Band From TV!

Hugh Laurie and Jesse Spencer showing considerable musical skill. DAMN. And we didn't even have to watch too much of Jay Leno's Evil Chin of Death this time:

More Keane!

More goodiness, this time from a live gig in L.A. a couple of weeks ago. GUYS! WE HAVE LOUNGES HERE IN CHICAGO, TOO! REALLY! WE DO! PLEEEEEASE!

Anyway, Tim's playing a celeste. I suddenly feel verified:


You Don't See Me: Live at Largo LA from keaneofficial on Vimeo.

By the way, the dude from the 'Snowed Under' performance wasn't Argentinian. My bad. I mixed him up with another interviewer.

AND THEN A NARCOLEPTIC ARGENTINIAN FELL THROUGH THE CEILING!

Well, not quite. But it's Keane, performing a song they have NEVER RELEASED on an Argentinian talk show! And there's a very strange Argentinian man sitting behind Tom who attempts to sing along halfway through, causing some serious giggles from Richard Hughes, the drummer. Whose yellow Pumas I am COVETING right now.



For those of you who ACTUALLY DON'T UNDERSTAND where I'm coming from with the narcoleptic Argentinian thing...it's from Moulin Rouge. Jeez.

Busking!

AAAAH! Why can't we live in London? (Or, conversely, have Tom Chaplin live in Chicago...)

About a month ago, Tom Chaplin of Keane busked in Covent Garden to raise money for a charity, and my GOD! He sounded GORGEOUS!

Seriously, the dude sounds like that when singing outdoors in December, with just a cheap microphone and an acoustic guitar. Amazing.

First Engrish of the New Year

Or something.

Be NICE to it, dammmmmit!

Your House Bear Thang? Genius.

Especially if it's big, giant, or throbbing.

Complaint Letter

As some of y'all know, we have Blcokbuster Online at my house. Their service sort of, well, SUCKS. So I took the liberty of writing a nice little complaint letter to them:

Dear Blockbuster Online,
Once upon a time, long ago, I had a dog named Chubby. Chubby was a delightful, slim chocolate Lab who always fetched tennis balls and the like with no need for any sort of obedience training. However, due to the unthinkable emotional and psychosomatic strain brought on by his unfortunate moniker- which was actually short for "Chubermeister", my grandfather's name- Chubby developed an eating disorder and died. Right before he passed away, Chubby stopped fetching tennis balls, frisbees, and even those little rubber chew toys that smell like gasoline.

Your service is much like Chubby's fetching in those later years- gobsmackingly poor. Like Chubby, I hope you die a sad and painful death. Good DAY, sir.

*note: I didn't actually send this. Though I really, really wanted to.

The Worst Poem in the Worrrrrrld!

Sorry for going all Keith Olberman on y'all, but I found this genius poem on the website run by Kathryn and Ross Petras- the people who wrote The Lexicon of Stupidity, which has to be one of the most enjoyable books I've ever read. And I've read it at least 25 times. Anyway. They describe this as the worst poem in the world, and I can't really disagree...All of the 'plops' remind me of Microsoft Sam. Here is the masterpiece, written in 1850:

A TRAGEDY
by Theophile Marzials

Death!
Plop.
The barges down in the river flop.
Flop, plop.
Above, beneath.
From the slimy branches the grey drips drop,
As they scraggle black on the thin grey sky,
Where the black cloud rack-hackles drizzle and fly
To the oozy waters, that lounge and flop
On the black scrag piles, where the loose cords plop,
As the raw wind whines in the thin tree-top.
Plop, plop.
And scudding by
The boatmen call out hoy! and hey!
All is running water and sky,
And my head shrieks -- "Stop,"
And my heart shrieks -- "Die."


My thought is running out of my head;
My love is running out of my heart,
My soul runs after, and leaves me as dead,
For my life runs after to catch them -- and fled
They all are every one! -- and I stand, and start,
At the water that oozes up, plop and plop,
On the barges that flop
And dizzy me dead.
I might reel and drop.
Plop.
Dead.

And the shrill wind whines in the thin tree-top
Flop, plop.


A curse on him.
Ugh! yet I knew -- I knew --
If a woman is false can a friend be true?
It was only a lie from beginning to end --
My Devil -- My "Friend"
I had trusted the whole of my living to!
Ugh; and I knew!
Ugh!
So what do I care,
And my head is empty as air --
I can do,
I can dare,
(Plop, plop
The barges flop
Drip drop.)
I can dare! I can dare!
And let myself all run away with my head
And stop.
Drop.
Dead.
Plop, flop.

Plop.