don't need to imagine because according to a global consensus the world's best beer comes from a microbrewery in Santa Rosa called Russian River Brewing Company.


Meet Pliny the Younger. According to Beer Advocate, this libation--brewed for only a few short weeks in February--is the undisputed king. Like the New York Giants of Beer. Rated even higher than the prestigious Westvleteren 12, a belgian ale that Trappist monks have had several celibate centuries to perfect. Russian River Brewmaster Vinny Cilurzo has only had about a decade to attain this same level of perfection and he didn't even have to give up sex in order to do it--in fact he has a very lovely wife.



Pliny the Elder is readily available here in the Bay Area throughout the year. It is without question the best Double IPA the universe has ever seen. Subtle hints of grapefruit and other sublime citrus notes balance out a complex flavor that dances on your palate in a delicate pirouette of divinity. I am drinking one right now, and I hope you are too. The Younger brother only goes on tap for a limited time however and has garnered quite the cult following in recent years. It's like The Elder on performance enhancing drugs. Everything that makes the Elder so insanely delectable and well-balanced is jacked-up a notch in The Younger, a Triple IPA

I thought I was being soooo clever when I went up to Santa Rosa on the day of PtY's premiere. Imagine my surprise when I was greeted by a throng of thousands that looked precisely like this:



People were waiting upwards of 4 hours to get into the bar and have a first lick at this masterful creation. I had to tug at some serious connections in order to get a backdoor entrance after only a mere hour of waiting. After all, if you're going for the backdoor you have to wait until the moment is juuusst right. Sorry for the buttsex humor. I just had to squeeze it in there.

So anyhow, we make it inside and it was like stepping into Shangri La. Ten ounce pours of Pliny are being disseminated by the hundreds. I took my spot at the bar and probably did not move more than a few yards for the next 8 hours. After that, any movement was a stumble at best. This is what happens when you start throwing back a Triple IPA which is nearly 11% alcohol. Each one is equal to about 3 bullshit beers.


Since this blog is dedicated to 'anything under the sun that's fucking awesome' I must disclose to you that this bar is also known for two other reasons: Pizza Bites and cheap hookers. Okay, I was just joking about the hookers part--when girls drink this much booze they almost always forget to charge. The Pizza Bites however are like less than 10$ for a large pizza that is cut down in to small bites. Topped with pepperoni and pepperoncini, the spice and fat is perfectly engineered to slice through the bitter hoppiness that dominates Plinies Younger and Elder. Incidentally, spice and fat is also a hallmark of cheap hookers.





Uh oh. This bar's almost getting too famous. Now they're on the evening news? After drinking this much booze, the last thing I need is to have network television cameras around. I'm glad they didn't interview me because I have absolutely no idea what would have slurred out of my mouth at a time like that. Oh yeah, now I remember. And now that I think of it, I was hoping this post would have more abortion jokes. After all, it's never too soon for a good abortion joke. In fact, it's usually just a little bit too late. Have you ever noticed that drunk driving is a little bit like abortion? Nobody wants to advocate it, but even if you're against it, you know you have done it at least a few times. Alcohol is usually the catalyst for both. There's not a lot of mass transportation heading towards or away from Santa Rosa, California. So if you didn't plan ahead with a designated driver, let me recommend for the future that people with crippling and debilitating alcoholism always make good ones. We all know how messy it can get when these people drink, so they best stay sober. They also can provide you with countless anecdotes of how alcohol ruined their lives while you are getting increasingly shitfaced. Now THAT'S entertainment people. If you are gonna drive drunk though I suggest staying on major highways and steering clear--literally-- of schools and/or hospitals. Remember, just as many people get pulled over drunk for driving too SLOW as too FAST. So don't be afraid to step on that accelerator a little bit.


Pizza.
Pliny.
Perfection.
















Up Next: Guilt-Free Recreational Drug Use

Meat, Cheese and Bread

What makes this blog different from all other blogs? Well this blog is sick. So fucking sick. It's got the best food, the best music and the bestdeals from the best cities in the best country. Best of all, it's completely free for you to sift through. So if you don't like it, you best keep your mouth shut because I am NOT the best at dealing with criticism.

I will try to keep words at a minimum as I know reading strains your eyes. Mainly, you will be able to feast your eyes on the great media I attach on the daily to keep this site as fresh as the raw fish at your favorite local sushi bar. There are only two elements that make this blog so very revolting.

1.) It is a revolt against every other blog that has EVER been published (more on that later).

2.) There will be grossness.

First things first, let's get oriented:

These are the districts of San Francisco. At only 49 square miles, SF is the second most densely populated metropolis in the United States. Go ahead and look at this map. Take a good long look because it's going to be on the test. We are going to delve into every last section of this City By the Bay until you are motherfuckin' sick of it--just kidding...you can never get sick of this place. But just to add a little spice to the recipe we will occasionally feature articles from some of those other cities. Places like Los Angeles, New York, San Diego, Chicago, etc...the boring old jive. JK JK JK. C'mon, I LOVE these places. I LOVE ALL PLACES. Well, except, y'know--Des Moines, Iowa.

