Cranky art critic Hilton Kramer's latest New York Observer review is slugged "Jewish Museum Show, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven." That's our kind of headline . . .

George W. Bush, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven
Commenting on the Zimbabwean election, "President" Bush said, "We do not recognize the outcome of the election because we think it's flawed." Funny, we say the same thing about him . . .

Bono, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven

As for Bono's recent hang with the "Pres," the little Irish asspipe continues to give cred to evil shits who are only using him to get media face pop. Like Bush or Condy or Colin or Paul O'Fucking Neill are going to do anything other than maintain the Third World status quo. The only reason they meet with him is so they can go Ooh, look at me, I'm concerned about the same issues as your favorite rock star and try to swerve the 18-34 demo into thinking they're not just corporate greedheads. The Edge knows . . .

See, if we had the soapbox that Bono has, we'd be hanging with folks like John Kerry or Patrick Leahy -- good, smart people whose views need airtime. Instead he's lending "character" support to Pete Buck, a guy he knows only peripherally who is more than likely guilty of the charges levied against him ("I've never seen him drunk").

Courtney Love, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven

We've said it before, but it seems to warrant repetition: Courtney Love is a walking, talking piece of litigious asinine shite. Recent weeks have seen her alleging that she's making a record that will put the Strokes in their place -- a vendetta apparently born after Julian proved too smart to put his dick in her Box of Death. And just how does she plan on making this garage rock masterpiece? By enlisting Linda Perry, a.k.a. the Desmond Child of the twenty-first century. What a fucking twunt!

Courtney also told the SXSW rabble that the Hives are better than Nirvana (and, one assumes, the Strokes). This is true, of course -- but only if you live on Planet Irrelevant Vindictive Cooze. It is funny, however to see her use the term "New Garage." If you cut her to the quick, she's nothing more than a wannabe NME writer . . .

Jim Barber Love suggests that Nirvana were a leader-and-backup combo a la Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, and you wouldn't trust Max Weinberg to control the Boss's musical legacy. Well, yeah, but we'd still trust Mighty Max over say, Julianne Phillips . . .

Courtney recently discovered some Jewish roots (as opposed to the usual brown ones). So much for Buddhism. Think she'll be invited to Ron Silver's seder? By the time Elijah showed, there wouldn't be any Manischevitz left! Just imagine The Four Questions: "Aren't I great?" "Aren't I?" "AREN'T I?" "Which one of you fuckers has dilaudid?"

She also claims a tenuous family connection to Douglas Fairbanks, thus rendering her some kind of Hollywood royalty. About the same as the chick that Fatty Arbuckle bottled to death, by our reckoning . . .

Pete Buck, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven

Speaking as a character witness, Stipey told the courtroom that his "big brother" Pete Buck "can sometimes come across as stand-offish, looking down his nose." No wonder he gets along with Bono . . .

The Academy Awards, Full of Vile Crap, Not to Be Forgiven

A moment of silence, please, for Dorothy Chandler . . . Someone explain this one to us. "Killings" by Andre Dubus: seventeen-some pages. Lord of the Rings: 1,000-plus pages. So how come the movies based on them are both three hours?

Nice to see the Oscars giving props to three Grande Dames of British theater: Judi Dench, Maggie Smith and Ian McKellen. Did you people get a load of his trophy bitch, Federico? Go Ian go! Go Ian go! You just don't see that sort of things at televised awards shows. Except maybe the Tonys . . .

That Owen Wilson is a second-rate Ben Affleck. Scary thing is, they're both better writers than Akiva Goldsmann . . . We're surprised Bono didn't show up with Jack Valenti. What's the matter, Paul, not evil enough for you? (He's pretty evil) . . . And how did Whoopi pass up the chance to make an Uma, Enya, Enya, Uma joke? Oh right, she's not funny.

Nice to see John Nash, Ph.D at the Kodak Theater. Must have been rough for him, sitting there surrounded by nothing but Jews and sexy guys. Oh, and leprechauns . . . We look forward to Donald Sutherland and Glenn Close's hosting gig on Morning Edition.

As for Halle Berry, we'll concede the whole female Jackie Robinson of cinema thing, but that doesn't mean she can act. To tell you the truth, as good-looking black chicks in white trash Billy Bob movies go, we prefer Cynda Williams . . . The good news is, Berry's career is likely over, except for Pepsi Twist commercials. Seen Hilary Swank lately? Mira Sorvino? Julia Roberts?

Who's home life do you think is more excruciating, Eric Benet's or Antonio Banderas'? . . . Sad to hear that at the same time Russell Crowe opened up the envelope, David Justice smacked his wife. "I got traded by the Yankees and the Mets, and she has an Academy Award!? Go polish my World Series ring!"

Of course, it is Passover this week, the time of year when everyone enjoys an octoroon or two. Which reminds us, do you think Sidney Poitier's white daughters hang out with Harry Belafonte's white daughters?

A related, but not related observation: Nicole Kidman is so pale you could come all over her and never see the jiz.

In other news, Margaret Thatcher had multiple strokes last week. She would have had more, but Fab was busy . . .

We don't know what to think about The Panic Room. On the one hand, Fight Club. On the other, Seven. But that Jodie Foster? Very hot. Michael could turn her. No question about it . . .

We would also do all kinds of stuff to every single babe on the cover of the current Vanity Fair. Except Jennifer Connelly, because she's already Mrs. Mike Flaherty, and we'd never do something like that to a friend . . .

As you well know, we just lurve Spearmint, so when we heard that they'd signed another band to their hitBack! label we were clearly intrigued. And guess what! Said band -- the Free French -- are delightfully wry Vic Godard/Lawrence Felt-inspired indie just the way we like it . . .

WHAD's Single of the Week is Athlete's debut, "Westside." Though we're loathe to play the "sounds-like" game (which, in our humble opinion, just reeks of lazy rock criticism), this groovy little ditty sounds like Steely Dan playing wibbly cod reggae up in Gomez's attic. In a good way . . .

Hmmmmhhhhhh . . . chocolate-covered octoroons.

We know we've said it before, but this time the meaning is completely different: A is for arse . . . The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? Nope. Nope. Nope . . . If Kenneth Mars is alive, why then isn't he working? Ditto Charlie Callas . . .

As we sit and listen to the new CD reissue of The Sound's very excellent From the Lion's Mouth, we realize that we have somehow become Jack Rabid . . . You know what's a great record you kids presumably haven't heard? Ramp, by Giant Sand. Betcha that Patsy Jean is turning out to be a real cutie, too . . .

Jason would like to note that he and Mike Flaherty have never really been good friends, and as such, he'd foul Jennifer Connelly up but good. Fried egg titties and all . . .

The dread Starsailor include a cover of "Hot Burrito #2" on their new single. Just when you thought they couldn't get less original . . . The equally dread Ryan Adams is opening for Alanis "The Dreadest of All" Morissette this summer. Do we even need to express our horror? Thought not . . .

And finally, word is Ben and Jerry are coming out with a new flavor inspired by Dave Matthews. It's vanilla.

Howard, you've done it again!

E-mail to Sqwubbsy@aol.com

JASON COHEN and MICHAEL KRUGMAN
(March 28, 2002)