How to Use Spam for Personal Profit

Well, maybe not personal profit but you know, I'm fascinated by making up names for bands that will never exist. It came to me recently that email spam headers make for great band names. Here's a couple I pulled this morning (I'm keeping one for my own band):

• It false
• Bulge
• Quintoplet
• Ubags
• Punctua Persienne
• brigad speechles
• Glovers
• B-Diary
• Primrose
• Lipstick tacos
• Journales Corruptione
• Ritalian
• Axle
• Eplus
• I No Mail
• Re: Have Producer
• Why be an average guy?
• Polyp Proe
• Involve Malaria
• No One Precious

Frank Kogan who wrote the groovin' 80's "zine" (more like an extended Socratic dialogue) called Why Music Sucks is still grooving on teenage girl bubblegum pop. He lists his latest Pazz and Jop poll singles of 2006 here. I have only heard one song from this list!

Another 80's figure (at least for me), Exene Cervanka has published a book that looks pretty much like what she showed off in that X movie.

R.I.P. Marsika Veres aka that chick from Shocking Blue... Tim Ellison does a YouTube trib.

Coolfer on the slow tortured death of the cassette. One thing keeping the cassette alive are prison inmates who can't be sent CDs since they can be turned into a weapon.

Last Plane to Jakarta (John D. from Mountain Goats) is doing a 30 poem tribute to black metal. Each day seems to be in a different style of another poet, often comments on events of the day and seem to be written while on tour (since they often sound like a travelogue). Oh and each poem is about Black Metal.

I'm guessing which poet this is part tribute to - although he loses the feel in the last stanza by getting too flowery:

two

Whether I approve of his methodology
or not, friends,
there is a man in France

who, once in a while,
steals an evening in a local studio
or perhaps only in his bedroom

overlooking an alley
or a field
or a street.

Sealed safely away inside,
he dreams out loud the original sound
of all the world's volcanos

at the great moment
of their simultaneous and unknowable
awakening.

It's not the volcanos that do it for me.
It's the guy in France
in the room I can half-imagine

chasing sleep down like a starved hound
standing at the precipice of his dream
shielding his eyes.