Right now let's shift our attention to assorted combinations of meat, bread and cheese. If I were stranded on a desert island, I would only need these three ingredients--and these three alone--in order to survive. I'm talking of course about a raft built of bread and welded together with melted cheese and ground beef. But I could also make an endless supply of tacos, pizza and hamburgers. I love the West Coast, and I am from the East Coast. The East Coast knows all about pizza and even hamburgers, but you just can't score a taco like this when you're on the Atlantic Seaboard:

That's a late-night taco from La Crispita in North Hollywood, California. Somewhere off of Magnolia Blvd. I'd love to tell you the extract address but I was too inebriated to record any meaningful observations regarding my immediate surroundings. The only thing that caught my eye was that there were several Mexican laborers slicing fresh pastor (slow-cooked pork) off of one of those kebab things that you usually associate with shwarma and questionably hygienic middle-eastern fare.

(On a disturbing side-note: Fox News doesn't even know where Egypt is)

For one measly dollar you can indulge yourself on one of the most authentic mexican pork plates this side of Oaxaca--and let me tell you, that is a difficult name to spell. A very easy culinary treat to devour, and after a few bites you will already be standing in line for your next smattering of true mexican flavors. If only Puerto Rican food tasted this good then a New Yorker would never have to travel 3000 miles and countless hours to get here. I can't speak to that though because I never have and never will try food from a commonwealth. This means YOU, Virginia and Massachusetts.

Meat, cheese and a bread delivery system is a combination fit for kings. Head south of The Valley and into LA Proper and you will find that high end burgers are all the rage right now. Father's Office, The Foundry, Umami Burger. They are all KILLING IT right now. So fucking haute right now. What makes them work so well are those very same basic ingredients, rejiggered of course into something a little less mexican. Just kidding. Who do you think is doing all that work back in the kitchen?

Umami currently has 3 locations around LA city and this time we decided to hit up the one on Cahuenga in Hollywood with the hopes of being near Roscoe's Fried Chicken and Waffle House for desert. Special burger on the menu today was the Manly Burger. It was almost a challenge because if you didn't order this burger it must mean that you are a woman. Not that there's anything wrong with that--unless you're taking about burger consumption, then there is a whole LOT wrong with it. From our seat at the bar we could look into the kitchen and watch the mexican day laborer (I'm pretty sure it was the same guy slicing the pastor last night but I'll never be sure because all hispanics look the same to me) as he carefully and meticulously blended the ground meat into patties of perfection. It was yet another reminder of why the people that wanna outlaw illegal immigration are assholes--and probably vegetarians too.

The Manly-Burger consists of a dab of barbeque sauce and crispy fried onion strings dolloped atop chunky lardons of bacon.

Chunky.

Lardon.

It can't be merely a coincidence that this last word rhymes with hard-on. And whereas I generally don't like to mix and match my culinary adjectives with pornographic ones, for the sake of full disclosure I should tell you that fatty chunks of pork really do give me an erection. Is that bad to admit on a public forum?

They only cook their burgers one way: Medium rare. Do you even realize how bad-ass that is? Some (shitty) restaurants won't even serve you a burger cooked so lightly because they're scared you might get ebola or some shit. Ooooo!!! Liquified internal organs. Sooooo scary! Let me tell you something...viral hemorrhagic fever is a small price to pay for perfectly seared animal flesh, and you should accept nothing more charred than medium rare if you are eating in any establishment that has enough money to plunder punitively in a potential food-poisoning lawsuit. This burger made me so sick. Sick with divine pleasure, the type of which a vegan can only derive with a high-powered vibrator. It's so damn trendy to hate on LA these days and if you do, you're an idiot, because this city has better food and much better high-end hookers than your silly little podunk town could ever muster. I'm looking at YOU, Des Moines.

For today's final foray into the joys of meat, cheese and bread we mosey our way on up I-5 and into the Bay Area for one of the finest Neapolitan pies anywhere in the country: Pizzeria Delfina. The special of the day was broccoli rabbe with a bunch of other bullshit. Which--don't get me wrong--is a great start. If at all possible, I would hire a plumber to adjust my showerhead so that I could feasibly bathe myself in broccoli rabbe. I looked into it, and not only is it not possible, but my plumber refused to do business with me ever again. I'm fairly confident he's anti-semitic. The only problem is that a pizza doesn't officially have toppings on it unless meat is involved. So I called up my friend--hot crumpled italian sausage--and invited him to the party.

The results were nothing short of how amazing this picture looks. If you need a minute or two alone with this illustration, I'll wait.

If you live in San Francisco and haven't been to Pizzeria Delfina yet you are obviously a fucking homo and so you should stay in the Castro--there are amazing dining options all around that neighborhood, btw.

Wait a minute...this is San Francisco, we're all gay here. So grab a buttplug, preferably one of your own, and a taco, we're going cruisin'.

Up Next: West Coast Beer